Britain at War: I was awoken to the yells of "the war is over!" - Telegraph This is an account of my family's experiences during the years 1939-1945. After the passage of some 60 years, there are inevitably huge gaps in my memory, but the events I shall describe here are intended to give some idea of what happened to millions of ordinary families during an extraordinary time in our history. My purpose is to illuminate, as best I can and leave a record, which, I hope, will encourage you to preserve the values which were fought then. August 1939, Liverpool I don't remember the journey to Aughton. My younger sister Sheila and I were taken one week before the declaration of war, from our family in Tuebrook, a suburb of Liverpool, to stay in a large mansion there, not far from Ormskirk, an old market town. I can't remember, either, any explanation for this, although no doubt there must have been one, of sorts. I was eight-years-old, Sheila was four, so it's possible, that I at least, was given a reason for the sudden, frightening upheaval, the separation from our parents, two elder sisters and our brother. Sheila and I, being considerably younger than Ismay, Tom and Irene, who were then grown up and working, had been petted and indulged, yet this traumatic wrenching away from them is a blank in my memory now. Some time during the next few years, I found out that we had gone to Aughton because our parents had hoped to protect us from the bombing which they had been warned would be severe. It happened that our second cousin, Edith, worked for Mr Hill, the owner of the house. He had a business in Liverpool and she cleaned the offices. As the owner of a large house he was required, by the Government, to take in evacuees from the city and he asked Edith if she knew of any young children who would be suitable. She told him about us and although our parents were extremely reluctant to send us away, they agreed. My memory of the house is still fairly clear. It seemed huge to us, used as we were to our family home. We lived in a new quasi semi and nicely furnished, but miniscule compared to this mansion. It was set in large grounds, with tall trees and a curving drive. That August day was warm and bright with sunshine and I remember how cool it felt, as we waited in the large porch for the doorbell to be answered. It was a heavy door, the top half shining with etched glass and the floor tiled. Inside, a winding staircase led from the large hall to a broad landing and there were numerous doors, all the woodwork dark. Sheila and I had a downstairs room with, I think, a camp bed for each of us and I remember the floor to ceiling windows, which overlooked the garden and the drive. Directly outside our window there was a great, thick tree, with a swing hanging from a lower branch. I have no recollection of the parting from my parents that day and only a rather sketchy recall of our stay in that house. However, one memory stands out to this day. We were sitting with the maids in their little living Room. It was Sunday and a glorious September day. We had to sit quietly, whilst Cook and the two Housemaids listened to the wireless. It was quite a small set, covered in some sort of blue leatherette and was perched on the shelf, but as the speaker's voice, which was quiet, went on, the ladies began to cry. They told us to go into the garden to play, which we did and I wondered why grown up ladies were crying. The speaker's voice was, of course, Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister and his message, the declaration of war. I can still recall his slow, solemn voice and each time that broadcast is transmitted again, that moment comes back so clearly, although with one difference. I am the one who cries now. On that day, when I first heard those words, the future was mercifully unknown, we didn't understand, being children, that the world we knew would be smashed beyond recall. Yet, there must have been some inexplicable presentiment and powerful impression, which has lasted all these years. There were two sons in the Hill family. Edward, then 12 and David, nine. They didn't have anything to do with us, apart from teasing us, by standing outside the windows of our room, pulling hideous faces and frightening Sheila. I used to march up to the windows and shout at them to go away, but that was the only contact between us. I'm sure neither of them wanted to be bothered with two little girls, who had suddenly been foisted on their family. I do have a vague memory of riding in Mr Hill's car, which was an adventure. The only car we'd been in before, was the one belonging to one of lsmay's boyfriends, he gave us a ride around the block one day, when he'd called to take her out. The ride to Ormskirk was longer, we had to go there to collect our gas masks and I remember having to try it on, which was horrible. The smell of rubber made you feel unable to breathe properly, which frightened me, but we never went anywhere without them, slung over our shoulders in a canvas case. The weather that September was beautiful and we played out every day, exploring the large grounds, which was great fun for us during these school holidays. We were allowed to play on the swing and could wander about quite freely, the only stipulation being not to go too near the edge of the swimming pool. It was quite large, but empty, apart from leaves, I don't think it had been used for some time. There was an orchard and across a little lane, another piece of Mr Hill's land, where the hens were kept. We went there a few times, helping to collect the eggs and scatter food, but we were a bit wary of the birds, never having been so close to hens before. The maids were kind to us, but I can't remember their names now. We never saw Mr Hill, apart from the visit to Ormskirk, but Mrs Hill could be heard shouting for the boys and once I saw her. She was wearing a dressing gown, leaning over the bannister on the landing and shouting "Ed-waaard" in a very loud voice. This was a frequent occurrence, although usually it was only her voice, she never came to see us. My Mother came twice during the week and on one visit, Edward turned the hosepipe on her, as he was watering the front lawns. There was quite a fuss about it, although I don't know whether he was punished for behaving like that. Then, one night there was an air raid warning in Liverpool. All the buses stopped, even where we were and a lady with a young baby came to the house, asking for help, as the Hill's house was the closest to the main road. She was stranded, unable to get home, alone and understandably very frightened, but the exciting thing about this episode, at least, for Sheila and I, was that the tiny baby slept all night in my doll's pram ! It was an exact replica of a real one, a model called TanSad, which was very popular at the time and my pride and toy. It had been brought with us, along with our dolls and teddy bears to share our evacuation and we were absolutely thrilled to find that a real baby had slept in it ! Our stay in Aughton was brief indeed. Less than a week after the war had started, our parents came to take us home. We had been away a mere ten days, but our Mother couldn't accept our absence and we were reunited with our family. The first trauma was over for Sheila and I. There is a postscript to the episode however. 