SEPTEMBER 1940
Apparently, London is still getting it bad. It’s their turn every night. I’ve been reading about it. It’s all in the papers. ARPs can get no sleep. They’re working hand in hand with the police force around the clock. UXB means unexploded bomb. They say if a bomb’s got your name on it, you hear a whine, then a silence before the explosion. This is because it’s travelling faster than sound. Those who’ve dug in their shelters stand a better chance. There’s those that will take your bolts, spanners and sheets, and put your Anderson into the ground for you. But it will cost you a few bob. There’s money to be made out of misery. Torches, batteries, firemen’s axes, chemical fire extinguishers, whistles, you name it. You can even buy ARP-approved bomb removers. Top of the line is ‘The Gripper’ — ‘grips bombs from any position only 10/6’. Ifit got a bit lively outside, I’m not sure if I’d want to get into a shelter. They say you’ve to take food, warm clothing and blankets to make yourself as comfortable as possible, and sing songs like ‘Me and My Girl’ and ‘Swanee River’. It doesn’t sound like me. Today Len caught me reading the papers. He asked me why I’m always reading, reading, reading. I didn’t say anything. Then he said we might lose the war. He reckons being up here, we don’t really understand how bad it is. We get a rosier picture. The war’s still a bit of a joke to us. I thought, he’s changed his tune. But I said nothing. The Star has started to run a competition called Hitler-Hits. They give you the first line and whoever sends in the best second line gets £10.
If you listen in Hamburg you may hear Lord Haw-Haw say, We’ve killed 10,000 Englishmen — one less than yesterday.
I wish I’d have thought of that one. Today’s first line is a hard one,
On every hand in Germany it’s very plain to see…
NOVEMBER 1940
That silly brummie bugger Chamberlain’s dead. Almost exactly six months after stepping down. Common opinion is that the strain of holding the highest office killed him. Our blackout curtains need to be fixed. The bobby told Len that last night he saw light. I went into my sewing box to find a needle and thread. I thought, they’re a blessed nuisance. The curtains, that is. Then I saw a rag doll I’d been making for Tommy out of old stockings. I’d only to sew on the buttons for eyes. That was all I had left to do.
DECEMBER 1940
Thursday was always a popular going-out night, in town. I wonder if Hitler knew this. Maybe it was simpler than this, maybe he just knew it was going to be a full moon. It was the clearest night I’d ever seen. I could hear the town sirens in the far distance, wailing their warning, and then I heard the queer engines of German bombers, all out of tune. They sounded different from ours, uglier. And then, away on the horizon, our boys; the ripping sound of anti-aircraft batteries. Everybody knew they were after the steelworks. Firth Brown and Co., J. Arthur Balfour and Co., Vickers. All of them. But there were too many Jerry planes and I knew we were going to get a pasting. It was a real bomber’s moon, and from up there in the sky our roads — must have looked like frosty white ribbons pointing the way to the target. First flares, then incendiaries, then the heavy bombs. We all stood shivering on the hillside and looked down. The town soon looked like a thousand camp fires had been lit on it, beautiful little fairy lights, everywhere blazing. You couldn’t look anywhere without seeing fire. Len slipped a blanket around my shoulders, and the vicar started singing ‘Nearer my God to Thee’. I gave him a dirty look, but he didn’t stop. In between the verses, I heard somebody whisper, The town’s on fire. There was a huge celestial glow, as though the sun were about to rise out of the heart of the town. And then the vicar stopped. He pulled a piece of paper from his frock pocket and announced, ‘Repose.’ There were maybe two dozen of us. We all turned from the town and looked at him.God is our Refuge — don’t be afraid,He will be with you, all through the raid;When bombs are falling and danger is near,He will be with you until the ‘All Clear’.When the danger is over, and ev’rything calm,Thank you Redeemer for courage and balm;He’ll never forsake you, He’ll banish your fear,Just trust and accept Him, and feel He is near.
When he finished, there was silence. We all turned and looked back at the town. Fires were still blazing, but we couldn’t hear any more planes. Maybe it was over? Len whispered in my ear, I’m off to the pub. I’ll see you back later. I watched him and his mates walk off. I even heard them laughing. I imagined that I could hear the sound of the ‘All Clear’ in the distance. But, of course, I heard nothing. And then I looked around at the vicar who was praying, stiffing his fear between two folded hands.
DECEMBER 1940
Today I took a bus down to the town to find my mother. I hadn’t slept much. In fact, I hadn’t really slept at all, but I felt wide awake. The countryside looked much the same, but when I saw the town, I wanted to cry. Tram lines were twisted like liquorice. Iron girders were discarded across the street, jutting up into the air and pointing towards the now empty grey sky. I couldn’t believe that this was my town. The bus couldn’t go any further, so we all got off and began to walk. I stared at buildings that were now reduced to one or maybe two walk. Neat rectangular holes that used to be windows provided useless ventilation. Everywhere I looked I could see mountains of rubble, crushed cars, and battered trams. Up above me, the loose, swinging arms of cranes picked their way over the carcass of the town. And in the streets, men with flatcaps and women with head-scarves scavenged at the ruins of their houses, avoiding any hot debris, trying to find bits of furniture, photographs, anything that remained of their lives. As they did so, others — maybe family members — stared on, dumbstruck. I stepped gingerly around a sea of broken glass, and then saw a formal queue of parents taking turns to lift their children into the cockpit of a crashed Jerry bomber. I wondered about the pilot, and then realized that I should be wondering about my mother. I increased my pace. Down a side street, I saw charred bodies covered in soot and glass. Then I realized that they were just Burton’s dummies. It occurred to me that I was lost. That all the familiar landmarks had gone and that I was no better than the sad woman I saw wandering with a bird cage in one hand and some photographs in the other, singing ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’. The bashing had obviously sent her beyond. I asked for directions from an ARP who looked half-asleep underneath his tin helmet. He said nothing, but simply pointed me towards a junction that I recognized. I wanted to ask him about the football rattle in his hand, but he looked too tired to answer, so I just said thank you. He nodded a quick acknowledgement. I walked on knowing that there was no longer any such thing as a familiar route. Fire hoses like long, endless snakes were strewn across the roads. Fires still spat, but down here the odd girder was all that remained of most buildings. I saw groups of patient employees standing outside shops and offices with no idea of what to do, their work places wrecked. The whole town was in a state of shock. Everyhody seemed to be suffering their own private war tragedy. The odd car rolled by at a funereal pace, but heads didn’t turn. People simply gawked at the destruction. I turned off the main street and continued to pick my way through the back streets. I looked on at the ATS girls, who seemed to be working non-stop, helping the police, driving, standing side by side with the ARPs. They made me feel useless.