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THEN CAME PILOTLESS AEROPLANES
As it happened, it fell to the lot of Tidlles and me to plot the very first pilotless aeroplane that ever crossed our shores. We had received a "Top Secret" notice that some kind of pilotless aircraft might be expected some time in the future, but time passed and there was no follow-up, so that it was not very much in our minds. We were on night duty that week and had had one or two quiet nights so that we were making use of our lilos on the floor for a nap when, in the early hours, the A.W.A. bell rang and we leapt to the controls. (In those days, as a result of practice, I could change from sleep to alert work within seconds). Headphones on and pencils poised, we were given some very strange plots from the Sussex coast towards London in rapid succession. Pilots naturally took evasive action from time to time so that no aeroplane ever flew for long in a straight line, but, each intruder being given a Hostile Number we were able to keep track of where each had got to. This time, however, here was an intrepid machine which came straight on, turning neither to right nor left, heading straight for London, and at a much higher speed than a bomber. We plotted and noted, gave the alarm, heard it had come down, gave the All Clear, and then had time to wonder.
Next day the very large explosion (not in our Borough) was officially reported in the press as having been caused by an exploding gas main, but next day another fell and another until the Gas Board could no longer be asked to bear the guilt attributed to it. Soon the doodle-bugs were coming thick and fast, and everyone became familiar with the sound of their engines, very much like a motorbike without a silencer, then the cut-off and the wibble-wobble fall from the sky, then the explosion. Personally, I rather preferred them to the old H.E.s, as, if one had just passed overhead and then cut off, you knew it was not for you. "Pull up the ladder, I'm all right", is not a noble sentiment, but self-preservation is a very strong motivation in times of danger.
One early morning in June, soon after D-Day, while I was on night duty at the Town Hall our house in Perry Rise was badly damaged by a flying bomb. The plaster of the bedroom ceilings was blown in so that from the bedrooms you could look up to the underside of the tiled roof. Since many of the tiles were also missing, the view was even better in places and included blue sky. The window of Dad's bedroom had been blown in onto his bed, providing him with an additional blanket of broken glass and glazing bars. He and Mother, who was in the next room, had difficulty reaching each other owing to the problem of opening the bedroom doors deep in plaster and rubble.
When I got back at breakfast time I found Mother half dressed standing in the kitchen trying to prepare some food amongst the general chaos of broken windows and plaster dust. "Look what they've done to us:" she exclaimed to me indignantly. The ceilings were of course made in the old-fashioned way with solid plaster bound by cowhair, as plasterboard came in only in wartime as a re-placement. Plaster makes the dustiest dust that has ever been invented. I know. I spent much of my off-duty time that week carrying out pailfuls of the stuff and dumping it in a heap at the kerbside for collection by the Council men. Some of it was in quite large lumps, some was in little lumps and much was in fine powder. I would fill a bucket and carry it down the front garden path to add to the pile, about sixteen bucketsful to a "stint". Later I was annoyed that all this humping and shovelling had been wasted effort. After the plaster had been mostly brushed up, the black dust from the roof space kept descending into the house, so that it was impossible to keep anything clean, but we still had at least part of a roof over our heads for a few more days.
Ten, actually. On the 4 July 1944, Hitler posted us another doodle bug probably from the same ramp, as it fell not many yards from the first one. As far as I could gather it landed at the edge of the swimming pool, just beyond our back garden. I was on night duty that week, and was due to start on my 1陆 mile walk to the Town Hall so as to reach it before 11.30 p.m. I always found it difficult to sleep in the daytime, as one week in three of nights was not a long enough spell to adjust to such altered sleeping time, so that on that sunny July day I spent some hours lying awake before eventually getting some sleep. One had become so accustomed to the noises of air raids, and lately to the engines of flying bombs that, once off, one slept on regardless. I awoke at about 8 o'clock that evening, got up and had a bath. Fortunately, I had just got dressed in a light skirt and blouse - a pretty, voile blouse in multi-coloured checks with a frill at the neck - I remember it well and was sorry to lose it - when I heard another doodle bug approaching. It got very loud, as though a motorbike was speeding towards me on full throttle. Quickly I went to my bedroom window and looked out, just in time to see it quite low in the sky, apparently coming straight up Perry Rise! As I faced it, it dipped and came straight at me with the engine still on. It should, of course, have cut out, but it never did. It seemed to be looking straight at me as it came down at an angle of 45掳, like a large, angry insect making a beeline for me. There was no time to take cover. I turned from the window towards the door, but never reached it. I was too near the explosion to hear it, but the whole world about me was suddenly in chaos. The doorframe and the bedroom wall adjoining it/seemed to be panting rapidly, and a great rush of matter was descending all about me. I saw, even as I felt it hit me, an object - probably part of a roof tile, which struck me sharply on the head. I think the blow must have knocked me out of my body, for after the impact I had a delightful experience of floating weightlessly down, then everything was blank till I woke up to hear shouting, bustle, cars and general activity. I was lying, not buried, thank God, but well tucked in by a blanket of d茅bris.
