It's Thursday - They'll be Bombing Today

It’s Thursday — They’ll be Bombing Today

By an odd quirk of fate or memory or both, the German bombs rained down on our school on a Thursday. Thereafter I naturally anticipated that to be the day they would strike again. It was a surprisingly good guide. I was nine when the war began, living on the Isle of Portland on the South Coast. My younger brother and sister were taken by my stepmother to Stockport where she had friends. After a short while they moved to Somerset. My father was billeted close by which made matters much easier. I went to live with grandparents and my great aunts. Dad had done all our black-outs with hinged plywood, so we could swing them into place very easily.

The best thing about the primary school getting hit was that we had only half days of lessons. They were taken in the St George’s Hall. On another Thursday, an incendiary bomb hit the outside toilet. Luckily it didn’t explode — it would certainly have cured constipation!

Strangely enough I don’t remember being that frightened when we saw planes. They flew so low, we could see the swastikas on the wings. Sometimes we’d watch the dog fights overhead. It was exciting, fascinating, but not really frightening. What was more scary was being grabbed by adults and forced to take cover, crammed into small places. We played naughty games, too — looking up into the sky with other children counting slowly “One — two — three — four ….” Adults would look up terrified, and snatch us to safety. It was only a game — we didn’t always see planes. We just loved to scare them. They asked for it really; adults were tense, distant, irritable and ignored us most of the time.

The one time I do remember being frightened was later on in the war. We were under the stairs. The deafening screeching and bombing seemed to go on for ages. I have a strong recollection of saying, “I’m too young to die.” I was, too, I was only eleven. My Great Aunt had placed buckets of cold water where we could immerse our hands- ‘to lessen the shock’. To this day I don’t know how that works.

I don’t recall any casualties or deaths. My first view of a German, however, was very disappointing. I don’t know what I must have been led to expect. He was standing innocently in the back of an open lorry, the bailed out pilot of a German fighter: a fair-haired young man who looked quite ordinary — just like someone’s brother.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.