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We were creeping along in Dad鈥檚 Morris 8, probably up the hill out of Horse Shoe Pass, nr Llangollen, in a long line of cars heading back to Brum, August 1939. At the end of a glorious two weeks camping on 鈥淕olden Sands鈥�, Rhyl. In the rear window of the car in front, an ominous notice, roughly drawn 鈥� 鈥淎NG ON ITLER, LET鈥橲 GET 鈥極ME FIRST鈥�. Two weeks later, the 鈥榩honey war鈥� started, 7陆 years old and learning new tricks already, how to put sticky tape across windows to save blasted glass flying around, helping Dad dig a 7鈥�0鈥� x 7鈥�0鈥� hole to put the Anderson Shelter in (拢1.00 each from the Council). Filling old potato sacks with soil for Sand Bags, learning to fit the awful smelling respirator (Gas Mask). Mom eventually joining the Air Raid Warden鈥檚 post in the Basement of the Methodist Church next door. Dad joining the Home Guard. The terror mounting for all, but us kids still playing with the 鈥楥igarette Cards鈥� from Dad鈥檚 Woodbines, now sporting 鈥楢ir Raid Precautions鈥� instead of Football and Cricket stars. How to fix the Blackout Curtains; how to cover hand torches and car headlamps with black tape, so only the lower half shone through. What signals the Wardens used in case of imminent raids or gas 鈥� which sound from the Air Raid Siren was 鈥楾he Alert鈥� or 鈥楾he All Clear鈥� for me, the 鈥楢lert鈥� was the second most terrifying sound I ever heard, for suddenly, the 鈥楶honey War鈥� was over, the German Bombers (with their unmistakable, unsynchronised throbbing engines) practised for months in the Spanish War, Poland, Norway and Holland, were now over us.

For about 8 months in 1940 we never slept in our own beds, I was in charge of the 鈥楽helter鈥�, for Dad was off on Fire Piquet at his works in Lichfield Road, Aston. Mom was next door at the Wardens Post (only just over the fence, though) and my eldest brother John, 6 years older, was away with the whole Central Grammar School, evacuated to Griffithstown in Monmouthshire. Dad helped guard the Barrage Balloon Site in Perry Hall Park on his weekend 鈥楬ome Guard鈥� bit. He had also dug out and fitted our neighbour鈥檚 Anderson in their garden, Mr Pearson not physically able, and their eldest son in the forces, the three young sisters too scared to go into the hole, it was never used (other than the teenaged Ronnie finding it a perfect place to grow mushrooms which he sold down the market to finance his racing 鈥� greyhound). Our underground world was lit by a candle in a triangular shaped lantern made of metal with glass sides. To this day, the smell of candle fat smoke turns me physically sick, (spoiling many a posh meal out for me, or celebration candles near food at parties!). Any wonder that we returned to bed-wetting, and my luck again 鈥� the bottom bunk in the shelter so I could be first out in an emergency to help the others. Will I ever forget the first time I thought the shelter was leaking, woken uncomfortably by a 鈥榙rip, drip, drip!

For all this, we didn鈥檛 realise how lucky we were in Kingstanding, on the peripheral of the Bomb Target. Only 5 bombs (H.E) fell across Kingstanding, one nearest was in Hurlingham Road, about 500 yards away. (Strange that 48 years later, I find that the five year old daughter who survived that bomb, now lives just around the corner 300 yards away!) One week of that year was unique. Dad鈥檚 brother was a long serving Naval Rating, his family of Nodens lived in Devonport, Plymouth, and when Plymouth took their 鈥楶asting鈥� Auntie Gwen brought her five children up to stay with us (to avoid the Bombing!). They soon went home again. Apart from an overcrowded shelter, they like most of the rest of Britain, had been mislead by Mr Churchill鈥檚 decree that raids on Birmingham were to be reported as 鈥淪omewhere in the Midlands鈥�. * He did not want The Gerry鈥檚 to know how near we were to annihilation, with 75% of war munitions being produced in Brum. (*read Carl Chinn鈥檚 鈥楤rum Undaunted鈥�).

