Tonbridge Childhood Memories

This story was added by staff at Worcestershire Library & History Centre with her full permission.

I was eight years old when World War II began, and I was living in Hadlow Road, Tonbridge, with my mother and father. The first thing I can remember is my parents being told to expect several evacuees being billeted on them in the form of boys from Westminster School. My mother refused, as she already had four permanent “lodgers” in the house. The officious Billeting Officer then informed her that she could accommodate the boys on the floor in the entrance hall. As petrol was unobtainable except for war work, we used to cycle nearly thirty miles every weekend to look after elderly parents. Dad thought that all the extra work the evacuees would entail would be too much for Mum to cope with, therefore, to overcome the problem they decided to move to a smaller house.

We moved to our new home in Barclay Avenue, and the day after war was declared, Dad and his neighbours started to dig air raid shelters at the bottom of their gardens. That night it rained, so next morning when he saw that the hole had filled with water, he gave it all up as a bad job. So did his neighbours! Our stay in this rented property was very short. My parents decided to move nearer to my father’s place of work and my school, and bought a house back in Hadlow Road. The move took place the day the Germans marched into Paris! The previous owners stated that, in the circumstances, they weren’t going to move because the Germans would be in London in a few days, so what was the point? However, everything was “signed and sealed” so they had to leave. Anyway, Mum threatened to move in on top of them if they didn’t!! This family moved to near-by Hildenborough, and, ironically, their house was bombed a few months later. Fortunately they weren’t hurt.

Putting tank traps everywhere was all the rage. We even had three in our back garden. There were supposed to be four, but after the workmen had measured and marked out the four positions with stakes and gone home, Mum and Dad re-measured and re-positioned the stakes so that there were just three! If there had been four, they were so big that it would have been impossible to squeeze a wheelbarrow or lawn mower between them. Some workmen returned next day with a concrete mixer and built the three (!) six foot monstrosities — without comment. They stayed there until the end of the war.

When I stood in the garden in the daytime and looked towards London, I could see a row of barrage balloons ranged across the sky to prevent enemy planes bombing the city. At night, when the sirens sounded you could see the bombers caught in the beams of the searchlights and you could hear the anti-aircraft guns firing. When the enemy bombers returned after their raid on London, if some of them had been prevented from reaching their target or were damaged by gunfire, they would jettison their bombs over us to lighten their load and give their aircraft a greater chance of returning to Germany. That is why our area of Kent was known as “Bomb Alley”. Daylight raids were also made during the Blitz. Sometimes the German bombers, despite the barrage balloons, flew low enough for us to look up and see their bomb doors already open in anticipation of their arrival over London. This would also help them to drop their load quickly if they met heavy opposition in the form our fighters.

Sometimes the sirens sounded when we were cycling home from my father’s parents at Chart Sutton or my mother’s at Leybourne which was near West Malling Airfield. Because of the blackout, there were no lights showing anywhere. Our bicycles carried hooded lamps on the front and very small rear lights. If it was moonlight, we didn’t switch them on at all. Coming back from Chart Sutton, the long, straight road from Boughton Monchelsea ran beside a wood which concealed an army camp of Bissen huts and anti-aircraft guns. If there was a raid on as we passed by, and there were German planes overhead, these guns would often open fire. The noise was so deafening we would put our heads down and pedal like mad! In the school holidays, I cycled with my mother on her mid-week visits to Chart Sutton. On one occasion, after the siren had sounded the “all clear”, we were on our way home and had reached the railway level crossing at Teston. All of a sudden, we heard a lone enemy fighter plane approaching. It was following the line from Maidstone West Station. The pilot saw us and started firing. We threw our bikes down and dived for the hedge next to the crossing-keeper’s cottage. We could bear the bullets striking the road beside us! I was flat on the grass verge, and Mum put her head in the hedge but left her bottom exposed to the enemy! We were then aware that a Spitfire was chasing and firing at this German plane, so he didn’t hang around. Luckily we were unscathed. Without a word, we brushed ourselves down and I picked bits of hedge out of Mum’s hair. After checking the bikes, we pushed them to the top of the short hill to the main Tonbridge road and resumed our journey. When dad arrived home from work, after making sure we were both unhurt except for a few bruises, he showed his relief by appearing to be more concerned about our bicycles being shot up then us!