59 years after meeting David Hill at his home, we met again. I hadn't seen him since the day we left to return home, but at a political meeting in 1998, I heard his name and when I found out he lived in Aughton, I made myself known to him. He remembered Sheila and I and was intrigued by the coincidence of being involved in the same political movement. We met quite often during the next few years, whilst campaigning, but I never met Edward again, or revisited the house, as David hoped. Frank's illness prevented it and David died in 2004. Even so, it was a remarkable thing to meet again after all those years and I was even more pleased to find we were fighting the same battle. I told him it seemed we were destined to meet only when our country was fighting a battle for freedom from foreign domination. As far as I know, Edward is still alive and living in the same house, although, of course, he may have gone too, now. David told me the old house had become sadly neglected, so perhaps it was just as well that I didn't see it again. Liverpool, 1940 Once home again, life for Sheila and I seemed little different to begin with. I wish I could remember what was to be our last Christmas together as a family, with all four of us at home, but I can't. The first big upheaval was the digging up of our back garden, my Father's pride and joy. In place of the lawn and roses, we had a deep pit ooand a mountain of earth beside it. Then along came a steel Andersen Shelter, ribbed and shaped like an igloo. Of course, Sheila and I hadn't any idea what it was for and for a while it remained bare, without a spadeful of soil to protect it and bare inside, as well. Tom spent a great deal of time in his room, with a machine he'd bought. He said it was for him to practise his messages in Morse Code, which meant nothing to me at the time. We could hear the click, click, dot, dash, as he worked with it for hours and it was only when he went into the RAF that I understood all the preparation he was doing, he was so keen to pass his exams as a wireless operator. He was always mad about planes, which were then comparatively recent inventions and each wall in his room had coloured pictures of the current models. All these changes meant little to Sheila and I at first. The windows were all covered in crosses of sticky tape, with black curtains hung in front of the normal ones, while a very dull light was put in the hall shade and even that had to be switched off when the front door was opened. There was no street lighting and Ismay and Irene had to use torches with tiny, dim beams, which made it very scary and dangerous, coming home from work in the Winter. Mummy showed us some little books, which she told us were our ration books. We had to have one each, so that we could buy our food with the coupons inside. A very strange sight were the huge silver barrage balloons, floating in the sky. They looked a bit like whales and at that time, I had no idea what they were for, but after a while they became so familiar that we took them for granted and scarcely noticed them. The wireless became hugely important. When the news bulletins came on we had to be quiet and I began to realise that something really bad was happening to us. In the Summer, I heard the name Dunkirk for the first time and Mum was crying again. Then everyone was talking about a miracle and looking more cheerful, but that didn't last long. I knew now that we had enemies who wanted to fight and try and take our country from us. Being a great lover of history, I had read all about our achievements in the past and I was really mad, that anyone would try to invade us and take everything away from us. After that, I listened to every news bulletin. Then, a few months before Christmas, Tom went away. Mum cried once again. We didn't know where he'd gone, but Dad said he'd gone to join the Royal Air Force, along with his great pal, Steve. The house was strange without him, but he wrote letters and came home a couple of times, for a few days. We were told we were to have a new baby for Christmas, which gave us something to think about, but by then the air-raids had started, which pushed the news of another sister or brother from the front of our minds. Tom was home during one of these raids and I stood beside him in the bare shelter, it made me less scared when the planes came over and the big noise filled the world, which is how it seemed to me. I looked up at him for reassurance and his face was very angry "We'll give them a taste of their own medicine" he said. Of course, at the time I didn't know what he meant, but I have never forgotten that moment in all these years. It was after that, that my Dad got some men to come and cover the shelter with the excavated earth. He couldn't do it, because he'd lost his right arm at the Battle of the Somme, twenty four years before. The men did a good job, the shelter was now fully covered, which gave us added protection against the shrapnel and we also acquired some night lights, two bunks, some old carpet and a heavy curtain across the entrance. This was a big improvement on what we had to begin with and as it turned out, came none too soon. Ismay and Irene had to leave their jobs to do war work, as most of the women had to do. Ismay wanted to go into the Wrens, the women's naval services, but she went into the Ministry of Food instead. This wasn't her wish at all, but because Mother had a disabled husband, and young children to cope with, she said she needed help during the raids, etc., so, reluctantly, Ismay applied for a compassionate posting to a civilian job. She was a very good shorthand typist and I'm sure she would have done really well in the Wrens, but it was not to be. Irene went into the munitions factory, which was hard, dangerous work, involving shifts and vital to the war effort. She opted to stay at home, but now all the three older members of the family were involved in war work in their different ways. Everything was changing. On Boxing Day Mummy went into