Childhood Memories in Leicester

Mr Brian Rowe,

As I was only a small child during WW2, being born on February 20th, 1938, the memories that I have may seem insignificant, compared to those of people who actually fought in the conflict, but nevertheless they remain very vivid to this day. Perhaps they should be regarded as little vignettes that occurred in the young life of just an ordinary child.

My Dad was aged thirty nine at the outbreak of war, and was, thus, above military age, (He had, in actual fact, fought in the Great War, towards the end.) I have a very clear memory of my mother taking me, in my pushchair, to what I now know was a “Shadow Factory” in Weymouth St, here in Leicester. My Mam and Dad both worked for Supermarine, Dad as the chap who gave the aircraft, (Spitfires I believe) their final inspection before the test pilot took them up, and Mam worked in the stores.
This time, though, he was working at the aforementioned factory, and for some reason or other; Mam was visiting him there.
I remember the large sliding doors that had to be opened to get inside. I believe that before the war it had been a factory manufacturing confectionary, and the doors had hundreds of sweet tins nailed to them, for disguise, I suppose.
As the doors opened I saw rows of aircraft fuselages lined up, no wings or tail planes, all propped up on trestles. Then my Dad took me out of the pushchair and sat me in one, and went away with Mam. I believe I howled the place down, thinking they had forgotten me.

On another occasion I remember going out of our back door and seeing soldiers, in full Battle Dress, crawling up our garden path. Our house backed onto some large school playing fields, which had been part covered with obstacles to prevent enemy aircraft from landing. Having said that, however, there was an occasion when a fighter plane of the Free Polish Air Force did make an emergency landing owing to lack of fuel, on those fields, and I can remember being impatient for school to finish, as we had been told that it would be taking off again in the afternoon, which it did, drawing a large crowd of onlookers.

Another vivid memory is of the American soldiers in the camp on Anstey Lane. After school, and at weekends we would congregate at the entrance to await them returning, and call out to them for chewing gum. We even hunted around for the empty wrappers so that we could smell the peppermint.
At the end of the war, they held a party for all the children in the neighbourhood, and, during it, I was larking about on a rubbish tip at the rear of the camp and cut myself on a piece of glass and was taken by one of the soldiers to their sick bay and remember it being full of wounded men who made a fuss of me.

There are many other memories, for instance, the evacuees from London, when the pavilion of the playing fields was used as a distribution point to send them to various homes.
Many of them came to school (Alderman Richard Hallam) with their pockets fill of shrapnel, spent bullets, and even one or two incendiary bombs that they had picked up in their streets, back in London. They used them to barter for comics.

Finally, I must mention the routine when there was an air raid warning.
The siren was situated just a few yards away from our house in Avebury Avenue. It was mounted on two tall poles, under which was a small brick shelter for the air raid wardens.
On hearing the siren, we would all troop out into our garden. I would be carried by my grandmother, and enter our Anderson Shelter. Then, on hearing the “All Clear” we would return, but invariably our next-door neighbour, a Mrs Davidge, would call out, as she left her shelter, “What noise did the siren make, Brian.” To which I replied, “Whoo- oo- oo”. She would then say, “Good boy, Brian,” and give me a penny.

I look back to the war years with mixed feelings. As I have grown older I realise the sacrifices that many made were tragic, but there was a camaraderie then that has completely gone now, we were truly a close neighbourly community.

Brian Rowe.

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