Wartime Britain A Boy’s memories By Alan Rawlinson

Recent life in ‘lockdown’ UK brings back vivid memories of life growing up in wartime Britain 80 years ago.

The mind works in odd ways, with sharp memories of some events which have left their mark, and nothing much of the order, or sequence of things. These following events are picked out at random, because a chronology needs a diary and dates, something which is not available to me in the 2020’s.

Between 1939 and 1945 when the war was on, my age was 4 to 10, a perfect time to enjoy every day and explore the wonder of growing up. As far as the war was concerned, the rights and wrongs, and the progress of the war was a simple matter of repeating what parents were saying. My Mother was fond of saying at one stage, “ We won’t get any more bananas now that Singapore has been captured”!

This was duly and solemnly noted, and we continued on playing. Only years later was it clear that this was a false belief. True, we had no more bananas, but it had more to do with Atlantic convoys than the fall of Singapore, bad as that was.

All these years later, and as a result of reading much wartime history, the true horrors and unbelievable suffering in Europe and on the Eastern front convey war at it’s real worst. There are sections hard to read. In Britain things were different, exciting even to a small boy, but the general mood was upbeat. Yes, there was much suffering in air raids in particular, and a great deal of inconvenience, disruption, and some hardship, but nothing compared to life and death in overrun countries in Europe and elswhere.

My first taste of the inconvenience then was when our family left Jersey which was our home and the workplace for my parents. One of my first memories is climbing into a bunk next to my mother on the ferry across to Weymouth.

Later, I learned that friends with us, who had decided to escape the German held Channel Islands were killed in an early air-raid. Such is fate. We had left before the main evacuation in June 1940, my father being prescient. The bulk

of the people wanting to leave followed some months later, when a mass evacuation was organised by the authorities. A large fleet of vessels were utilised.

Early in the war, my father who had been serving in the RASC, the (Royal Army Service Corp), was returned home with a disability, the result of an accident, which rendered him unfit for further duty. He secured a job as caretaker in a block of flats, a ‘high rise’ in modern terms, and it was in west London at Finsbury Park. As luck would have it, we lived there through the London Blitz of 1940. My memories are strong even at 5 years old. The shrapnel eagerly found every morning, and the frightening sound of guns from the park, coupled with explosions and bangs throughout the night remains vivid. Only when my father explained that the terrifying banging all night was OUR guns did I unfreeze a little. In the blitz, and particularly in the mornings after a nighttime raid, shrapnel could be found lying around. Twisted coloured shards of sometimes hot metal could be found in the gutters and on the street. Aluminium or steel pieces, they were a boy’s delight and were eagerly shown off and swapped with friends. Many were in bizarre shapes that rivalled snow flakes or cobwebs. Many years later and only with the benefit of books did it dawn on me that much of the shrapnel was pieces from exploded shells from the barrage of anti-aircraft guns just up the road in the park. Finsbury Park had a big battery of them and was the headquarters of the London anti-aircraft division. The exploding shells created a veritable rain of spent metal. Huge searchlights that could light up the clouds were sited next to the guns and flashed around the sky in breathtaking patterns. They were searching out the invading bombers.

Between September 1940 and May 1941 there were major raids. London was attacked 71 times and bombed by the Luftwaffe for 57 consecutive nights. More than one million London houses were

destroyed or damaged, and nearly 20,000 people killed.

Such was the nightime noise, guns, accompanied by bangs and a rattling of doors and windows that life became an adventure. Each apartment in our block and the adjacent block was designed with a waste opening next to the front door. It was for the bins, which could then be emptied from outside. These tiny openings were just big enough for a small boy to squeeze through and in the morning after a night raid it was my job to get into the flats and help unlock front doors which had jammed with the vibration. It was my war effort!