the nursing home and I was terrified that a bomb would drop on the home. I spent the next two weeks praying "Please God, don't let any bombs fall on Mummy and the baby”. We were able to go and see them quite a few times and were thrilled with our beautiful new sister, who was named Diane, but every raid meant more fear until they came home. We didn't know it then, nor for decades afterwards, that we were living right in the centre of the Battle of the Atlantic. The Western Approaches headquarters were situated at the docks and had that been destroyed, we would have lost the war, starved out by the U Boats and the Luftwaffe. The air raids were so ferocious because the Germans knew it vital to destroy the docks and the poor people who lived close suffered more than any of us. We were all unaware then, that the fate of the Western World hung in the balance and it was the courage and gigantic efforts of the seamen and the dock workers who saved us from defeat. They have never been given the recognition they deserved, but we owe them our lasting gratitude, along with the airmen, who fought the Battle of Britain, we could never repay them for what they did. We heard on the wireless about the air battle and at the time, of course, as a nine year old, its significance didn't really strike me, but I vaguely understood we had achieved another miracle, saved by the airmen that time. So, in one year, each of the services had defended us, although we were suffering, we kept going. The noise of the raids was horrendous and Sheila used to say "There's the Mibole Gun Mummy"! Sometimes the mobile anti aircraft gun was brought into our street to defend the railway line, which ran along the embankment at the top of our street. As a five-year-old, she got the word mixed up a little, but she knew the sound of that particular gun. One of my abiding memories of those dreadful times when we often had to spend the whole night in the shelter, is one of our neighbours, Edna Sixsmith. She was an Air-raid Warden, coming regularly throughout the Night, for as long as a raid lasted, to check that we were all OK. Braving the noise and flak, she had the most beautiful, gentle speaking voice, a reassuring smile and a calm manner. What a treasure she was, I always felt less afraid when she came. The wardens did a wonderful job and, like so many other organisations who contributed to the war effort, never received the recognition and thanks they deserved. That fateful year of 1940 brought huge changes, but we children were mercifully unaware of the near catastrophe which threatened us, as we came within a whisker of defeat. At school, we suffered our first close tragedy. One of our classmates, Ailsa, had sailed for Canada, her Mum having decided to send her away from the bombing. Instead of safety, she met her death. The nine year old was drowned when the ship she was travelling in was torpedoed in the Atlantic. Her Mum brought her daughter's favourite doll, which oddly enough, she had left behind at home and presented it to the school, as a memento of her. The bitter irony was, that we all survived what was to be our ordeal of fire.
Part 2 Liverpool, 1941 My Dad was a member of the Firewatching Crew at the firm where he worked, Summers Wholesale Chemists, in Hanover Street in the City Centre. He was also the organiser of our street firewatching team, which every street had to have, to deal with incendiary bombs. Although he was disabled, he was capable of organising the weekly rotas and he had to ensure, both in our street and at Summer's, that there were adequate numbers of firewatchers at all times. I was given the job of delivering stirrup pumps to all the houses in our street, whilst one of our male neighbours gave out the sandbags. Every pair of hands were needed and with most of the able bodied men and women either in the forces, or engaged in essential war work, even children like me, or the elderly, were pressed into service. The raids became more frequent and destructive, as Spring arrived, some weeks, night after night, when there was full moonlight, we had to rush our meal down and take to the shelter before the bombers arrived, but there were occasions when they came early and we had to eat what we could in the shelter. By this time, we had acquired a few more refinements, like a mattress, a few stools and more bedding. Women neighbours on their own came to share our shelter and on bad nights it was quite a squeeze to fit us all in. The dreaded howl of the siren came to dominate our lives and we learned to distinguish the different engines. Theirs was a chug-chug throb, whilst ours was a constant, steady note. The relief when the all clear siren sounded was colossal. It meant we had survived another night, or daytime attack. When there was a raid during school time, we all rushed to the brick shelter in the school yard, where we would sing, or recite poetry, or call out "It's one of theirs, It's one of ours” as the case may be, waiting for the next big explosion, if it was one of theirs. Looking back now, I know that if a bomb had come down in the yard, we wouldn't have stood a chance, which I'm sure the teachers must have been well aware of, but we children were unaware of our vulnerability and when disaster did strike, it was during the night. Brick shelters had been erected in most streets, but on our little estate, never used, we relied on our own back garden shelters instead. However, we children put the street shelters to use, having a great time playing in them. The workmen had left spare bricks and with these we built all kinds of things, three piece suites were very popular, the great thing was, they were easily dismantled and made into something else. There was a lot of competition amongst us as to who could collect the most shrapnel. After every raid, the streets would be strewn with it and we used to try and find the most interesting shapes amongst the still warm pieces, doing exchanges when we wanted a shape we hadn't got. I don't know what happened to my collection, no doubt it was thrown out as rubbish. We learned to eat different food and although it was strictly rationed, we never, ever went hungry. The dried egg made good omelettes and with that and a few slices of spam, we could have a filling meal. I remember the box the dried egg came in, a light brown waxy paper. It came to us from America and was a lifeline to keep us going, a lifeline provided by the very brave seamen in the convoys crossing the Atlantic. They endured terrible casualties, as the U Boats tried to strangle our one means of getting enough to eat, as well as the fuel to run our transport. Without those men we might have starved