Memories of a Blitz baby

MEMORIES OF A BLITZ BABY

I was born at St Margaret’s Hospital, Epping, Essex, on 27th November 1940. At the same time, in the sky above, a ferocious dogfight was taking place between the RAF and the enemy. I was delivered just in time to be unceremoniously dumped into a laundry basket and shoved under the bed, whilst one of the nursing sisters threw herself across my mother as a plane that had been shot down crashed not too far away, the explosion shaking the hospital. So those were the first sounds I heard. This information, of course, came from my mother.

Apparently I spent a lot of time in a laundry basket, usually beneath our kitchen table, until we were eventually issued with an Anderson shelter. This was like a large table made of thick steel. Once you were underneath it, mesh sides were slid into place. You were then in a cage, the idea being that if your house was bombed the steel cage would protect you until rescue workers could dig you out. Fortunately, ours was not tested.

Time went on and I became more aware of my surroundings. I can remember that my brother and I were never being allowed to sleep in our beds for a whole night: we were always woken up by the siren, carried downstairs and taken to the shelter. All this took place in total darkness as no one was allowed to show a light at night-time. All windows were covered with thick blackout curtains and anybody showing a light could get into serious trouble. My mother told us that we were not to be afraid as she was there and that our dad and the rest of the airmen, along with the soldiers and sailors, would never allow the Germans to come. However, I was frightened. The fear was always worse at night and, if I’m honest, I am still afraid of the dark. After a night raid the air raid warden would knock to make sure all was well and I was afraid that on the other side of the door there would be a German who would kill us. But, because I had been told not to be afraid, I couldn’t say, so instead I would hold on very tightly to my big brother.

During the day we would play and, of course, my brother went to school. Quite often the siren would sound and it was off to the shelter again. Sometimes manned aircraft came, which could be fighters or bombers, and at other times it was flying bombs. Even as small children we knew that, once the engines of these dreadful things cut out, they would fall and somebody, somewhere would die. It was terrifying.

After the war finished a lot of building work was carried out in our area of Essex (Loughton). Fields were dug up and prefabs were built. This work was carried out by prisoners of war. By this time I was attending infants’ school. I can remember one occasion very clearly when my mother had collected me from school and we had gone into the local post office. There were soldiers in there too and they had their guns with them. With the soldiers there were other men wearing blue uniforms but without guns. One of these men touched me on the head and said to my mother, “I have a little one like this at home.” She replied, “Let’s hope it will not be long before you can see her.” We then left. Once outside, I asked my mother who the man with the strange accent was and she said that he was a German prisoner. I can remember thinking, “So that’s a German. He’s only a man!” Which goes to show that there are no monsters, just people.

Pamela M Chapman

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