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Another Time, Another World

Ch 2. However, for us the punishment was not yet over. Soon we were to face new weapons of destruction - the V1 and the V2. My introduction to the V1 flying bomb — ‘doodle-bug’ or ‘buzz-bomb’ - the colloquial terms in use at the time - was at 2am one Saturday morning. Awoken with the sound of heavy gunfire - less often heard since the raids in 1940/41 - their vivid lightening flashes lit up the white net curtains of my bedroom, against which, a shadow of the window frame shuddered with each impact. Though now nine years old my earlier anxieties quickly returned. Nobody knew what was going on and it was assumed the bright red auras of light moving speedily through the thick low cloud, were aircraft that had been hit by flack. The sound of their engines was unlike anything heard before - you sensed a vibration like a pneumatic drill; throttle-like, similar to a powerful motorcycle, but consistent - without the revving - apart from the usual Doppler-effect. To hear something like this approaching you and in such circumstances was particularly unnerving.

The following morning, while out shopping, we had our first daylight sighting. We had learnt a little more about them from the morning papers and the radio: sheltering under an iron pavement-grill alongside a church we watched through the grill, these small, ‘pilotless’ planes pass over. It was the idea of them being pilotless, which gave them a more alien and sinister meaning: with short square wings, no propeller, cigar shaped fuselage and tale mounted retro engine, from which orange exhaust flames plumed from the rear like a large blow-lamp, they left an indelible impression. They flew very fast and with a kind of fierce determination — seemingly oblivious to the flack bursting all around them; bursts, which produced, sudden, small cotton wool-like clouds of dense black smoke, which drifted off in the wind to disappear behind the façade of the building or to fade away nonchalantly, expanding into nothingness.

Among the many incidents that remain firmly embedded in my memory, occurred while hurrying with my parents early one Sunday morning, through the City of London. The time of day and location seemed precipitous. On our way to Liverpool Street, we had already heard the dreaded air-raid siren as we were crossing London Bridge, when next we heard approaching, the familiar rasping ‘throttle’ sound. No guns were in action and it proceeded towards us, growing louder and echoing with deadly significance, through the narrow deserted streets of the city and what was left of the tall office buildings. Even more poignant than its sound, was the sudden cut-off — a silence meaningful only in a terrible anticipation. My prayer to ‘keep the engine running’ was not answered. Instructed by my father, we quickly lay face downwards with our hands over the back of our heads.

The impact was enormous - ricocheting across the city and accompanied by the tremendous roar of falling masonry, bricks and spraying glass - it could not have been at the very most, more than a quarter of a mile away. As we rose clouds of dust were already enveloping the empty street behind us, but we pressed on in the opposite direction towards the railway station - where we had only a few minutes before catching our train. The train, filled with American servicemen, raced another V1 through the East London suburbs. The passengers transfixed as the thing drew level then pulled ahead, parting company when the train forked right at a junction and a collective sigh of relief passed down the train.

The V2 ‘Rocket’ - the word ‘missile’ hadn’t yet come into vogue - was seen by many, even then, as a foretaste of future wars. It’s range of damage was even greater than the V1 - itself capable of incredible damage, demolishing a whole block of several houses; bringing down weak ceilings and shattering windows in buildings a quarter of a mile or more away. The worst aspect of the V2 was the impossibility of any prior warning.

Day and night powerful explosions reverberated far and wide - up to twenty a week. A feeling of gnawing anxiety was pervasive, unable for a second to feel completely relaxed; permanent stress as opposed to previously, where you had sometimes a chance to recover - if only temporarily. In a grey and bleak autumn and winter - as it happened, the last of the war - rumours were rife - 50 killed here, 200 killed there, with hundreds of terrible injuries. One I remember people talking about was of a major incident at New Cross. There were always - as throughout the war - numerous tales of miraculous escapes. Among my own near escapes was during a trip to central London, when a bus, which, had it been drawing away a little more slowly, we would have succeeded in catching, went on to have all it’s passengers killed at Kennington.

As far as ordinary domestic life was concerned — if you could claim such during total war - whether my parents used the ‘black-market’ I do not know and if they did they probably took great care to hide the fact from me. My mother managed to produce regular meals from what little there was available - baring in mind that for me, wartime privation was normal with no personal memory of anything different. A diet of dripping sandwiches, corn beef, sausages; offal and rarely, greens, but a lot of swede, peas, and a revolting powdered substance called ‘Pom’ which was supposed to be a substitute for mashed potato.

Occasionally we visited the local ‘British’ or ‘Civic Restaurant’ - a chain set up by the Ministry of Food for the duration of the war and which sold cheap meals in spaces that seemed vast but very basic, reminiscent of the factory canteen. They were always busy, and many people looked not very different from the traditional homeless and ‘down and out.’ Many of cause were. An enduring sight was that of small groups of sad looking people, walking the streets with large suite cases, or using them as seats while waiting outside reception centres or council offices.