and when Frank and I met four of them, we thanked them and gave them a hug. It was a privilege to meet them. The biggest deprivation for Sheila and I was the lack of sweets and ice-cream. Mum doled out three sweets each day, every day, it was all we were allowed on our coupons for the week. Clothes and shoes were a major headache, all were on coupons, yet Sheila and I were always well dressed, so much so, that we used to be sent round school by our respective teachers, to show everyone how nicely turned out we were ! I found this very embarrassing, but now I realise it was a tribute to our parents, who must have made do for years, spending all their coupons on us and the baby too, she joined us at times on the parade around school, when Ismay had made her a new hat and jacket set ! Tom came home on leave in the early Spring, bringing a few items of his gear to show us. A heavy leather flying jacket, which made a floor length overcoat for Sheila and I and his flying boots, which he also allowed us to put our feet into and attempt to take a few steps in. We didn't get far and there was a lot of laughing at our attempts to lift our feet off-the floor ! He told us that when flying, they had to wear three pairs of gloves, first a silk pair, then a pair of woollen ones and finally, the leather. This was because of the cold and one of their colleagues had had his fingers burned when he put his hands on one of the metal guns in the aircraft, whilst they were flying very high. Sometimes he was able to send Dad his ration of cigarettes, as he didn't smoke and a little bar of chocolate for Sheila and I, which was very welcome ! Then, on May 10, came our worst experience in a raid. The planes kept coming, the noise was horrendous and we children cried with fear. The Germans had found out that there was a train, loaded with ammunition, on its way to the docks, and unfortunately for us, it had been halted on the stretch of line at the top of our street. They got it with direct hits, creating a blazing inferno, so, in addition to the bombs, we had our own ammunition exploding and raining down on our houses and streets. If it hadn't have been for the amazing bravery of one of one railwayman, we might not have had any houses left at all. He ran along the track and uncoupled the blazing trucks, preventing the untouched wagons from catching fire. He was later awarded the George Medal for his outstanding bravery. We heard afterwards that someone had been in the allotments which adjoined the railway embankment, signalling with a torch, to pinpoint the train's whereabouts for the bombers, but as far as I knew, they were never caught. After hours of attack, the planes finally left and we crept out of the shelter. I have never forgotten the sight which met us then, I stood looking about me, too frightened to speak. Desolation everywhere. The walls were still intact, but roofs and windows had gone, wreckage was strewn everywhere, piled up in places, it didn't seem real. I followed my parents into the chaotic mess inside the house. No doors remained in place, they had been tossed everywhere, handles and finger plates ripped off piano keys stripped out by the blast. Every room window had smashed onto the table and lay shattered amidst shreds of curtains and tablecloth. Broken crockery, milk and sugar, all mingled together in a sticky heap on our lovely dining table, because there had been no time to put them away, as the sirens sounded early. We struggled upstairs, feet crunching on glass, laths and plaster from walls and ceilings. We looked up and saw the gaping, jagged hole in the roof above us, the sky bright and clear. They had not dropped incendiaries for some reason, had they done so, we would not have had anything at all left, but it was bad enough. Much of what happened next is a very muddled memory now. The next thing I clearly remember, is running across the street, bent double, because there were still explosions from the train. Dad held my hand and we stumbled over the rubble, making for our friend's house, where Mum, Diane and Sheila were waiting. There was a taxi waiting for us. I have learned since, that the Council had arranged for our evacuation as soon as possible and it was they who had paid for the taxi. There were another four neighbours crammed in with us and we set off at once, jolting and bumping over the debris, chimney pots being the worst obstacles in the way. I can't imagine how the adults must have felt. It was an unbelievable nightmare, but most probably the shock numbed them, temporarily at least. I don't know where we went, but on the way out of Liverpool, we drove past a crowd gathered around a huge mound of earth, whilst a crane was swinging to scoop something up. My Mother turned my head away, as strained to see and I only learned afterwards that an underground communal shelter had received a direct hit and they were bringing out the dead. We were taken to a rest centre, where bombed out people were given medical attention and food, whilst places were found for temporary shelter. We sat at long trestle tables, with benches either side and the hall was full, some people wearing blood stained bandages. While we waited for something to eat, our neighbour, seated opposite said "It's like Oliver Twist, isn't it?” Then she began to laugh, which soon turned to crying as she went into hysterics. Her husband had to slap her face in the end, to stop her and Sheila and I were astonished to see a grown up lady being smacked, not understanding that it was the only way her distraught husband could deal with the situation. I don't recall how long we were there, but it cannot have been more than four or five hours, because it didn't take long for us to be moved into some public building. I suppose it must have been council property, where we slept on the floor. The nightly raid began and bombs fell all about us, so I suppose we must have been in the vicinity of some other target, but I haven't any idea where it was. Then my Mother screamed, frightening us even more. It turned out she'd seen a cockroach climbing the wall! From there we set off again next morning and stopped for a while at a house, where two nice elderly ladies let us wash. We were still black, clothes, hair and skin grimed with dust and powdery plaster from the wrecked house, we’d left in such haste. We hadn't been able to wash all the previous day, except for hand rinsing. They gave us a cup of Bovril each, before we left to go to our refuge for the night. We were sent to a small house in Huyton, where Diane, Sheila and I slept under the dining table whilst the raid was on. Diane was only five-months-old and slept on a pile of her