I had another “brush with bullets” when staying with my grandparents at Leybourne. We had had an air raid, and the “All Clear” had sounded. I was riding my bicycle in the lane outside the house when my grandmother and I heard the very recognisable sound of an enemy plane flying low and getting nearer. She shouted to me to come indoors. I threw my bike down, and as I did so I could hear bullets striking the road beside me. Granny grabbed my arm and pulled me up the path and into the sandbagged front porch. Soon after, we heard one of our fighters chasing off the enemy plane.

When staying with the same grandparents during school holidays, I often helped my aunt who owned a milk delivery business in Snodland. She was allowed just enough petrol coupons to complete her “rounds”, so when going downhill she would switch off the engine and coast as far as she could. One early morning my aunt pointed out a house that had been destroyed by a bomb. It wasn’t until I got back to school the next term that I discovered that one of my classmates had been staying with relatives in that house and had been killed. It was a terrible shock, and her empty desk reminded us that the war affected all of us. A service was held in our Convent school chapel in memory of Anne, and I remember how quiet and subdued we were.

We had a Pekinese dog called Nick. He knew the sound of the air raid siren. Like us, he could also distinguish between the sounds of the engines of the British and German planes. The throbbing of a German plane’s engine would prompt him to start barking in an agitated way, and insist on us following him to shelter under the dining room table. He was always there first!

The night we first saw and heard a Doodlebug we wondered what on each was happening. One of our teachers at school was French woman who had forecast that the Germans were developing a pilot-less aircraft to launch again Britain. We found this unbelievable, and secretly laughed at her. Now we knew it was true. How did she know? These Doodlebugs, or Flying Bombs as they were sometimes called, crossed the sky above us day and night. I only saw one tangled up in a barrage balloon. Many of them were chased and shot at by our fighter planes, and some of the most daring Spitfire pilots tried to put the tip of one of their wings under a Doodlebug’s wing in order to deflect it away from London. We had a personal warning system at home. If a Flying Bomb was on the way, all the ornaments on a small brass table in our front window would start to rattle, encouraging Nick, the dog, to start barking!

One summer evening about 9 o’clock, Dad was busy on the allotment with Nick “digging for victory”. I was supposed to be in bed but got up to look out of the window because I heard a Doodlebug approaching. I saw it, the engine cut out and a man walking along the path jumped over our neighbours wooden fence into her big syringa bush. I jumped into bed and pulled the covers over my head. There was a huge explosion and I was aware of glad shattering and then something heavy fell across my legs. When I peered out from under the bedclothes, I saw that not only had the wardrobe fallen across my legs, but most of the ceiling had collapsed around me. Mum rushed up the stairs shouting “Jess”,, are you alright?” I answered “No! I can’t move”. She managed to life the wardrobe so that I could slide my legs out of the way. By this time, Dad had run back home with Nick under his arm, both of them covered in dust. He told us that he had seen the Doodlebug tip sideways when its engine cut out, and he had had time to crouch down behind a bath containing water used for watering the allotments. Nick had rushed up to join him, obviously shaking and frightened. When he looked up, the houses were shrouded in dust and he wondered if his home was still standing. He ran back to see if we were safe. We didn’t notice other Doodlebugs flying overhead as we were too busy sweeping up glass and the remains of our ceilings. We finally got to bed listening to our neighbours doing the same thing! Next morning Mum found that the front room chimney had been swept by the blast, and the soot had gone everywhere.

Dad had been in the Royal Flying Corps in the First World War, and was considered too old for the services. He volunteered for The Observer Corps when World War II began, and the first Observer Corps Post in Tonbridge was situated near the top of Quarry Hill. He had to cycle there when on duty, as the distance was such that it didn’t entitle him to a petrol ration. He was working during the day, so his duties were between 6pm and 6am. There always had to be two men on duty together, nut owing to a shortage of trained volunteers sometimes each man had to complete a double duty. Some of this training involved me, because he often asked me to help him by holding up recognition cards showing the silhouettes of British and German aircraft. One on occasion he was commended for his skill in being able to guide a lost plane to safety. Later, the Observer Corps Post was transferred to the roof of the Capital Cinema in Tonbridge, and finally to the top of Tonbridge Castle. When Dad was on duty, Mum and I used to go to bed regardless of bombers or Doodlebugs! One night, at the beginning of the war, my parents decided to put mattresses on the floor in the hall under the stairs as a way of sheltering during the night raids. This effort lasted for fifteen minutes, after which time we all got so fed up with the muddle of blankets and pillows, we decided to go to bed upstairs as usual. We slept upstairs for the rest of the war and hoped for the best!

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