Hi Debbie,

well, that was about as different as possible from my own WW2 Bombed experiences.

I was 3 when it started.  My first encounter with what war meant was when my Mum, Dad and I were waiting in a bus queue in London, and there had been a Declaration of War by Mr Chamberlain, the UK Prime Minister, but so far not much had happened.  Then Dad suddenly said "Come on, we are not waiting here any longer," and as he was leading us down the steps to the Underground, we heard the fearful sound of a divebombing plane and the tat tat tat of gunfire, and looked back to see the folks in the bus queue being shot down.  It was a stray German fighter that had come over without any Air-Raid warning being given.

My second experience of war was much worse.  This was the height of the Blitz on London and the "Battle of Britain".  People were supposed to go from their houses into shelters, constructed in the streets in London's East End, when there was a Siren.  If Dad was not at home, Mum took me there, but when he was not on "night shift" he told Mum and me to ignore this and sleep in our beds - "If it has your name on it, it will get you, in bed or in the shelter!  What will be will be!"  The raid most burnt into my brain, so that I still, over sixty years later, wake up from the nightmare of it, was when we emerged from our street shelter, to see that the one next to us had taken a direct hit.   There were gaps all around where houses had been, the rubble-strewn road was full of exposed pipes with water bubbling up, or gas burning away, but the most horrible of all was seeing arms and legs and a head lying about, and smelling the awful smell of burning human flesh.

Some weeks later our home took a hit, and I had to be dug free after hours being buried under the rubble.  All I can remember of this was the pinching at the back of my left ankle where a brick or something had me trapped, and the darkness, the dust and the silence.  I must have fallen asleep, as next thing I knew was waking up in a hospital.  I was uninjured and taken away by my parents next day, as we were evacuated to the countryside then.

It was not so intense in the countryside, but we used to watch the search lights picking out the formations of German bombers as they flew over, and the flash of anti-aircraft fire, the flash of bombs, the thrumb thrum thrumb of the German planes and the whine of the RAF fighters as they attacked them...  My Dad made it into a kind of Guy Fawkes night for me.  When he was away, Mum used to have me out of the bed and huddled into a made up sleep shelter under the stairs, with my baby sister and her.  She would clutch my wrist so hard it would give me pins and needles, and I would recognise the engine sounds and reassure her "It's one of ours, Mum" - often even when I knew it was not.

And towards the end, we had the "Doodlebugs" V1s, pilotless flying bombs - they would throb their way over England, then the engine would cut off, and all the people would be still, their breathing stopped, until a sudden explosion meant that it had fallen on someone else and we could go on with our lives a while longer...

The even more destructive V2 Rockets were not nearly so terrifying, the only sound was as they crashed down out of space and exploded with no warning.

I am sure it is these early impressions that have made me so anti war all my life.  People who have not experienced war (and I do not wish it on anyone) cannot have the horror and disgust of it that we who have been through it have.  It should perhaps be compulsory experience for all politicians though!

Briar

Very good!
    This story reminds me of stories that my father tells about growing up in Great Britain during the war.
Mr. Ram

An inspirational short story from another era. Thank you Debbie for sharing.

Thank you for this.

Touching.