clothes, which served as her mattress. The third day we were split up. My parents and my two little sisters went to stay with friends not far from our house. Their son Steve, and Tom had been pals for years and the two families had became friends too. They gave Mum and Dad and the two youngest girls shelter, while Ismay and Irene remained with the friends who taken them in after the raid which wrecked our home. I was sent to stay with some ex neighbours who had lived next door in Montrose Road, but had moved a few years previously and kept in touch. They had two little girls of their own, but were willing to take me in, until our house became habitable again. I was with them for eight weeks, they were kind, but I was desperate to go home to be with my family. I learned later that Tom had arrived home on leave, the morning after we were bombed, heaven knows what effect it must have had on him, finding the house partially destroyed and the family gone. It was awful to be parted from the family as the nightly raids went on and the fear that a bomb might kill some of them and I would be left alone was traumatic. I feel now, that it left a permanent scar for all of us, which might not be apparent, but nevertheless accounts for the insecurity which still plagues us at times. Then at last we were able to go back home and it was wonderful, although the conditions were still difficult. My Mother had insisted on returning, saying she could no longer cope with a young baby and a five-year-old in the cramped, crowded house of our friends, who were very much inconvenienced, which made my parents feel bad, although the Powell's never complained. Our landlord was very helpful and sympathetic. He arranged for a tarpaulin for the roof, the windows were boarded up, the front door nailed up, leaving us access to the house via the back door. The kitchen door was smashed in, but only where the glass panels had been, it was still in its frame, so the top half was boarded up, which meant we had one door which was serviceable. Although the lights had to be on all day and at times the tarpaulin leaked, making buckets and bowls necessary, we did have water, gas and electricity, best of all, we were together. In time, the major repairs were done, the roof re-slated and windows replaced. Heaven knows how the authorities managed it. They must have been working day and night. The scale of the damage in Liverpool was immense and what with that and the shortage of labour and materials, the problems they had to overcome were horrendous yet they did it and should be honoured, along with the other men and women who kept the home front going. The city centre was devastated. We went to see it. Familiar landmarks were now nothing more than heaps of rubble, the stores we had shopped in, obliterated. One portion of Lewis' building still stood amidst the wreckage, at least one man had been killed on firewatching duty. It was an appalling scene, hard to take in, the destruction was so great, but somehow, life went on. The raids continued, but we weren't hit again, more anti-aircraft guns were moved into our district and of course, we spent many nights in the shelter. The docks continued to function, heaven knows how those marvellous men achieved that, as the area all around there was flattened, causing large numbers of casualties and making thousands homeless, the suffering there was enormous. Tom came home in August. He was in Bomber Command, having passed every exam with high marks and now he wore his wings on his uniform. He had to fly 30 missions before taking his pilot's course and when he came home that weekend, he'd flown six, as wireless operator / airgunner. On the Saturday he went back to base, having spent a few days with us. Mum and I waved to him aIl the way down the street, she holding Diane in her arms. When he got to the corner, he leaned back to avoid the privets in the corner garden, which were blocking his view. He waved, smiling, then he was gone. That was the last time we saw him. Two weeks later, he was shot down, on his tenth mission, coming back from a raid on Frankfurt. He was a kind, healthy, fun loving young man, two months past his 21st birthday, bonny, clever, always singing. The neighbours called him Bing Crosby. Of course he was awkward at times, teasing Ismay and Irene, being secretive about his latest girlfriend, until he admitted it was serious, although he never brought her home. Ironically, that weekend, they had planned to get engaged. Mum and I once again happened to be outside the house when the telegram boy came riding down the road and she said he must be bringing a telegram from Tom, to tell her what time he would be arriving, because he and Edith were going to choose the ring. Then she read the telegram. There was the most terrible cry and she rushed into the house, carrying Diane. He would never be coming home again, our lives would never be the same again. The telegram boy rode away, carrying the end of my childhood on the pillion. You cannot describe the grief such a loss brings, there's a great black hole for the rest of your days which can't be filled, how could it be? As I write this page, the 65th anniversary of that day is only four days away, yet I find it as painful as ever, because it was as is, a kind of maiming. Each time I write the card for his flowers, when I'm able to attend the service at the Squadron memorial in Lincoln, I write the same message which I have on the little cross the British Legion place in the Garden of Remembrance at Westminster Abbey on November 11 reads: “A wound time cannot heal.” And it can't. I have his name inscribed on one of the pipes of the great Willis organ again at Lincoln Cathedral, the opportunity arose when the organ was renovated. I have also had a book at the Cathedral Library dedicated to his memory, it's a 17th Century edition of a collection of newspaper articles. His name is also in the Book of Remembrance, in the RAF memorial chapels at York Minster and St Clements Panes in The Strand, so if any of you ever go to one of these places, you may want to look his entry up. We met Edith the next day. Ismay and Irene had to go and find her, we knew what road she lived in, but not the number, so they had to knock at every house until they found the right one. She and her best friend came to see us, remaining friends for years afterwards, whilst we waited and hoped. "Missing presumed killed” the telegram said, but one of the four man crew hadn't been found and it's human nature to cling to any shred of hope. We grew to love both those young women, Edith, who should have been our sister in law and Gladys, her friend. When France was liberated, the