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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 return 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 earth

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