The weeks of the Blitz wreaked havoc around our area. There was a period - I can’t say how long, when first thing in the morning I was allowed to wander the streets with some young friends, collecting trophies and looking at the devastation. It changed every morning. A familiar sight was a building maybe of several stories with one side collapsed. The pipework tended to hold together which meant that the

baths were exposed, one above the other in a surreal montage with no walls and with debris and wallpaper etc hanging down in strips. This led my mother to conclude that the bath was the safest place in an air raid, and that’s where I was placed when the siren went. Along the streets in the mornings people were busy sweeping up shop fronts and the pavement where bricks and walls had fallen. At the age I was, I had no concept of time or of events, but just accepted life for what it was. It was a blissful state with no anxiety other than the immediate, as when the guns were too loud. Equally, with no perception of what was actually going on, life was accepted on a day to day basis just as children do today in war ravaged places.

I guess we moved home, as my next strongest recall revolves around Chesham in Buckinghamshire. Here I lived with my grandparents in Church Road, and although we were relatively safe from the Blitz, the war was never far away. There was an exceptional winter in 1941 in which the snow was so deep in our local park that we made igloos, achieved by rolling huge balls of snow which were stacked in a circle and roofed with smaller rolls of compacted snow. The ornamental lake was also frozen hard, which was great for youngsters to enjoy. By this time I was at the church school which happened to be close to our house, and there were daily air raid warnings. When the siren went, we were instructed to hide under the desks which was regarded as fun without much fear.

I should mention that throughout the war years several things were standard, and taken for granted. Damp and musty smelling sandbags head high were carefully stacked at door entrances to schools and public buildings. They

were arranged in a sort of zig-zag pattern to allow people to enter and leave without effort, and they were everywhere. Windows with strips of brown paper criss-crossing them to prevent the glass blowing out in shards. Black out curtains were in use which had to be drawn at dusk. Barrage balloons appeared in parks and open spaces, and it was fairly common to see them floating away on the wind when the cables failed. Sometime later during the war years, the authorities built shelters in the street out of brick. They were flat roofed and ugly but were designed to save injury or death from bombs and they worked fine, except for a direct hit. Anyone familiar with them today would likely agree that the most memorable feature apart from the utility wooden bunks, was the strong smell of urine. As boys, they were great for reaching the conkers from the cheshnut trees alongside, climbing onto the flat roof to reach up.

Chesham was near the newly built USA airforce base at Bovingdon which housed the Eighth Airforce and was also a training base. It played a major role in the war, and was only 5km away. After America entered the war at the end of 1941, the town was flooded with smart young men in their crisp uniforms. It was standard practice for the youngsters in the town to approach them asking for gum. “

Got any gum, chum” was the accepted phrase and nearly always produced results beyond our wildest dreams. The Americans were so generous and friendly, producing not only gum galore, but money and other treats. They seemed

to be always well stocked and approachable. Those days are seen in a different light now with the benefit of old age and the excellent but heart rending accounts in war literature. “ Serenade to the Big Birds”, by Bert Stiles, is one evocative and powerful memoir that brings home the anguish and desperation that those young men were facing. We knew nothing of that at the time.

With the base so close, we later saw the bombers passing very low overhead. A strawberry field situated behind the town on the top of a steep hill became the subject of our close attention. Not only could we lay undetected between the rows, stuffing ourselves with ripe strawberries, but we could sometimes observe the Boeing B.17 Flying Fortresses taking off and roaring low over our heads ready to form up before proceeding on a mission. It was spectacular, especially to small boys.

Down in the town signs of the war were everywhere. Giant posters and placards urged people to “ Give for the war effort”, and the most eye catching feature was a giant wood and cardboard thermometer, clearly marked to show how much had been collected. With a target at the top, the level of donations were shown by shifting the mercury level upwards each day. It was very effective, and the spirit in the town was good. Buckets for coins were also placed around.For us kids, the most appealing and spectacular sight was to be had in the park behind the high street. In the centre was a bandstand area, and on this open area, downed German planes would be regularly exhibited. Sometimes they were fighters, but usually they were Junkers or other bombers - all damaged to a greater or lesser extent, and

every few days a new wrecked plane would arrive on a trailer. It was pure heaven for boys who were allowed to clamour all over them even sitting in the cockpit to fiddle with what controls were left. The garish swastika markings brought home the enormity of the war to everyone who visited. The whole show was designed to free up even more cash, and it worked.