last hope went and later Edith married a soldier, Sheila was one of her bridesmaids. When it first happened, I couldn't really believe it, but as the months went by and I understood that he was never coming back, I gave up asking God for his return. I have never been able to accept it and now, in 2006, when I see what has become of our country, salt is being poured into the wound, something which, I suspect, is happening too many in the same position. The next upheaval involved our school. The Luftwaffe dropped two mines on the road in which it stood. One of them was a sea mine, which mercifully failed to explode, had it done so, we learned, the whole street would have been destroyed. The second mine did go off it blew the back of our senior block out, as well as causing tremendous damage to all the houses in that street. Some friends of ours lived there and they lost one of their brothers, he was a Warden and was outside when the mine exploded. Not only that, their gorgeous Alsatian, Major, lost an eye and afterwards, when we visited, he used to sit beside us, watching us out of his remaining eye, as much as to say "Well, what are you all looking at, haven't you ever seen a one eyed dog before?” So we had to have emergency schooling. A few of the Mums, whose houses were intact, on other streets, opened up their homes and we went in three mornings a week, I think between 10 and 12.30, to continue with the main subjects. It was a novelty of course, but there wasn't any messing about. We were 10-years-old and due to sit the scholarship for the grammar school the next year, so we had to work. It was the second year of disrupted lessons due to air raids, but it never interfered with our progress, the teachers just ploughed on. Liverpool 1942 My Mum and Dad tried very hard to find our what had happened to Tom, clinging to the hope that the one member of the crew unaccounted for might be him, that he might still be alive somewhere. They got in touch with the Red Cross, who were involved in tracing people lost in Europe. Both combatants and civilians. Mrs Churchill was part of the organisation in Britain and she appealed for funds for this work, so I decided to try and do something to help. I asked my friends to help too and we came up with the idea of putting on three little concerts, which I would devise. We would charge our neighbours three pence each, so we set about choosing songs and working out dance routines. My friend, Ruth's Mum let us use their front room (they lived opposite us) and we had their Morrison shelter for our stage. The Morrison was an indoor shelter which took up half their front room, it had mesh sides and the back and front were mesh too, but it had a sturdy metal roof and stood about three feet high. It made an ideal little stage. This was my one and only venture at producing a show, but the neighbours were real stalwarts. They paid over their three pences, enduring our childish efforts with childish enthusiasm, applauding and encouraging, which we thought was wonderful. We raised seven shillings and sixpence — a reasonable sum then. My Dad got me a postal order and I sent it off to Mrs Churchill's fund, explaining the reason for our efforts and hoping someone might be helped. To our delight, we got a letter back, thanking us for our contribution. It was typed, of course, but Mrs Churchill had signed it. If only I had that letter now, it would go into an archive, but I don't know what became of it. Of course, we didn't realise its historical value then, but nevertheless it has remained a particularly special memory. I failed the scholarship, which disappointed the family, but pleased me. I was happy at Roscoe and I loved the lessons, particularly geography, history and English. We had a superb English teacher (She was Welsh!) who inspired and encouraged us and we took part in lots of drama, giving me a love of theatre for life. Then, in the Summer, another colossal blow. Our greatly loved Grandfather died, our second bereavement in 10 months. I don't think he ever got over Tom's loss, he just went downhill afterwards and died in June. We weren't told what his illness was, but it was absolutely terrible to lose him, he was such a loving Grandfather, a real character and very well known in Anfield.I wasn’t allowed to go to his funeral instead I had to take care of Sheila and Diane. However, as the cortege drove up the street where I had been born and where our Grandparents lived, and I watched it slowly move away, the full impact of losing him hit me. I let go of the pram and started to run after the cars, screaming in hysterics. Luckily the neighbours grabbed the pram and two others caught me, hugging me and trying to calm me down. I had known them all my life and their presence was something solid and at a moment when I felt I was going to lose everyone I loved. In September, there was a happier event, when Irene married Charlie Minahan, who was in the Army. He had been a scout and when we came out of St Oswald's Church, in Old Swan, a scout band walked in front of their car, playing all the way to the main road. Sheila and I were very impressed with this and all the people who stood watching. There was just a small reception at our house, which was fully repaired by then, but Mum managed to put on a reasonable little wedding breakfast as well as providing us all with a wedding outfit, courtesy of all Dad's clothing coupons, I suppose. Ismay was Chief Bridesmaid and Charlie's sister Molly, together with Edith made up the wedding group. The next major thing was also a change from all the awful events of the last few years. For the first time we heard the names El Alamein and Montgomery. Dad said there had been a great battle in the desert and our armies had defeated the German Army and their general Rommel. For the first time in three years, the whole mood and atmosphere became less grim and we no longer lived in fear of constant raids. The first turning point had come.
