The Day War Broke Out: A Schoolgirl in Birmingham

“The day war broke out…” was a phrase used by a comedian named Rob Wilson as he went on to catalogue a series of events which had a touch of humour. And often what happened to us during the war also had a lighter side.

In 1939 I was a school girl of 13, living In a terrace house near the centre of Birmingham and for a time every day life went on much the same with an undercurrent of wondering what was to come. It came eventually with the bombing of our main cities. The bombers seemed to come mainly at night, although I was once caught in a daytime raid and hurriedly had to find shelter from the falling shrapnel. Of all places, I chose cover under a railway bridge!

At night we were alerted to a coming air-raid by the wailing of a siren and we would put on our ‘siren-suites’ copying the style of the Prime Minister, Mr. Winston Churchill and take cover under the table or under the stairs as advised. Eventually we were allocated curved corrugated pieces of metal which when bolted together became our ‘dug-out’. These Anderson Shelters became our sanctuaries at the time of bombing. We shared it with the family next door, the Carters. It was constructed by my father and Mr. Carter who dug down to the regulated depth (whatever that was, I can’t remember), it was then painted green or brown. To make it cosy carpet was put down on top of some boarding and a light was rigged up. I remember that Mrs Carter was small but rather fat and the opening wasn’t very large so it was always a struggle to get her in and out. Their dog was always the last to arrive, silhouetted against the skyline, it looked like ‘The Hound of the Baskerville’s’. It became very warm in there and we were pleased to open the door to get some air when the drone of the bombers and the ‘Biff Biff’ of the anti aircraft guns ceased. It was then that we saw the red sky from the burning houses started by incendiary bombs, which were dropped prior to the ‘big stuff’.

My father was an Air Raid Warden and when on duty helped to put out these fires. He had fought in the First World War and had been gassed on the Somme so I suppose that it brought back a few memories. He was a brave man along with many civilians fighting their own private war on the streets of our cities.

I was a quiet, shy person and to be thrown into the intimate company of people I hardly knew was difficult and I wanted to be in the privacy of my own little room – I suppose everyone did. We took down a thermos of tea with something to eat and shared around our goodie and made the most of it but it was wonderful to hear the ‘ all-clear ‘ which was a different sound from the undulating siren which called us to live like moles in the ground.

My father also joined the L.D.V. (Local Defence Volunteers or ‘Dads Army’, as it later became known in that well scripted Television Series) One wonders how effective such an ‘Army’ would have been had Hitler invaded!

Slowly war became a reality with food rationing, clothing coupons and identity cards. (Strange that now, in 2003, that they may be introduced albeit for different reasons.)

When raids came in school time we were taken down in orderly fashion to a stone out-house building which served as a shelter. In London the Underground stations served as shelters and it became a ritual to take down bedding to ‘camp out’ on the platform. I have often wondered if each family had its own pad, as it were. I imagine everything had to be cleared away in the morning ready for the usual routine life of the Underground.

Eventually our school was evacuated to Evesham, which was not so far away but to me, who had never left home, it could have been the other side of the world. We were labelled, had a gas mask round our necks on a string and were waved off by our parents. Would we ever see each other again, how could we know? I didn’t want to go to a strange town to stay with strangers. I was sent to one of the so-called ‘better’ families but it was obvious that they didn’t want me and they didn't hide that fact…I wanted my Mum! I was put in the charge of the maid and had my meals with her in the kitchen. I was pleased each day when it was time to go to school and meet up with people I knew and liked. I can’t remember how I spent the evenings perhaps that part has been erased purposely from my mind. I didn’t stay long, I imagine I was strategically removed but they did me a favour because I went to stay with a lovely woman, Mrs. Woodyatt.

She was rosy cheeked and friendly. Her husband had been killed in the First World War and she didn’t have any children of her own. I think she was somewhat apprehensive about having me but, like the evacuee in the film ‘Good Night, Mr. Tom’, she really cared for me. I moved into another world of a semi-detached home with a lovely red brick fireplace with gleaming brasses, a modern kitchen and bathroom and an indoor toilet. Our ‘loo’ at home was in the back yard, a cold business in winter.

The BBC was evacuated to Evesham and Mrs. Woodyatt had one of ‘them’ staying but I never saw him.I was being educated in many things. I had never before seen a river or walked down a country lane and I warmed to the magic of the countryside, which was so peaceful after the bombing. Later in life I tried to teach my own children the joys of nature.

I also had my first glimpse of the joys of history because Simon de Montfort fought and was killed in Evesham. He believed in democracy and was killed for trying to establish it…nothing changes…and that was in1265! My history mistress brought the subject alive for me during my time at school in Evesham. She was a somewhat eccentric lady. I can see her now with her university gown slipping from her shoulders, ‘grizzly’ grey hair and an amber ring with which she played while recalling the past. I was an imaginative person and remember standing where Simon de Montfort died (how could they really know?) and relived the battle and his defeat, safe in the 20th century.

The war was far away from us but I missed my parents and our terraced home and I cried when they left me after a visit as their bus pulled away. (I have spent of lot of my life saying goodbye to those I love, and it hurts). I still have a card I sent them and it has a sad message and a George VIth stamp on it. (I am now interested in Postal History).

The raids eased and we went home in 1942. When I had finished my schooling I started my nursing career in the country looking after poor children from the slums of Birmingham . Again I was away from home but this time of my own choosing, but I was still homesick. In1944 I started my General Nursing training at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital and saw what the war had done to our servicemen.

The war was over when in 1948 I married an ex-fighter pilot. There was still rationing and my friends helped with coupons for my wedding dress (which I still have) and gave their rations for the reception.

I polish my silver serviette ring with my name engraved on it, which Mrs. Woodyatt gave me when she came to our wedding. My gas mask is in the loft along with my husband’s officer’s hat and scarf, which he always wore on operational flights. I have the remnants of my clothing coupons, ration book and identity card, which I look at from time to time sitting by my own red brick fireplace.

My name is Jean Hill and I now have a granddaughter who is 13, my age when war began. But she and my grandsons now have a very different life style, which is good. Hopefully they will never write their war memories.

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