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I called him Rags - because he looked a proper ragamuffin! I was eleven, living in Barrow-in-Furness - Barrow-in-Furnace it became. Rags was a stray puppy I had pleaded to be allowed to keep, and he was the first thing I ever had that was really my own. But they wouldn't let you take animals into the shelter, so I had to leave him in the house during the raids; but I kept thinking of him. During one very bad raid a neighbour came into the shelter and told us that he had seen a parachutist come down. "I'll have the bugger!" he vowed, and collected a knife to dispatch him. Then there was a terrific explosion - the ground rocked under our feet - and through the shelter door we saw the houses go down like a pack of cards. In fact what the neighbour had seen coming down in a parachute was actually a landmine - he had gone to his death. I could only think of Rags, my little dog, I was screaming for him. I got a smack for that - "Going on about a dog, when all these people are dead!" All I ever foound of Rags was his ear.

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