Part 3 Liverpool 1942 My Mum and Dad tried very hard to find our what had happened to Tom, clinging to the hope that the one member of the crew unaccounted for might be him, that he might still be alive somewhere. They got in touch with the Red Cross, who were involved in tracing people lost in Europe. Both combatants and civilians. Mrs Churchill was part of the organisation in Britain and she appealed for funds for this work, so I decided to try and do something to help. I asked my friends to help too and we came up with the idea of putting on three little concerts, which I would devise. We would charge our neighbours three pence each, so we set about choosing songs and working out dance routines. My friend, Ruth's Mum let us use their front room (they lived opposite us) and we had their Morrison shelter for our stage. The Morrison was an indoor shelter which took up half their front room, it had mesh sides and the back and front were mesh too, but it had a sturdy metal roof and stood about three feet high. It made an ideal little stage. This was my one and only venture at producing a show, but the neighbours were real stalwarts. They paid over their three pences, enduring our childish efforts with childish enthusiasm, applauding and encouraging, which we thought was wonderful. We raised seven shillings and sixpence — a reasonable sum then. My Dad got me a postal order and I sent it off to Mrs Churchill's fund, explaining the reason for our efforts and hoping someone might be helped. To our delight, we got a letter back, thanking us for our contribution. It was typed, of course, but Mrs Churchill had signed it. If only I had that letter now, it would go into an archive, but I don't know what became of it. Of course, we didn't realise its historical value then, but nevertheless it has remained a particularly special memory. I failed the scholarship, which disappointed the family, but pleased me. I was happy at Roscoe and I loved the lessons, particularly geography, history and English. We had a superb English teacher (She was Welsh!) who inspired and encouraged us and we took part in lots of drama, giving me a love of theatre for life. Then, in the Summer, another colossal blow. Our greatly loved Grandfather died, our second bereavement in 10 months. I don't think he ever got over Tom's loss, he just went downhill afterwards and died in June. We weren't told what his illness was, but it was absolutely terrible to lose him, he was such a loving Grandfather, a real character and very well known in Anfield.I wasn’t allowed to go to his funeral instead I had to take care of Sheila and Diane. However, as the cortege drove up the street where I had been born and where our Grandparents lived, and I watched it slowly move away, the full impact of losing him hit me. I let go of the pram and started to run after the cars, screaming in hysterics. Luckily the neighbours grabbed the pram and two others caught me, hugging me and trying to calm me down. I had known them all my life and their presence was something solid and at a moment when I felt I was going to lose everyone I loved. In September, there was a happier event, when Irene married Charlie Minahan, who was in the Army. He had been a scout and when we came out of St Oswald's Church, in Old Swan, a scout band walked in front of their car, playing all the way to the main road. Sheila and I were very impressed with this and all the people who stood watching. There was just a small reception at our house, which was fully repaired by then, but Mum managed to put on a reasonable little wedding breakfast as well as providing us all with a wedding outfit, courtesy of all Dad's clothing coupons, I suppose. Ismay was Chief Bridesmaid and Charlie's sister Molly, together with Edith made up the wedding group. The next major thing was also a change from all the awful events of the last few years. For the first time we heard the names El Alamein and Montgomery. Dad said there had been a great battle in the desert and our armies had defeated the German Army and their general Rommel. For the first time in three years, the whole mood and atmosphere became less grim and we no longer lived in fear of constant raids. The first turning point had come.
Part 4. Liverpool, 1943 Life became less fraught as the raids eased off, but of course, all the other problems remained. However, the great thing was, the war had begun to turn in our favour after El Alamein and we weren't in danger of being invaded. All Ismay and Irene's friends still came to the house, everyone in uniform except Rex, Ismay's boyfriend, who had been invalided out of the Army on health grounds. He worked at the Ministry of Food, where she met him, the house was usually full of young people in the evenings, they came to chat and mix together before they went off to the pub or dance hall, so for a few hours they could enjoy themselves. Steve, Tom's closest pal, was shot down and taken prisoner in Germany whilst Joe, the third member of their little group, was taken prisoner by the Japanese. The Far East was never in the news so much, so it was mainly the European war we heard about, but the poor men who were sent out to fight the Japanese suffered the most terrible conditions, which have never been properly acknowledged since. I never heard what happened to Joe, for some reason, I don't even know if he ever survived that unspeakable savagery our men had to suffer at the hands of the Japanese. Edith became an ambulance driver after Tom went missing and she always looked so smart in her uniform. She came to see us every week and was always cheerful, I think she made an effort to try and cheer my Mum and Dad and her visits were always very welcome. Radio was our main entertainment and source of news. I loved the concerts and ITMA when Tommy Handley and his cast made us all laugh, in fact, it was surprising just how much humour there was about. There was a fantastic spirit in those years, which had to be experienced because I don't think words can truly explain, but it was absolutely wonderful and now, in 2006, I understand what a massive privilege it was to live through them. That may seem strange, in view of the suffering and loss, nevertheless it remains true. On my first visit, I took a jar of earth from our garden and put it on the little plot, below the headstone: a tiny bit of England. That year gave us the so long awaited hope of an end to the war. There was still tremendous sacrifice, effort and grief to be faced, but there was light at the end of the tunnel. At school, our Headmistress, Miss Whittingham, entered three of us in our class for a new scholarship, just introduced, the 13 Plus. She told us she didn't expect us to gain a place, but thought it would be an interesting exercise for the school and us. All three of us passed, which meant leaving to go to grammar school, Queen Mary School for Girls. I dreaded leaving Roscoe, but my parents insisted I take up my place. Dad bought me a new bike, very plain and basic, but much prized, so I was able to cycle the couple of miles to school when the weather was fit. The uniform and extras must have cost quite a bit but as usual, Dad came up with the money and coupons. We weren't having raids by then, so it was safe to travel to school with little traffic. We didn't go anywhere, apart from visiting relations and friends and going to the cinema, but it was marvellous to be free of the fear of attack. The obligatory gas masks, of course, remained with us. When we went to visit our Nana, we would often see long columns of tanks, trundling down the road. They made a tremendous noise and ruined the road surface, but they were on their way to the docks to be shipped out to our armies, so we were very, very glad to see them.