Looking back, the war caused disruption of people’s lives to a greater or lesser extent. The freedom I had to wander the streets at quiet a young age would not be acceptable or regarded as normal today. However, I attended more than one school due to new accommodation, and for the rest of the day I recall wandering around getting into mischief and generally enjoying myself. I was still young enough on one occasion to get terribly upset after following a brass band out of town and being unable to find my way home. A new big school seemed overwhelming, and I panicked after a playground break, unable to find my class mates during the line up. My solution was to hide in bushes until I recognised the passing faces, and then darting out to join on the tail. I like to think it was the beginning of my lifelong trait for self-reliance.

Sometime during the years in Chesham, a national drive for aluminium and metal meant teams of workers combed the streets cuttig down railings and gates. We youngsters tailed along as the teams progressed,

probably getting in the way. No permission was needed to apply the burners to all and every set of railings, leaving stumps behind. I recall some owners demurring, but it was no use. The remaining stumps were still in evidence long after the war. As the lorries slowly progressed down the street, people would also come out of their houses and throw pots and pans onto the pile in the back of the lorry! The popular conclusion today is that most of the metal was dumped and never used, but whatever the truth, there is no denying that it was a huge morale boost at the precise time that this was needed. People felt that they were doing something positive.

About this time a baby sister was born. It was an added chore for me to regularly wheel her around the block in her pram, presumably to get fresh air. Bearing in mind I was only 6 years old it was a bold decision, even irresponsible, and so it proved, for I remember her distincly sliding out of the pram onto the pavement from a strange flap at the back end. This happened when struggling up and down kerbs.

During WW2 several evacuations of children took place by the government. It was a response to firstly the Blitz in 1940/41 and later to the deadly threat of V1 and V2 rockets. Our parents decided it was a good idea, and fortunately the rules were that mothers could accompany children under 5. So we were spared the horrors that all too frequently occurred when young children were dumped on complete strangers without any checks. Our train took us to Newcastle and then by coach to Monkseaton. I have very strong recollections of the process. A full coach. Policeman up front standing by the door as the coach driver was instructed to ‘ kerb crawl’ along the leafy roads.

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and the procedure was that the coach would stop at each gate while the policeman went up to the door and knocked. After a few words he would signal back to the coach which was manned by WVS ladies helping those onboard. He would raise one or more fingers which was a signal to send that number up the pathway to their new home. This method seems totally flawed and even dangerous in today’s world, but it has to be seen in the times that we were in. Sadly, there were many horror stories which were well documented after the war. Children were beaten, abused, and often neglected, but like all these events, the overall result was that thousands were happy or content and it probably saved some lives. In our case, the coach slowly emptied until we were almost alone gazing out of the window and wondering what was going to happen. The WVS ladies whose surname was ‘Arthur’, then decided they would offer my mother, sister, and myself their home to stay. It was a stroke of luck because it was a good solid home in a leafy road. We stayed several months and I was packed off to the local school during the day. I walked the mile or so there and back. Here, life was a bit grim as I recall, because the teacher openly resented the influx of ‘ Londoners’ that had been foisted on her. Most of the refugees spoke with a ‘ cockney’ accent which seemed to infuriate her more. She made it quite plain that we were unwelcome. 80 odd years later, I completely forgive her! My solution was to bunk off each day, walk to the seafront, and spend my dinner money on the slot machines. I don’t recall ever being caught out and this went on continuously while I was there and supposedly going to school. The local beaches were covered in rolls of barbed wire and tank traps so there

was no prospect of bathing, so the amusement arcades it was.

Eventually, it was decided to return south and we lived in a semi detached requisitioned house in Elm Park,Stanmore. My father secured a job at the De Haviland factory near Watford where he was the personnel manager for a spell. The sirens went regularly where we lived, and it became a game, walking to school slowly in the hope that the wailing siren would start up. Should this happen before we reached the school gates it was permitted to run back home. If the sirens went during lessons, all the pupils were marched to the local air raid shelter which was in the adjacent park. My technique was to get near the entrance on the chance that I could slip out unnoticed and look up at the sky from a position in the park. This worked more often than not and I joined one or two curious adults hoping to see a dog fight in the air. By this time we were all having to carry gas masks. This meant having a brown box containing the mask slung over the shoulder. It was cumbersome and never used, and slightly hindered our running ability.

