��ѿ��ý

It must have been about 1940 when I first remember the Second World War — I was about 4 and a half years old and we, my mother and I, lived in Hampstead, London, NW3. I had returned home to my mother having spent almost 2 years away as an evacuee - a year with my father’s parents in Nottingham, and the next, 1938-9 with my maternal grandmother in Chester. By the end of those two years it seemed that “nothing was happening” and it was safe to return to London.

Almost immediately the “war proper” began, and I have clear recollections of hearing the “Ack-Ack” guns of Hampstead Heath. I asked my mother what that sound was: “The Germans knocking on the front doors?” The noise was exceptionally loud that night and my mother took me from my bed, wrapped in an eiderdown, to the small space behind the front door at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. The house was a narrow, three storied Georgian terrace type and tucked in beside a large Victorian Public House. This shielded us from much vibration and stood on the right hand side of the main road leading from Hampstead Tube Station to the Whitestone Pond and eventually to Golders Green or Highgate. We were four miles from St Paul’s Cathedral. When we woke up the next morning the whole road was covered with pieces, large and small, of broken glass — nearly all the shop windows were smashed. I can remember the loud sound of the road sweepers clearing up all that glass.

There was often the sound of bombs falling and exploding throughout the nights — I was told that “they” were aiming for the Main Railway Stations of Euston and Paddington, comparatively nearby. My mother never disturbed my night’s sleep again — I was never taken from my bed, and slept through the noise — although many neighbours took bedding and “essentials” down to our deep “tube” platforms below Hampstead. I watched V1s passing overhead, hearing their engine stop and soon afterwards the explosion — who knew where that would be? An eerie attack causing many deaths.

When I was a little older I was allowed to go, with my bicycle and friends, to the Heath. Our parents ordered us to return home immediately the “Alarm” sounded, which gave us three minutes. We had to remain at home until the “All Clear” sounded. It was like a game and we didn’t fully realise the risks — being so young. I only missed one day at school which was a mile away. The nearby Marie Curie Hospital was flattened by a bomb, patients and staff being killed.

At school, whenever there was a “Warning” we schoolchildren were ordered underneath desks and tables. Not much protection would have been provided by the flimsy furniture had we been attacked. I remember the Gas Masks and Identity Cards we carried, unused. Luckily my mother divided rations of butter, cheese and sugar, etc between members of the household. Longed-for sweets were replaced by lozenges and cough sweets which did not need any precious “coupons”. It is said that we children had better health and teeth than ever before, or since, the war. I remember buying my first (single) banana.

The war ended in 1945, fathers returned home and I recall going with my mother to Euston (or was it Paddington) to try to “pick out” my father. He separated himself from several others, opened his arms and picked me up. Then I recognised him and understood that the war was really over. I was eight years old, and very proud of my “Major” father.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.