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My home was 26 Clifton St. where I lived with mother and father. During the day I went to school at Ayresome St. Juniors. Along the way my friends and I picked up shrapnel,the residue of the previous night's air-raid. At lunch and in the evenings we visited bombsites and listened to stories of how people had died in the air-raids'

That night, 25th July 1942, the sirens went as usual. My mother and I went to the communal shelter which was situated in the basement of the Co-op Emporium.We took with us the family jewels which consisted of; a small attache case containing precious documents, mother's handbag and a multi-coloured,patchwork his station being the church door of St. Aidan's.

The shelter was furnished with double bunkbeds. People took with them flasks of tea and, easy to eat, food. Often we stayed only one or two hours and the all-clesr would sound. We'd go home but the alert would go again and we were back down there.

This night seemed to be following the usual pattern though it was taking a little longer for the all-clear. Suddenly there were a series of tremendous bangs. I believe I counted five. A man on the top bunk beside rolled off and landed on the floor. There were screams and cries from women. Fear and panic consumed us all. I couldn't see much but people were shouting that the staircases were blocked with rubble. Our escape from the basement was sealed.We were trapped. No one was injured as far, as I could tell.

Several hours passed. The panic that was felt at the outset subsided and people were quietly waiting. It was said that men were trying to move the rubble from the staircase at the Tennyson St. side.I learned later that people were digging down to us.

Eventually we shephered out and moved into concrete shelters in Tennyson St. We were in the first one. As we came out I became aware of a peculiar atmosphere. An orange light suffused the night sky - the chimney pots were all aglow with the light -there was a great roaring noise and everyone was looking upwards. For the first time I realised that the bombs had started a fire.And what a fire.

In the shelter I was terribly thirsty and I asked for a drink. Everyone was assking for a drink. A bucket of water with some cups was brought in. A man at the entrance started to drink from yhe pail. There were shouts of "take it from him or he'll drink it all". I'm quite sure that he would have been punched had they not wrestled it from him.

Sometime later we were allowed out and mother and I went to see our house. WE got to the corner where the church and Portman St. met.It was now nearly broad daylight.My mother started to cry as she looked at our home.All the windows were blown out and the roof was missing. And where was my dad? Up until that moment I hadn't given a thought as to where he might be. Later we discovered,through his partner, that at the time of the explosion Bob was standing in the church doorway. As the blast came it blew off the church doors and my dad was carried into the church on the back of them. My mother wryly voiced the thought that this was the first time dad had been to church since they were married.

The Victoria Hall was the local headquaters of the C.W.S. As I remember it was a four storey building.It was still standing but its interior was entirely engulfed in flames. By this time we had all encroached on the blaze.The heat was intense and the firemem had given up trying to put out the fire. As I watched I saw a molten river emerging from beneath some roller doors at the back of the stores. It was a flaming,bubbling tottent jams and syrups running into the street. This, almost immediately, was followed by a sight that is indelibly etched on my memory. The complete side of the store on the Clifton St. side began to tumble. We all ran like billyho as the wall came down. There was a great crash and a massive burst of sparks. The blazing core of the building was fully exposed.

Our house was uninhabitable,or so we thought.My mother and I were directed to Ayresome St. schools where we were to stay for the next few days. We slept on mattresses on the schoolroom floors. By chance I found myself in my classroom and stranger when the door opened in walked Miss Douglas my class teacher.

My father refused to leave the house except to go to work.He was a dockworker and when not at work he slept in the back bedroom. He was there while workmen covered the roof with cellulose paper to keep out the wet.It bothered the workmen more than it bothered him. His reason for staying,he said,wasw to prevent looting.

It was some days before we could go home. What was left of the Victoria Hall was just heap of smoking bricks and in Linthorpe Rd. there were great gaping holes.

Subsequently I heard there had been five deaths. One macabre story that was circulated said that the man at Armstrong's garage had had his head blown off and it was found further along Linthorpe Rd. I've not been able to ascertain its truth.

I'm now 72yr.old.As I think about the events of that night more andmore images come flooding back. Everything is cloaked by sensations - the heat of the fire - the smell of the burning can seem to fill my nose - the tickling touch of the eiderdown round my shoulders - the sight of such widespread destruction, all bring back a realism to things I thought I had forgotten.

I trust that whomever it is that reads this account of the events on the 25th July 1942 can find it useful to be included in the archive.

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