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The day war broke out , my father said to all the family present , "Oh no , here we go again". For ages , there had been fierce debates about Mr. Chamberlain (peace in our time ) and the pretty obvious threat from Adolf Hitler in our shop at Atlantic Avenue and at home in Rosapenna Parade off the Cliftonville Road. I had reached the age of five and had just started school at the Jaffe primary on the Cliftonville Road when all this happened . Mum and Dad took me down to the Academy school to watch in wonder as a huge barrage balloon was inflated and rose up high into the sky . "What's it for" I enquired . Mum told me that it was to cut the wings off any German planes that flew low to get a better view of the target.
Dad muttered "and where do they think the planes are going to crash"?
Soon we were doing practice rums out of the Jaffe and into the air-raid shelter that had been built in the front playground . Even at the tender age of five , I had formed a plan for survival which involved running up the Antrim Road to our shops and then on to the Water-works where there was open space . The thought of being trapped in a dank , cold , dark shelter was not an option for me . Also , I found that during air-raid excercises I was unable to breathe inside the confines of my gas-mask having to slyly slip a finger under the rubber to let some air in . I knew that I was doomed one way or the other . My older brother Frank was home on leave just before the balloon literally went up and he looked splendid in his Navy uniform with a golden torpedo stitched on to his sleeve . He was being sent to serve on the Submarine 'Trident' and , to my surprise , took my Dad's old accordian away with him to entertain his ship-mates. Dad's lovely new car , a Morris Cowley, was on the road till the petrol was withheld. When the first Blitz came all hell was let loose . Dad rushed off to his A.R.P. station and Granny and Grandad Hichens came up from their lower Duncairn Gardens to be further away from the shipyard and aircraft factory (where Grandad helped build the Short Sunderland sea-planes).
The sirens we were quite used to but this time the sky was filled with the heavy drone of Heinkel and Messerschmitt engines . Mother had all lights out of course and we peered out through the black-out curtains . I remember looking at my aircraft recognition book as the search-lights caught the German planes overhead and announced importantly "look Mum that's a Heinkel 111". Mother just mumbled "yes dear" and pulled me back from the window just as an incendiary crashed into the back yard of the house behind us bringing the resident out with his bucket of sand to smother the thing. Our front door banged startling everyone but it was Dad back from the Station saying that there was no-one else there so he rushed back to see if we were alright . Tea was made quite leisurely I thought and as the night wore on and the all-clear eventually sounded everyone relaxed. We were all terrified of course but in a controlled way that did not transmit that fear to anyone else.
Next morning the phone rang and Dad tried to answer his sister in Bundoran but he couldn't get a word in edgeways. Aunt Carrie Battisti put a flea in father's ear and no mistake. We could all hear her shouting " put Dollie and the boys on the first train to Bundoran immediately. Today . NOW! Dad meekly and thankfully agreed and in no time at all we were on our way down to the Gt.Victoria street Station and off on a great adventure . The train journey seemed to take for ever but at last we staggered out of the carriage at Bundoran and were embraced by Aunt Carrie and a whole family of cousins I didn't know existed . I was so happy in Bundoran that I never missed home (apart from my new tricycle which was left behind). We were accepted into the Battisti family , and indeed into the family of Bundoran residents . I was enrolled into the primary school beside the Railway Station where to my amazement I was taught by ladies in long black outfits who were known as 'Nuns' . They were very kind to us refugees and my artistic talents were improved a lot there . Every day , there was an 'Irish Hour' during which only the Irish language was permitted and there was a fine of one penny for each English word used. I would have owed them a fortune had it not been for my special status of refugee. Every one of the pupils was called by the Irish form of their name but trying to turn Ralph Rossi into Irish caused them much debate and in the end I was known as 'Ralph o Rossi' . When mum heard about this she laughed aloud and said " for goodness sake , your name in Irish is 'Rafe o Ruaid' anyone should know that". This Irish form of my name had quite a ring to it but even at this young age I knew that I was not going to be the one to tell the Nun , Sister Zeta , that an English woman knew the answer to this Irish question that they did not! At the bottom of the main street was a large hotel and each night the light outside the front entrance which was minus its shade , blazed throughout the hours of darkness causing Mum to put up blackout curtains again . We discovered that British aircraft coming back from Atlantic patrols were guided by this light to their base in Lough Erne . One morning though I remember the silence in Bundoran . There had been a huge Blitz on Belfast especially on the North of the city and everyone knew that my Dad lived there , and that there was no word as all the phones were down. During the day people looked in to the Battisti shop buying things they didn't really need to leave quietly muttering "no word yet"? It was that evening there was the crash of a bicycle hitting the pavement outside and a lad from the local Post Office rushed into the Cafe clutching a telegram and grinning all over his face . "Mrs Dolly Rossi" ? he almost shouted. I still have that telegram today . It reads 6th April 1941 . "SAFE AND SOUND JACK FATHER MOTHER".
