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War Memories.
No.1 Living in Maidstone as a child 1 share with many others the memories of the skies, high wide and blue criss crossed with vapour trails, the sights and sounds of the dog fights overhead. At the end of the day in a large silent garden, I would sit among the branches of two cedar trees and watch until the Spitfire or Hurricane became a dot on the horizon and finally disappeared from sight. I knew it was landing at Detling . From the front of the house I could see the West Mailing aircraft coming into land. How we all loved these aeroplanes and admired the young men who flew them. How pleased we were to know that another had come safely home at the end of the day or the fight. They were - and are- my Great Heroes. My bedroom was festooned with Spitfire and Hurricane pictures.
My father was the Headmaster of a private school, hence the large grounds of the house. On one summer afternoon a worried parent had telephoned to enquire if her son had left for home, I rushed down to the bike sheds to check and saw, as I did so, an aeroplane in the distance coming in low. Assuming it to be one of ours I waved greetings as we always did. Imagine my anger and surprise to discover as I emerged seconds later, that it was an enemy plane. He dived lower and I was aware of a sound like whipping in the grass growing beside the path and the rattle of machine gun fire. Despite my age I felt an intense disgust that a young child should be the target of such a cowardly attack motivated by pure hatred. Moments later a sweeping Spitfire charged overhead. I felt he was defending me personally.
From this close brush with death I was able to make a healthy profit by collecting and selling cartridges to eager purchasers among my father's pupils! I have since met two others who were strafed as children both in Kent.
No 2 It was in September when the house was bombed. Within the grounds stood several detached houses one of which housed a group of ATS girls. They had been warned by an ARP Warden about showing a light, but the autocratic officer refused to obey his command. This lapse resulted in a string of bombs being dropped over the area. One young man lost his life in an effort to rescue a terrified maid who had hidden in an upstairs cupboard as the floors collapsed.
Meanwhile, across the London Road, I lay in bed downstairs in what had been the "Servants' Hall". The explosion was not loud merely a dull and heavy thud. Seconds later the floor became like a fairground cake walk. I saw the door bend like a flicked fag card in a child's hand and come cartwheeling towards me. The light smashed and showered to the floor like silver flakes. As I slid through what had been the door, I saw a Niagara of masonry cascading down the stone steps which led from the upper floors, the dust rising like grey water spray.
In the stone paved passage, I stood alone, in a bedraggled nightie, surrounded by debris and chocking dust. Torch lights appeared and arched the scene. A large ARP warden bent over me and put a doll in my arms saying, "There you are Topsy". He moved through the debris to rescue my injured mother and to my childish imagination, he appeared to be wading through deep water so ponderous was his progress.
In the beams of torches - and possibly moon light - I watched in fascinated horror as one of back doors was pushed aside as it lay on a pile of rubble Screaming, crying wounded women were clambering over the piled masonry. Holding on to each other they climbed into the passage. The sight has stayed with me since in every detail. Uniform torn, their hair grey with dust, blood pouring from faces and limbs and over the ruddy dry dust all were peppered with a shiny tint. As I looked, I recalled the Christmas cards we made a school with the frost pasted in them, but I knew this was not the comforting soft and shiny material which so enchanted me at Christmas, this was hard brutal glass and the paste was their blood.
Sharing our house, and at that moment winding wool by the fireside, were my own grandmother and my soldier half-brother’s very deaf grandmother., who kept asking wonderingly slowly, in a tone of strict confidence, "Is that the bombs"? Her indifference to the mayhem added to this vivid war memory and now seems a perfect counter to the violence of the NAZI.
No 3. Visits to Lyons were among the highlights of my young life. Not the least of the attractions of the tea shop were the elaborate black out precautions at the entrance. One entered via a labyrinth of zig zag nooks and crannies which were a topic of conversation greatly employed by my aunt. It was a cool summer morning as I sat sucking watery lemonade with my grandmother. Joining us at the table were a woman and a little girl, maybe a couple of years younger than me, she had a red coat and kept asking for mummy and looking at the door. The woman was quietly weeping. My grandmother learned across the table and said gently, "Can 1 help you?! The woman burst into tears and said, "Her mother was killed this morning in an air raid". The shock chilled me. I stared at the child That could be me!
No 4. In order to "get away from the bombs" we went to the Forest of Dean for a couple of weeks. The sensation of getting into bed and knowing that the siren would probably not go off was an experience which must have meant so much more the adults. There was no electricity in the old marketplace house where we stayed. The smell of gas light merged with the B.B C news bulletins Anxiety about loved ones in the Forces showed on the faces of those who listened in the yellow claustrophobic room
On one such break we managed to obtain a couple of much sought after sweet buns to take on a picnic to Bourton On The Water. As we sat on a seat by the Green a German POW came and sat down. He had very thick blond hair like straw the palest of blue eyes and his skin was weather beaten. He drew out of a pocket in the colour patched uniform the POWs had to wear, a thinly rolled cigarette which he puffed wistfully. He looked into the distance creating an aura of isolation surrounding him.
I noticed my mother casting a quick glance at him which lingered a second time. On an impulse she thrust out her hand to him offering, with a faint, shy smile, half her bun.
His response was immediate and startling. He burst into a flood of tears and repeated again and again with much head nodding, "English good. English good. I not want to fight" This show of emotion somewhat embarrassed my mother, but I knew she was touched by this. However, my own juvenile reaction was one of fury against my mother's kindly action. I was deeply shocked. Was it not true that the "only good German was a dead German" My mother took me into the church and explained a wider view of humanity saying that he was just an ordinary young man and "somebody's son". This was certainly a new angle on the war and rather confusing for a child who knew little of pre-war ideas.
