War is Personal

At certain times during World War II, I was aware that before mother settled to sleep she would go outside the back door and line a dustbin (garbage can) with newspaper. As dawn broke she would go outside again and empty the dustbin, putting the contents in the pantry which was always kept locked. In the ensuing days and sometimes a couple of weeks, varying portions of food that I knew were not available at the shops, would appear on our plates. I was admonished in very, very strong terms to be on guard that I did not let anyone know about our menu. “Not even my friends mummy?” “No! Absolutely not!!” “Not even my best friend?” The look answered my question.

When any of the food needed to be boiled or roasted and it would have released tantalizing aroma mother would cook it after bedtime when she would seal the house completely, drawing the heavy blackout curtains. The food that was delivered was ‘black market’. Father made all the arrangements. No-one in the chain ever met the next person. Mother never knew who delivered to our dustbin. It was an irregular supply. If there happened to be a fresh egg in it that was immediately put aside. “Your father will enjoy that when he comes home.” Although father was seldom home his needs were catered to first—always! (‘He’s the man of the house’ syndrome.)

Then there were weeks without food, even in the shops. At those times mother would feed us bread gruel. This was bread swelled in hot water and sweetened with a tin of condensed milk—a sticky white substance. She would then hurry us to sleep with a hot water bottle. “Now get to sleep quickly before your tummy knows it didn’t have dinner.”

Each child attending school had to take a tea-caddy with them. A tea-caddy is a small air-tight tin used to house tea leaves. Every home had several because they were generally given to the woman of the house as her birthday gift.

Class by class the children, each clutching their own tin, would file into the assembly hall where tables were lined up forming a long counter. Filled boxes were placed on the top, behind each box a canteen staff member stood guard over its contents. One by one each tin was passed along the line receiving its allotted portion of the contents of the boxes as each child was handed their, now filled, tin. At the end of the line they immediately took it to nurse’s room where she examined the contents, sealed it with tape and putting a wider strip of tape across the front, wrote the child’s name and class on it. It was handed back to the child and was now theyir sole responsibility to keep it ‘close and safe’. Each tin had been filled with: rusks (a moistless, hard, bread-like, malt flavoured, finger-shaped biscuit given to babies when they were teething), a sealed bag of assorted dried fruit, a bag of shelled nuts, a bar of plain, dark chocolate (yuk!), and a portion of boiled sweets. (The strong pear drops used to take my breath away!) This tin was only to be opened and contents consumed if we were in the under-the-ground air-raid shelter over a period of 3-4 hours. “Teacher will tell you when to open them.” Invariably the contents of the tins were consumed within the first three minutes of each air-raid. No child was ever chastened for this. As the war progressed the ingredients to refill the tins became more sparse and stark.

We were being evacuated from war-torn London to the safety of the Pennine chains in the north. We all had a small suitcase or bag containing our immediate needs of clothing and toiletries. A gas-mask over our shoulders and a large substantial label attached firmly to a buttonhole. It had all of our most intimate details printed on it with place of destination.

We changed trains at an open-to-the-sky station. We all piled out onto the platform. Another train—a very long one—drew up to the next platform and out spilled American soldiers with all their kit. I was transfixed. I had never seen so many people all dressed the same and in one place. Suddenly, two planes dropped out of the sky and machine-gunned the area. The guard threw me back into the train (which I thought was a very rude thing to do to me!) The all-clear siren sounded. I went back outside to stand and stare at the Americans. One of them came toward me and I started to back away, so he stopped and knelt down on one knee and started talking to me in a low voice. I did not understand what he was saying as I had never heard an American accent before. According to us—‘us’ being the white middle-class British born and bred—only we knew the correct way to hold one’s knife and fork! Purveyors of the British Empire. Anyone who did not speak ‘The King’s (George VI) English’ was not to be associated with as a social equal. On hearing him I decided that it was definitely a conversation I needed to bring to an end. As I started to excuse myself ready to return to the train he reached out and placed a yellow curved object and a bar of Hershey chocolate on the ground between us. I had never seen either of these things before. However, I instinctively knew that one of them was chocolate. I put my doll down on the ground and quick as a sparrow in flight I went forward and picked up the Hershey bar. The guard from my train stepped up to the soldier and took the banana out of his hand. “Thank you, sir. She’ll have that later, sir.” And so I had my own brief encounter—did I not!

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‘1939’
By Victoria

In that gasometer moment
'ere sleep snatches consciousness
My head is invaded
by sounds of distress

The drone of an aeroplane
above my head
Weighted cargo of bombs
aimed at my bed

The air whistles and whines
as they are let go
They explode near and afar
dead will be people I know

I am told that Hitler
(Whatever can that be?)
Is a something or other
That doesn’t like me!

I wonder why, why is all
this going on?
Disturbing my rest still
sixty fair years gone

In that gossamer moment
ere sleep take hold
I am that little girl
just eight years old

War is personal.

Embedded in the core of the neurons of my brain are sounds that remain. The heavy drone of the loaded planes as they drag towards me the pitiful scream of the air as it is ripped asunder by the weight of the bombs as it falls down to earth. The hideous thump as it reaches its target. The heavy lull of 1/32 of a second waiting for the explosion.

Like every member of an orchestra tuning up prior to a performance the sounds of the aftermath gained momentum. Whimpering, screaming, crying, sobbing and in the distance bells clanging as ambulance and fire brigade arrived to do what little they could.

As I missed seeing particular children at school or certain people in the community underground shelter we sometimes slept in, I just accepted that they had been killed by a bomb.

I can state truly that war is personal.

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