It was sent from Dromore Co. Down where Aunt Kathy , my Mum's sister, worked and lived. What celebrations followed and when Dad arrived in Bundoran some days later you would never have imagined that we were a family of refugees who had lost their business , their house , their nice new Morris Cowley and my nice new tricycle. We owned what we stood up in and as Dad related all that was lost there was a second's silence broken by Mum saying with her best British stiff upper lip "Oh we'll be alright". Mind you , though I was bolstered by this remark , even I could not help thinking how we were going to be 'alright' when everything of material value was gone. My Dad was really annoyed that the Police had taken his shot-gun away because he said as he walked down the Cliftonville Road with Granny and Grandpa the German aircraft were so low that he could have hit them with 'BB'-shot cartridges. The very idea of my Dad with a shotgun taking on the might of Hitler's Luftwaffe was just too ridiculous to contemplate but I knew from the look on his face that it wouldn't have stopped him trying! Aunt Carrie's husband , Uncle Tom , was running the 'Cafe Rex' in Omagh Co. Tyrone and had found a shop in Market street that we were able to rent . Leaving Bundoran was one of the worst moments of my life ,ever; but Omagh was a quiet market town and for Dad there was a great recompense , the trout and salmon fishing was first class. For nine years we sold fruit , vegetables , sweets , cigarettes and fishing tackle ranging from waterproofs and waders to rods and fishing flies some of which I made to augment my pocket money. We spent the rest of the war in Omagh cycling , playing cricket (we supported the local Y.M.C.A. team) fishing and getting into whatever mischief that looked like it might supply some excitement without being too bad! The local Women's Institute passed a resolution not to shop in our premises as our surname was Rossi and Mussolini had thrown in his hand with Hitler! A lady called Mrs Thomas however who knew our family from Atlantic Avenue arrived to visit relatives in Omagh and made it her business to inform the W.I. that my Grandfather was working in Short Bros. helping to build Sunderlands , my Mum's brother Wilfred Hichens was serving with the Auxiliary fire brigade , and my half-brother Frank was serving in the submarine 'Trident' during which he was decorated for distinguished service and promoted to Petty Officer. When Frank arrived in Omagh on leave my Dad paraded him up and down the town in full uniform . Dad joined the Home Guard and used to come home after manoeuvres with the most hair-raising stories of the local group nearly killing their officer , then one guy dropping a hand-grenade into the trench behind him where our local grocer threw himself between it and the commanding officer and managed to hurl the primed weapon out into open ground. After the last story , my Mum said thoughtfully " if the Germans ever do invade our country we'll be in more danger from the Home Guard than from the enemy" Of course , I still have Dad's Home Guard badge and his A.R.P. whistle which I use occasionally to referee football matches . I'd say that it gets far more use now that it did during the War. The day Peace broke out my Dad said "we lost everything but the whole family survived and that's what really matters". Not even Mum argued with that!

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