.The Blitz
Revisited.
Watching Clair
Dawson Entertains on a cold winter’s night, my mind wandered back to my early
childhood experiences during the early war years of 1940/41. During this time, the
village in which I lived was subjected to almost nightly raids due to its
location as Southern Command Headquarters, defending Britain
from the German air onslaught. Clair Dawson’s
musical however, revolved around the love life of a young Liverpool girl. All
the popular war time songs were given an outing, which of course was
reasonable, but somehow I was unable to relate to the musical entertainment,
my mind kept drifting back to those broken nights as the wail of the sirens
awoke our family from their sleep. Looking skyward at the piecing shafts of
search lights lighting up the night sky, listening for the soft drone of approaching
aircraft engines, always sent shivers down our spines. Then, there was that
desperate race to the shelter before the drones became a louder reality as the
raid began.
As a young child, I
was obliged to use a saucepan as my air raid helmet, an idea of mother’s as we
didn't not possess children’s sizes. These helmets were stored in a cupboard under
the stairs, along with World War One gas masks reissued at the out
break of hostilities. Our house was a good hundred metres from the air raid bunker located in
the small wood located at the bottom of the garden. We would run past the fruit
trees in the orchard, and the National Guard hiding inside their sand bag fort, where they manoeuvred their anti-air craft
gun into position. I cannot recall anyone
ever firing this gun, but that is not surprising as we would all be well and
truly hidden inside our shelter. Our bunker was an underground structure built of
concrete, and covered with a foot or so of grassed topsoil. Towards the latter
part of the war the family decided not to use the bunker, and it became an
excellent children’s’ cubby house, that is until our gardener decided to grow
mushroom there. Why my parents built their shelter so far from the house was
never explained to me, but I supposed the reason was that they felt the further
away the better. There were two exists, one at each end as a safe guard against
a cave in during a bombing raid.
Mother had decorated
our Bunker in her usual theatrical way, large wooden Indian tea boxes turned
into tables with bright red table cloths thrown over them, some with war maps of
the current political position in Europe printed on them. As a small boy, I
loved the Hurricane lamps suspended from wall brackets that provided a party
atmosphere, and a sense of some secret place. The bunker was well provided with
a supply of water and food to last several days. My father didn’t always accompany
us on these nightly excursions as he was the medical officer for the nearby RAF
base. The walls were hung with hessian drops to give a cosy feeling, some of
which had painted designs on them, others hangings had fun cartoon characters of Hitler and Mussolini, and other war time personalities. The drawing
were based on the cut out cardboard marinates you could buy at the post office
to help the war effort.
On most nights we
arrived before the first series of bombs started to fall, there would be a
flash of light as the earth started to vibrate and move from the shock. Often
after these air raids our house would be turned into a temporary field hospital,
as my father administered what medical treatment possible. If one of
the injured happened to be a young German pilot, Mother would have to
act as interpreter. On one occasion a young airman landed on the
wrought iron spiked fence around the church opposite, impaling
himself in the process. On these occasions the house would be overrun with
soldiers, mainly French Canadians who were stationed near the village. After
basic medical treatment the hapless prisoner would be carted off back to base,
there was little sympathy shown to prisoners as he would be thrown into the
back of a lorry and carted back to base for interrogation. Meanwhile the local
fire brigade would be out quenching any fires. The mornings after were
the worst when the local residents counted the loss of their fellows, and to
inspected bomb damaged buildings.
Towards the end of the war, a new
peril appeared in the form of the doodle bomb, these rockets inflicted untold
damage on the civilian population. The Allies were very lucky that the Germans had not developed their rocket
earlier, in a way the western allies were fortunate to gain the experience of Jewish
scientists who fled Germany for America. Whenever you heard one of these
rockets approaching people would sit in stony silence as they listened to the
soft, soft, sound of these approaching messengers of death, waiting from the
engine to fall silent, holding their breath, waiting for
the explosion. People became quite expert in working out the likely distance
and time required before these devices arrived.
One evening as I listen to the engine of a rockets stop suddenly, it seemed to be just outside my window, frozen
in terror I watched the bedroom window fly across the room, the air filled with
dust and broken glass. Then flash of light and noise blinded me as I was thrown to
the floor. The house next door was engulfed in flames, as the occupants died an
unkindly death. This was my memory of the Blitz, a time of tremendous stress
and deprivation.