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I was 6 years old when World War 2 began. Evacuated to Dorking, Surrey in 1939. Periodically when the bombing quietened down I returned to London to be with my Mum. As soon as the bombing recommenced in earnest, I would be sent back to Dorking. The following story is one that took place on one of my visits home. I have written it in present tense as it gives more sense of the terrors of that night. Names of neighbours etc., have been changed for obvious reasons. I was 10 years old at this time.

Air Raid.
There goes the siren again. That awful wailing sound that strikes fear into the hearts of so many and never fails to send cold shivers up and down my spine. We grab bags and coats left ready by the door. Then we are running. Running to the shelter at the end of the road. Neighbours pour out of their houses to join us as the wailing continues. Searchlights rake the night sky, criss-crossing each other in their attempt to pin point the enemy planes on their deadly mission.
The wailing dies away. The familiar dreaded drone of enemy planes reaches us as we stumble breathlessly into the shelter. The shelter holds approximately twenty to thirty people but more are often crammed in.Older men and women of all ages, clutching bags containing their few treasured possessions. Rent Books, Ration Books, Purse, Insurance Policies and so on. Flasks of tea, packets of sandwiches, prepared in advance. Young mothers' with harassed, worried faces. Babies, and frightened children, myself included. Cross and irritable at having been snatched from their warm beds yet again to sit in sem-darkness in this cold, damp ill-lit shelter.
We make ourselves as comfortable as possible, squashed together like sardines on slatted wooden seats. It's quiet outside now. The women begin to talk. Grumble about yet another disturbed night. The rationing. The shortages. The endless queues. Anything to take their minds off the hours ahead. Some of the men begin a game of cards. The older children sit on the concrete floor and play with small toys brought in a pocket or Mum's bag.
The droning comes again. Nearer this time. Heads are raised to listen. Ears cocked. The guns begin, trying to shoot down the planes. An explosion in the distance. Another, then another. Soon there are too many to count.
'Sounds like Deptford's copping it again', mutters one old man. 'Poor beggars 'ave really
'ad a bashing this week.
Everyone agrees and sympathy goes out in waves to the people in that area, together with a guilty sense of relief that 'it's someone else, not us.
The noise continues for the next hour or so. Satisfied there seems no immediate danger, most of the inhabitants of the shelter, begin to relax. Hot tea and sandwiches are passed around. Children begin to squabble in the confined space. They are bored and tired. Somehow, room is made on the benches for the smaller ones to curl up and sleep. The Warden pops his head in the door and declares cheefully. 'All okay out here folks but looks like Deptford's getting it again.'
'Just what we were saying' says Joe from No 40. 'Want a cuppa Fred?
'Ta. Don't mind if I do. It's a bit parky out there tonight.'
Fred removes his tin hat and accepts the tea gratefully. 'Ah! just the job. Can't beat a good ..............' The rest of the sentence is lost as a gigantic explosion jolts us out of our seats. The ground around us shakes as though an earthquake had struck. Fred drops the cup. 'Oh my Gawd! Where's me 'at. He grabs it, jams it on his head and rushes outside. Before anyone else has time to speak, the noise is all around us.
Children scream, burying their heads in their mother's laps. Comforting arms surround them. Mum holds me close as I tremble but I feel her trembling too and see the fear in her eyes. Anxious faces all around. Lips moving soundlessly as though praying. Perhaps they are. It seems impossible the bombs can be falling so close and not hit us. Some of the women cry silently, tears running down their cheeks. Anxious husbands pat their hands in comfort. 'Don't worry old girl. It'll take more than Jerry to finish us off,' but there is no real conviction in their voices.
Our world is alive with noise now. The screeching and exploding of bombs and the bang, bang, bang of gunfire. Fire Engines, and shouting outside. Inside, white strained faces. Clenched hands. Even the children are quiet now, trembling with fear.
Eventually, Joe cannot stand the strain any longer. 'I'm going to see what's 'appening out there' he declares. He disappears though the door. We wait, silent and anxious. He reappears white and shaken. The 'ole ruddy streets alight,' he announces. It's like daylight out there. The Warden says the Bus Depot and the Rose and Crown in Warner Road 'ave been flattened and loads of 'ouses too. Warner Roads runs parallel to Valmar Road where we live.
'Oh my Gawd' says Mrs. Cox from No 32. Are our 'ouses all right Joe?'
'Still standing so far Gel, but there's a lot of damage by the look of it and them ruddy incendaries 'aint 'elping. The fireman are doing their best but as fast as they put one lot out, another daffy comes down. They're working flat out poor devils. Jerry 'ain't 'aving no trouble seeing where to drop his bloomin' bombs that's for sure'
'That ruddy 'Itler' replies Mrs Cox. I'd give 'im what for if I could get me 'ands on 'im.
A murmer of agreement goes through the shelter. Then silence inside as the noise outside intensifies. Each one occupied with his or her private thoughts and fears. Mum and I just cling to each other tightly. Minutes seem like hours. Hours like days. Our silence broken only by an occasion cry or expletive as another bomb rocks the ground around us.
At long last the commotion outside receds. We wait breathlessly. Is it over? Have they gone? At last the 'All Clear' sounds. Sighs of relief all around. We gather up bags, babies, children, then stumble out into the dawn. Breathe in the smoke laden, dust-ridden air and look around. The tired, gimed-faced fireman are packing up, their movements weary with exhaustion. One manages a smile as we appear.
Mornin' all. Rough night eh? Never mind, you've still got 'omes to go to even if they 'ave been knocked about a bit.
'Yeah, thanks to you and your lot. You all deserve a bloomin' medal' says Joe. We add out thanks to his but the fireman shrugs it off, saying 'It's all in a nights work mate'.
We look at our street in horror, tinged with relief. Holes in the road. Doors and windows missing. Shattered roof tiles, broken wood and glass everywhere. Holes in the roofs where the incendiary bombs went through. Blackened window frames from the fires, indicating the likely damage inside, but yes - still standing.
'I 'ope the gas and water is still on' says Mrs. Reed. We're gonna need plenty of both to make a good hot cuppa and plenty of hot water to clear this lot up.
We pick our way gingerly over the rubble and broken glass to our homes and give both silent and voluble thanks. We have survived the night's terror and destruction. Our homes still stand .......just. We are alive. Until the next time.

NOTE; The girl I sat next to in the school I attended while back in London was not so fortunate. Her name was Ivy. She, along with her family, lived in Warner Road. Their Anderson shelter received a direct hit in that night's raid. None survived.

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