On the streets there was always something to distract, shock or surprise — a familiar building now obliterated or groups of people gathered around holes in the road, where Army personnel had defused an unexploded bomb. One, had an unflattering portrait of Hitler chalked on its side and the words ‘return to sender.’ The strange Gothic, German lettering on the casing was to me, of greater interest.

Away from London - even in the depths of the countryside - one was not entirely safe from the vagaries of war. East Anglia was of cause the location for many American military bases. On a warm summer’s evening of clear skies, with my younger cousin I watched the American B17 bombers ‘limping’ back from their missions over Germany - many of them badly damaged by flack - pieces of tail fin missing; a few with one or even two engines out of action; while others emitted a trail of smoke.

On one particular evening we were surprised to witness the crew of one of these planes, bailing out, their parachutes, appearing as pin-points of light — like stars - against the deep blue of the evening sky. We next spotted the abandoned bomber - about a thousand feet up — by the fact that it seemed to suddenly halt in mid-air, motionless for a split second before tipping, and plunging into a ‘nose-dive.’ It headed, seemingly straight for us, emitting a blood-curdling, wailing noise, which grew louder until it became deafening, as the aircraft approached the ground: like some large, fatally wounded animal, determined to reap revenge before finally dying. My Aunt pushed us both to the ground and lay over the top of us. Paralysed at the thought, yet again, of my imminent demise, I need not have worried. According to a local farmer, the plane missed us with about twenty feet to spare, to land in a ball of fire, in a near-by field, taking a few hedgerows with it. In town or country, during the war it was usual for aircraft — allied and enemy - to fly low, at rooftop level, often at night as well as during the day, causing sudden alarm.

My father’s people lived in East Anglia and visits there, meant seeing - and finally meeting - Germans for the first time. POW’s - Prisoners of War. Staring intrigued, through a very high wire fence, Nissin-huts in the background, I vaguely remember seeing lots of young men, dressed in dark brown tunics and the informal headwear used by the German Army. I was surprised at discovering they were not the evil, unfathomable creatures imagined earlier, but human beings - just like us.

In order to promote reconciliation, after the war had ended and security had been relaxed a little, the chance arose to meet POW’s. Local people were encouraged to volunteer and entertain a couple of them to tea on Sundays, and my Aunt was one such volunteer. Most of the prisoners seemed to have at least some knowledge of English and quite a number spoke it excellently. They were very pleasant - even delightful — always very polite, which seemed to surprise, and impress everyone, and they would smile and give a cheery wave as they cycled past you along the country lanes. If there were more than one, I was anxious to catch their conversation in German, not that I understood, but I was fascinated by the sound of a foreign language. Amidst all this camaraderie, it was a puzzle to me, in my naiveté at the time, how we came to blows in the first place.

The ending of the war in Europe was, not surprisingly, the reason for a sudden, spontaneous carnival. VE Day was a warm, sunny day and the end of hostilities at last - just after my tenth birthday. Churchill had given his speech at 2pm - which I have no recollection of hearing - announcing the end of the ‘German War.’ Suddenly, it was all over. My mother announced to me with a look of surprise and glee on her face —
‘Tony’ she cried out excitedly and catching her breath - ‘The War’s over! — The War’s over!’
Minutes later the neighbours were calling across to each other, over their garden fences and up and down the street. Things like
‘Isn’t it wonderful — the War’s over! — I can’t believe it.’

Apparently, the end of war had been expected for some days but still it seemed a huge surprise. The excitement was tremendous and awe-inspiring, as if people were suddenly freed after having been in prison for most of their lives. Church bells rang and even the sirens wailed the last All-clear - as hundreds poured onto the streets, hugging, kissing, singing and shouting — the sound spreading far and wide. Flags, bunting and streamers appeared from every house and across every road down their entire length — everywhere, a mass of fluttering Red, White and Blue. That an immense burden had been lifted and felt so acutely was due probably to the fact we had only recently endured — apart from all the wartime desolation, restrictions and shortages - over the previous twelve months - the V1 and V2 offensives. The later especially had been a terrible strain.

Some neighbours after nightfall built a huge bonfire. One family in particular; a large Cockney family, who after having been ‘bombed out’ in Deptford, were moved to an empty house in the street, contributed by supplying an effigy of Hitler, which they had strung up from a lamp-post and later ceremoniously burnt, surrounded by cheering onlookers.
Came nightfall, many people had flood-lit their homes with bright lights and one, across from ours, had the giant sized letters ‘VE’ in coloured lights down its entire frontage. That night I was unable to sleep a wink with all the noise going on outside. These end years — 1945/46 - I associate with a very large white, alabaster statue of an Angel, erected over the front of a local department store. In one hand it held a sprig of corn, and on the other was perched a dove. Underneath, in large gold letters, were the words ‘Dawn of A New World.’ Each side of the statue were arranged the huge flags of all the Allied powers.

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