Was this really the same woman who , as we cowered during the nightly bombardments, would look upwards and shout, defiantly, as each explosion shook the house, "You'll never win" If I cried with fear at the noise she would say quite firmly, "Little English girls don't cry. If Old Hitler knows you are crying, he will say "Ha Ha I've won the war" At this terrible knowledge of my responsibility I would try to push the tears back into my eyes!
No 5.. Instilled into everyone was the need to "Keep It Under Your Hat" because "Careless Talk Costs Lives" Once, having just received my meagre sweet ration coupons I rushed towards the little shop a few yards down the road. Almost as soon as I had run through the space where the gates had once stood, a large pair of hands descended on my small shoulders. A large man towered over me. Holding me fast he demanded " Is this London Street?" His accent was so heavy I could not understand at first what he said. He repeated the words and I realised he had used the word "street" instead of "road"
Such was my precocious desire to correct this misuse of the language that I corrected him "You mean London ROAD". He let me go at once without another word. Immediately, I was filled with remorse and guilt at what I had done in a moment of thoughtlessness. I rushed home, sweet less, to beg my parents , staff, cleaners, gardeners, pupils anyone PLEASE take me to the police station and report this spy!
I was told he was probably a Pole or similar ally. Unconvinced I spent many weeks eating little and in great turmoil of mind! To this day I wonder.
No 6 Some members of my father's staff lived on the premises They were Irish Roman Catholics and had been Teaching Brothers in an RC school. One of them was among the most saintly souls I have ever known and I loved him dearly. He was very nervous of the air raids and prayed constantly invoking the Virgin and various saints. He called the Irish PM as a play on his name, “The Devil of Eire" because he was reputed to hold German sympathies. The doodle bugs were frequent intruders into our days and nights When the engine stopped you counted to ten and hoped you could dive for cover before the thing exploded.
It was almost bedtime when the noise stopped. Shortly before this the saintly teacher had removed his shoes to reveal very hairy socks. He, my mother and myself were near the bottom of the staircase. Taking a headlong dive the shoeless saint careered into the haven beneath the stairs, I followed and felt his furry feet in the darkness. My mother then fell in with us. In less time than it takes to tell still counting she cried "What's that"? I knew it to be the hairy socks but wickedly said "It's a mouse". Asthe bomb exploded nearby she hurtled out of the shelter saying "I'd rather face the doodle bugs than a mouse"
I was severely reprimanded for what could have been a fatal joke.!
No 7. My father was an ARP Warden. One very dark night he and a colleague had been patrolling some waste land His colleague excused himself for attending to the needs of nature. Seconds later there was a scream and a general commotion with great disturbance on the ground. It soon became apparent that the patch of land suitable for his colleague's need was also the choice of a courting couple!
No 8 Cats are said to have a sixth sense. One of our numerous cats had made an outside nest for her kittens. One evening at dusk she carried each one into the cellars of the house where we sheltered. My mother observed that she felt the cat knew something was to happen. That night, in a bad raid, a large shard of shrapnel fell into the nest I still have a perfect recollection of this sight. We noticed, as did others, that the cats often became agitated before a really bad raid.
No 9. German POWs were still in the U.K. for a period after the war ended. A working party was employed in the grounds of my home possibly dismantling an old sceptic water tank for use against fire. I remember one of their number came into the house with a beautifully carved bird, wings in flight. He wanted to sell it. My mother declined as it may have been illegal to trade with POWs. However, my newly acquired Italian sister in law of a few months obliged him as she felt the legislation in this case would not apply to her! The bird remained for years as an ornament.
The overall impression left from a child's mind was one of impending doom. The tension that a rocket V2, might suddenly hit the house, as these gave no warning, The fearfully worded leaflet "If the Invader Comes" disturbed me profoundly. . My mother told me she had a cunning plan that if this were to happen, she would play the German national anthem on the piano which would make the Germans stand to attention. The gardener meanwhile would dispatch them with a garden tool!! I took this seriously and had for some time an image of the drawing room filled with dead Germans as my mother stoically played the piano while our elderly gardener plonked new arrivals on the head, with a spade. The entire German army might take rather a long time, so I was really worried about this shortfall in the idea!!
Almost nightly I visited, with one or other friend or relative, the cinema that refuge where, apart from the notice which appeared on the screen informing the audience when an alert had sounded " those wishing to leave may do so," one could enter a world of secure make believe by laughing at Will Hay or Arthur Askey or being inspired by epics of heroic patriotism. One of the Irish teachers, a lady, was an ardent cinema fan and I used to go with her. Later in the war, an American might be in attendance. My role as either gooseberry or chaperon depended on the desirability of the escort. She was offended when one of her beaux observed, "I shall be glad to get back to the states to meet some real people" For a time her escorts were limited to British admirers!
Exciting moments came when drivers of broken-down vehicles came in to tea. I presume men were left in charge of broken-down trailers while their colleagues came in to see us, and I remember the pleasure we all gained from entertaining members of the forces who were passing in any way and invited in.
Often, we were cold and a rather hungry but compared with conditions in other countries we were lucky thanks to the Merchant Navy, and The Empire. Speaking of this, every Christmas I recall the patriotic music which was broadcast on Christmas afternoons. "Crown Imperial" will always bring back memories of sitting by an open fire opening presents and thinking of those we loved overseas or in danger and above all of our country and what we were fighting for. I am sure this has forged the powerful attitude so many of my age hold, and consequently feel sorrow as we view the current situation in this country and our allies across the globe. |
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