I felt something cold and wet on my arm and my first thought, which jerked me into greater awareness, was that it was blood - Oh, horror! Nothing of the kind, however, only water from the storage tank in the roof which was emptying its contents wherever the water took a fancy to go. The floor was still there, and I saw the little mahogany bookcase which had stood beside my bed lying on the debris. I don't know why, but I tried to pull it upright, and all the books from it sprawled across the top of the rubble. (amazingly, it was still usable and it鈥檚 now at Ealing at my son鈥檚 house).
I got to where the window had been, and some of the wall was still there. "Help:" I cried, "Help." And suddenly I remembered there were other people in this disordered world: Mother - where was she? She had been in the house when I was having my bath, so had my Father. I saw a man outside in the road. "My Mother," I called, "Where is she? Is she dead?" "In there?" he answered. "Down there somewhere." He came back soon. "They've got her out," he called, and he came to help me. I scrambled over the door onto the landing. All the floors upstairs seemed still to be there, but the back of the house was missing. It had been sucked out by the blast and had collapsed onto the garden, but this I didn't notice until later. The staircase was there, but was blocked. I climbed onto the old oak chest which stood on the landing, and my rescuer caught me as I lowered myself and half carried me down. I didn't know him, and don't know whether I ever saw him again.
He helped me over the rubble to where the garden had been. It was now a pile of brickwork and tiles. The stretcher party were applying pads and bandages to Mother's recumbent figure. She was conscious, but most of her face was covered by padding. About half an hour must have passed since the bomb fell. She made the most likely request to issue from a woman in any accident situation - could I find her bag? I knew which room she had most likely been in, so clambered back in and found it, luckily spotting the handle protruding from the dirt. If chairs have knees, ours were knee deep in rubble, and imbedded in the upholstery were large poplar branches, blasted from the edge of the swimming pool at the bottom of the garden. The force had thrust the severed ends into the seats and backs of the chairs as though planted by some gardener of disordered wits. The Morrison shelter had been lifted and dropped about a foot from its position.
There had been a dining-room and a drawing-room, but now there was just one "through" room. I didn't take in very much just then, but scrambled back to Mother with her bag.
Dad appeared wandering about where the garden had been. He was very dirty, and had a black smudge on his forehead very reminiscent of Hitler's quiff. Miraculously, he was unharmed apart from a few scratches, and, apart from my head, so was I. We set off over the wreckage with the stretcher party, and the leader told us to keep together. They set Mother down a short distance along Perry Rise at the edge of the path, and I sat beside her on the kerb. Dad characteristically paced about restlessly. It was a warm summer evening, and there was a wonderful sunset, brilliant pinks and oranges. It was late, about 10.30, but we had double summer time then. I felt very peculiar, but at least I didn't faint. More and more stretchers were laid down on the ground to join the queue for ambulances. Altogether there were thirty-nine injured people, but no one was killed.
Adrian was on duty at C.D.H.Q. that evening, and arrived on the scene to assess the need for any heavy rescue work, but found a moment to check whether the Essam family was intact. How welcome that brief contact was!
Eventually our turn came to be borne off by ambulance to the South Eastern Hospital for Children at Lower Sydenham. Children being fortunately in short supply in London at that time, this Hospital was reserved for Air Raid Casualties. Mother's arm had been put into a sling, as the stretcher party first-aiders thought she had broken it. She was laid down in the corridor at the Hospital, and after a time nurses came to see to her and to cut off her dress.
By then, I had developed a large bump on my forehead about the size and shape of half an egg, soon to produce a black eye of impressive colouring. I had been unconscious for quite a long time, so that I suppose I had concussion. Everyone at the Hospital was busy dealing with more severe injuries, cuts and so on, so that I had no attention, neither did Dad. I found a tap and washed my hands and some dirty scratches, but had no idea then how filthy I was. Somewhere I found a telephone and rang the Control Room where "my" shift had just come on duty. They were relieved to hear me, but had already heard from Adrian that we were all alive. They arranged to send an ambulance car to take Dad and me to the Rest Centre for what was left of the night.
The Rest Centre was in the school in Kirkdale, near The Woodman P.H., and was also near Denham Court, where Audrey and Len lived. I suppose we got there between 11 o'clock and midnight. I would in the ordinary way have had a meal at home before going on night duty, so Dad and I decided to accept the offer of some food, which turned out to be bread, margarine and marmalade, and not easy to swallow! Dad was then taken away to his bunk for the night in the men's dormitory, but, before finally dossing down myself, I made my way the few hundred yards to Denham Court. As Audrey and Len lived in a second floor flat, they slept at night, when bombs were about, on the floor just inside the main entrance to the flats, and that was where I found them.

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