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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Odilia Roberts from the Derby Action Team on behalf of John B Steele and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

I can recall all too vividly the momentous events of the summer of 1940, during which, to a young boy the war seemed to be taking place exclusively overhead as the struggle for aerial supremacy raged. A struggle, which my wise old Gran always referred to as The Battle FOR Britain. By late autumn the Luftwaffe had changed tactics and had begun to bomb our towns and cities.
Even now, (well into my 78th year) I can still be assailed by the banshee wailing of the sirens, which presaged the onset of that fateful Christmas blitz on Manchester.
Our mother had been directed into war work and performed a regular night shift making barrage balloons at a factory on the other side of the city. She had prevailed upon my father, (for once) to ensure that when the expected alert sounded, we were all, (Gran, my sister, himself and I) to take refuge in our designated place of safety, a place situated in the remand cells beneath the towering façade of the Assize Court, which in those days fronted Strangeways Prison.
I say expected alert due to the fact that a few days previous the infamous William Joyce better known to all as Lord Haw Haw had advised the women folk of Manchester to get on with their Christmas shopping whilst there were still shops standing!
This and many other various predictions, delivered in that artificial, sepulchral monotone — truth to tell, we never missed his broadcasts — they were always good for a laugh!
Given that we, as a nation were so ill informed, and the authorities at times got things woefully wrong, I have often thought of the fallacy of placing so many people in such an insecure shelter. What if the Assize Court had sustained a direct hit? Few of the many crammed into those whitewashed, barely illuminated cells would have survived such a happenstance.

What premonition had caused our mother to be so insistent upon this one occasion when the sirens seemed to sound every night? Don’t ask; that’s a mother for you!

How prophetic her concern was realised when shortly after 4.00am on the 23rd December, a land mine, (released by parachute) exploded less than 100 yards from the shelter, destroying our little Pub and many homes and buildings besides. The sound of the detonation from inside was as if thousands of bricks were thundering down a cast iron chute.
The huge statue of Moses, (the book of justice gripped firmly in hand) which until then had stood at the apex of the assize court roof came crashing down onto the forecourt, smashing into pieces on the impressive staircase leading up to the court entrance.
Not long afterwards the blessed sound of the ‘All Clear’ sounded and having deemed safe to do so, we emerged into a bleak, bitterly cold December dawn, staring in utter disbelief at the scene of destruction, which lay before us. All around fires burnt fiercely, another building would collapse and we would jump, peering fearfully in the direction from which the sound of falling masonry had occurred. Yet above all the noise and seeming confusion, firemen, heavy rescue teams, police and everyday ordinary folk worked methodically to quell the fires and search for the trapped.

My abiding memory however, is of my redoubtable mother, night shift completed, having had to make the tortuous journey on foot around the ruins of the city centre, scrambling over the rubble to greet us with even warmer hugs and kisses than usual. Dad looked on smiling benignly, no less relieved, soot faced and exhausted, having been called out by the Deputy Governor of the prison, when the raid was at its height, to assist in extinguishing incendiary bombs, (what an all pervasive smell they left behind) using the totally useless stirrup pumps the ARP personnel had been issued, and generally helping the emergency services.

Arms around each other and uncertain at this stage as to the safety of relatives scattered within the city’s environs we took the short sad walk back to the wreckage of what had once been our home. We met and eventually commiserated with friends, neighbours and customers whose properties had incurred similar damage.

Our four-stack chimney had done a ‘Moses’ having crushed the roof and together with the effect of the bomb blast had brought down the ceiling of not only our living room but also two main rooms of the pub. We peered dolefully through the open spaces, which were once windows embossed with the brewery’s logo, to survey more clearly the damage within. I could just make out the collapsed fireplace, with half the broken staircase leaning against it, of what had once our living room.
My sister and I were left in no doubt at that moment there would be no hanging of stockings this year for Santa to fill, or should I say, not at this address.
Our parents acted quickly to dispel the gloom and somehow a taxi made it’s way to us, after a substantial detour to avoid the impassable destruction to the city centre. We eventually arrived at a relative’s home, which thankfully had emerged unscathed.
My sister and I perked up significantly when invited to hang our stockings, (provided by our hosts) albeit across a strange mantelpiece! Despite the trauma of the last fourteen hours or so, we were all safe, uninjured and more determined than ever to celebrate Christmas as best we could.

I supposed it was whilst we were waiting for that ‘God sent’ taxi that a feeling was slowly fostering inside me.
Although only a kid at the time, I was suffused with pride and an unshakeable belief that we remained unbowed and would never, ever be beaten.

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