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My First Orange 鈥� thanks to the Lutfwaffe

Oranges, along with bunches of bananas, were a mythical fruit, seen only as pictures in greengrocers windows, carrying the allure of something unknown, unobtainable but obviously highly desirable. I could not remember ever having seen a real orange.

It was early summer 1944, I know that because the incident that occurred was related to the forthcoming invasion of France and was probably quite close to that event.

I was six years old and was living in Brixham, on the S. Devon coast, with my mother and sister who was three years older than me. My father was with the Eighth Army in Italy and had been away from England, except for a brief time after he was evacuated from Dunkirk, since the beginning of the war. Up to that time my experience of the war was a mosaic of memories that formed no coherent pattern other than an understanding received from the significant adults in my life 鈥渢hat it was to do with the war鈥�. We had Belgian fishermen who talked a strange way; air raid warning sirens that at night meant a night spent under the stairs until the all clear; the sound of the bombers on their way to bomb the docks and city of Plymouth; the occasional bomb dropped on Brixham, whether by accident or design I wouldn鈥檛 know, but we kids would spend the next day searching for bomb fragments; the Canadian soldiers in their barracks in Higher Brixham, waiting as I now know for D-Day, but then, good for chewing gum and sweets.

Prior to the invasion, ports on the Devon coast were collection points for a vast array of invasion craft and Brixham, as a fishing port, was crammed full with all sorts of boats, barges, landing craft and the like. We kids spent much of our time watching what was coming and going. Naturally, this activity was also of great interest to the Germans across the Channel, and at regular intervals German fighter bombers would sweep in low across the water, bomb and machine-gun the harbour then, guns still firing, strafe the town as they turned to wave-hop their way back to France. We called them 鈥渢ip and run鈥� raiders.

On the day in question, the weather was fine and a group of four of us children were walking up the hill from the main road on our way home from school; myself, my sister, an older boy called Neilson and another girl about my age. As we walked we became aware of the distinctive sound of a German aeroplane and stopped to see if we could see it. The sound became louder and with it, you could hear the sound of the guns but I don鈥檛 recall being afraid because I didn鈥檛 know there was anything to be afraid of. Suddenly we saw the plane. I was flying low and straight up the hill towards us, guns still firing! With great presence of mind, Nielson bundled us all unceremoniously into the hedge, an act I remember well as I fell out and hit my head on the road.

As suddenly as it appeared the plane disappeared over the ridge of the hill and the sound of its engines rapidly faded as it hightailed it back to France. The incident was over in seconds but we children lay in a heap in the hedge, bewildered by what had happened. As we lay there, a woman ran out from one of the houses nearby, clearly distressed and upset, not knowing whether or not any of us had been injured or killed by the machine guns. She established that we were all intact and unharmed and then shepherded us into her house where she gave us each a glass of milk. She then went into her larder, reappeared and went to the sink (we were in the kitchen) where she proceeded to peel an orange. I was fixated; I forgot all about what had just happened and could only look at this magical fruit in her hand. She carefully broke it into four quarters and gave us each a piece in our hands. How do I describe this first taste? I cannot, I only know it lived up to expectation and ever since, oranges have been a reminder of an important day in my life.

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