Part 5. Liverpool, 1944 June 6, D Day. Mother in tears, as the news bulletins announced the invasion of Europe. Somewhere at the back of my mind; a little hope, that we would be granted a miracle. We were glued to the wireless. Next day, Ruth's Mum ran out into the street, holding a telegram, she was screaming hysterically Ruth's Dad had been wounded as soon as he drove the lorry onto the beach. The neighbours had to run after her and take her inside. Thankfully, his injury, was not life threatening, but when he came home on sick leave, some weeks later, his face and neck were heavily bandaged down one side and he wore the bright blue uniform all the convalescents were issued with. As the liberation of France proceeded, hope faded. Then a photograph arrived. The Father of the pilot of the plane that Tom had been flying on that last mission, had taken the photograph. I can only assume that he had been with the Forces in some capacity, but he had not been able to locate the graves of the crew. Our photo showed a wooden cross, painted white, with two names, Tom's being one of them. One grave. I have learned since that the plane did not come down in Abbeville, where the headstone now is, but in Belgium and that two headstones sharing one plot, means no remains lie there. However, I have twice visited the Cemetery at Abbeville, kept so beautifully by the War Graves Commission, who take care of the section in which the war graves lie. We don't know where their lives ended, but this peaceful place, in Picardy, quite near the site of Agincourt, as it happens, is nevertheless a beautiful spot in which to remember them. Liverpool 1945 We heard about the dreadful flying bombs in the south, but we were largely spared that horror. I believe a few did reach the north, but we were probably out of range and there was no renewed onslaught on us. Buildings in the city centre were patched up where possible, docks and railways somehow contrived to operate and people got on with their lives as they always do. During these years there were some well known catchphrases going around "Business as Usual" scrawled on heavily damaged shops and business premises. “Britain can take it!” Careless Talk Costs Lives” and the one that became our best known: “Put That Light Out! " On March 10, our first Nephew was born, Anthony. Irene had come back to live with us after her marriage and Charlie had been posted away, so we now had another new baby in the family. There were seven of us and Diane became an Aunty at four-years-old. May 8: We went to bed as usual, then suddenly, we heard a commotion, voices, doors opening and someone shouting hysterically “The war's over! The war's over!" Sheila and I jumped out of bed and rushed downstairs to join Mum and Dad. The dark street was in uproar and we dressed as fast as we could, rushed outside and found the whole neighbourhood doing the same. Mum was commandeered to play the piano, which she continued to do for the rest of the night, apart from a few little breaks. A huge bonfire was lit, where four roads on our estate met and a stone's throw from the embankment, where the burning train had been trapped. Now we had another fire and this one was more than welcome. We gathered round it, singing, shouting and dancing, beside ourselves with excitement. Someone, somehow, had produced a few fireworks, only heaven knows where from and this time we didn't mind the little bangs. It isn't really possible for words to convey the euphoria which swept among us on that night, a night which would be, for all of us present, the greatest hours of our lives. We had survived. In Liverpool, we had endured 68 air raids and in common with all our major cities, were a sorry sight. But we had come through. The people of these islands found the courage to battle on, when it seemed hopeless, but it had taken a dreadful toll. There were tragic gaps, never to be filled, wounds, both physical and emotional, some of which have never healed. Tom's great pal, Steve, returned from Stalag Luft 3 a broken young man. His physical injuries would, in time, improve, but the psychological damage would not. He was in Stalag Luft 3 because he had twice before escaped other camps and those who tried were sent to Luft 3. He took part in the mass escape and was one of the 12 who survived the massacre, when 50 were shot. When we saw him again he was in a wheelchair and it seemed strange to stand beside him and find his face on a level with Sheila's and mine. Heaven only knows what he must have suffered, but his smile was as lovely as it always had been and he was back with us. I have tried to remember and set down as much as I can, to try to convey to you, our descendants, what it felt like to live through those momentous times. Of course, it is a very sketchy and inadequate account, but it might help you to learn how much was given, in order to preserve our freedom and way of life. You need to know and to treasure, the fantastic spirit which brought us victory in the end. During the war one of our most famous heroes was Wing Commander Guy Gibson, VC who led the Dambusters Raid. I find now, in 2006, that few know about him, or his exploits, which doesn't surprise me. However, during the course of our political battle in recent years, Frank and I had the privilege of working with one of the most active members of our group, Anne Hilton. I was absolutely thrilled when she quietly told me, after a few years, that she is related to Guy Gibson! Her Mum was his cousin and went out with him, despite being forbidden to do so! This is the modern equivalent of working with a relation of Nelson. We have become firm friends and I buy the beautiful cards she produces, to raise funds for our political activities. It was an especially moving moment, a few years ago, when she and I stood together on Remembrance Day, during the two minutes silence. We were leafleting in Preston for one of our colleagues, who was standing in the By-Election there and we found a quiet corner in which to stand, to remember our own particular menfolk. I would never have dreamt, during the war, when Guy was such a hero, that I would share a moment like that with his kinswoman. It is my hope that one day you will pass these pages on to your families, as I do now to you, with my love. Joan Worrall