We heard on the wireless (This is the 麻豆官网首页入口 Home Service here is the news, and this is Alva Liddell reading it 鈥� or Philip Latham, or one of the other familiar voices), when it was Coventry, or Plymouth or Liverpool the night before.

I remember still the Coventry Blitz, we came up out of our shelter, wondering 鈥榳ho was 鈥渃opping it鈥� tonight鈥�. The fearful noise, and red glow in the sky were clear to us in Kingstanding; the searchlights and Anti-Aircraft shells bursting an awesome sight, but by then, with daylight raids and more than one 鈥榓lert鈥� each night we were becoming a bit blas茅, and rather stupidly coming out to collect fallen shrapnel, to show off at school 鈥� 鈥渨ho鈥檚 got the biggest piece?鈥� To avoid Herr Goerring鈥檚 men pinpointing all the Anti Aircraft Gun Sites, a new scheme was introduced with a Gun on a huge trailer, towed by a 5 ton truck, would stop in a different place, drop down the hydraulic anchors, and blast away without warning. The night they stopped right outside the Methodist Church next door gave us a real awakener! Our shrapnel collecting game became even more stupid (on hindsight) for we now were standing out, watching for the tell-tale red hot lumps arcing down, dashing off to find it before 鈥榠t went out鈥�, and then the 鈥榙are鈥� to see who would pick it up first, and thus claim it. Following the three nights of raids of 19th, 20th 22nd November 1940, when the main water supply from Frankley Reservoir was hit and most of Brum was without water, we found that our side of Kings Road (the odd numbers) were without, but the other side was provided by the South Staffordshire Board. For the next few weeks we fetched buckets from friends across the road, and fresh drinking water from the "Auxiliary Fire Service鈥� (AFS) Emergency Tanks, which were towed to and left on appropriate corners. It was later disclosed that if Goering had sent his bombers on 23rd November, Brum would have been down and out, with no water to quell the fires.

It was about this time that Dad would walk home from Fire Piquet, across New Town Row, or New John Street, for all the buses were still parking away from the more central garages (in College Road by the Lucas鈥檚 Sports ground). He was shocked, tired and even more quiet than usual, from the sights and sounds of devastation, cries of folks trapped in rubble-covered basements. It was years before he spoke of this to us kids, or of his experiences at Ypres and being gassed, and then after recovery in a Belgium hospital doing two years with Army of Occupation in Germany, only returning home in 1921.

Dad鈥檚 job was as a Millwright, for a firm who imported South African Lathes and heavy machinery. Peacetime, he would have to clean off all the protective grease and packaging from the sea trip, test and prepare for use, then load the lorry and deliver (and sometimes install) to the customer鈥檚 factory. In wartime he was often called out in emergencies to night shift factories with bomb-damaged or other broken down machinery. For this purpose he was allowed a ration of petrol for his private car (The Morrie). On the Sunday of the crucial week in November 1940 having a call out near the city, he took me with him and showed me the devastation of the bombing, driving over little wooden ramps set up across the A.F.S hoses (now completely dry), and pointed out, quite emotional for him, the uselessness and futility of wars. I will never forget the sight, or the grimness of New Street and the Ladywood side of Broad Street (or the grim determination on the faces of the rescue / safety workers).

[For Brian Noden's further reminiscences see "Evacuation from Kingstanding, Birmingham to Derbyshire" and "V.E. Day in Kingstanding, Birmingham]

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This story was contributed by Solihull Heritage & Local Studies Service, Solihull Libraries by kind permission of the original contributor. It was originally contributed to Solihull Heritage & Local Studies Service's collection in 2005 (Ref: NC Solihull Historical: Reminiscences 2005/8).

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