One reason that Stanmore was of interest to the Luftwaffe was that it was the headquarters of fighter command, based at Bentley Priory! It was defended with a clutch of barrage balloons. I am not sure if that was fully appreciated by my father when accepting an offer of accommodation in the village.

V1 rockets, called ‘ buzzbombs’ were coming over daily at this time, and the distinctive groaning noise of the engine was unmistakable and definitely scary to hear. As has

often been reported, the effect on those on the ground was electric. People soon realised that the sudden stop of the engine noise in flight heralded a swoop to the ground and

we understood that was the worst thing. Everyone silently or sometimes loudly urged the thing to keep going and if the pulsating groan arrived

overhead it was past hitting us. Post war statistics and charts show the pattern of hits around London and only a few strays came our way out in Stanmore. One such was in a field not far from our home and a number of us boys managed to get to the site which fortunately was a large hole without any damage to buildings or people. Rooting around, we found the exhaust tail piece which was a solid and heavy tube and we struggled hopelssly to manhandle it back as some sort of souvenir.Another stark reminder that a war was on was the Italian P.O.W.’s we had in a nearby camp in the village. They had a sort of uniform and a distinctive colour patch on the back, mostly a large red circle. I recall that they were allowed out and were very friendly and good natured, and worked in the fields around the area.

Towards the end of 1944, V2 rockets started arriving in the south of England. These were not seen or heard until they exploded on landing. Some 3000 were launched causing great devastation, but again we were on the fringe of the target area and only received stray rockets. One exploded about a mile from our house causing a huge crater in a field and with no damage or injuries. A group of boys from our street went to see the hole and marvel at the size.

Life carried on in a sort of pattern. Rationing was in force and most items including clothes needed the requisite number of coupons before they could be purchased. Ration books were issued and soon became a familiar part of buying groceries and sweets. This continued long after the war ended. It all worked fairly well, with minimal pain, especially if you were young. Not being able to freely buy chocolate or sweets was the chief complaint for the children. At school, inspectors came into the classroom

measuring our feet and our head! Those outside of standard measurements were granted extra coupons, and I recall that I qualified on both counts! A head cicumference

larger than normal for my age group, and feet too. This provided extra coupons to my grateful mother.

Looking back, the life at a young age in wartime Britain was good. We had nothing to compare it too, and the optimism of youth saw us through. 6 homes and 4 schools later, the war came to an end. Everyone celebrated

and in Stanmore Village centre a huge bonfire was prepared. All the children helped stack the timber and boxes, etc for a great night of rejoicing which we all enjoyed. My parents were out celebrating and they chose to lock me in the house with my baby sister, but I had other plans. Out of a window, and into the village with my chums!

Viewed from 75 years later, it was a wild time in my early days. For whatever reason, I was allowed to run unsupervised and there were clashes with the police. Setting fire to fields, petty stealing, trespassing, etc brought me to the attention of the authorities, and there was one occasion when we climbed a wartime lookout tower in the woods. It was used to spot air raids or fires and made of

scaffolding with a glass cabin perched high in the air, and the temptation to drop the glass panes down through the scaffolding was too strong. This led to an impromtu punishment of caning from the local policeman, after we had been coaxed down.

Oddly, a comparison with today stands up well. Nearly every evening during the last years of the war we were out, either going to clubs, singing carols at Xmas, building a Guy on Nov 5th, or attending cubs or church. I sang in the church choir and got paid to sing at weddings. There were many activities and safety was never an issue like modern times.

Then VJ day came and went, and after a 3 year stint at sea school my life opened up in a most amazing way. I was appointed to a ship in Cardiff and began to roam the world. The ship was the FORTHBANK and she had come through the war unscathed. For me, it was the start of a completely

new and exciting life, leaving WW2 far behind but not forgotten.