The Blitz

by Vince Cross

  Lewisham, London

  1940

  Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Lewisham, London 1940

  Saturday, 20th July 1940

  Monday, 22nd July

  Tuesday, 23rd July

  Thursday, 25th July

  Saturday, 27th July

  Tuesday, 30th July

  Friday, 2nd August

  Tuesday, 6th August

  Wednesday, 7th August

  Saturday, 10th August

  Sunday, 11th August

  Monday, 12th August

  Tuesday, 13th August

  Wednesday, 14th August

  Thursday, 15th August

  Friday, 16th August

  Saturday, 17th August

  Tuesday, 20th August

  Wednesday, 21st August

  Tuesday, 27th August

  Friday, 30th August

  Saturday, 31st August

  Wednesday, 4th September

  Sunday, 8th September

  Thursday, 12th September

  Monday, 16th September

  Thursday, 19th September

  Saturday, 21st September

  Tuesday, 24th September

  Thursday, 26th September

  Tuesday, 1st October

  Friday, 4th October

  Saturday, 5th October

  Thursday, 10th October

  Tuesday, 15th October

  Friday, 18th October

  Monday, 21st October

  Sunday, 27th October

  Monday, 28th October

  Tuesday, 29th October

  Thursday, 31st October

  Saturday, 2nd November

  Sunday, 3rd November

  Monday, 4th November

  Tuesday, 5th November

  Wednesday, 6th November

  Thursday, 7th November

  Friday, 8th November

  Sunday, 10th November

  Monday, 11th November

  Wednesday, 13th November

  Thursday, 14th November

  Friday, 15th November

  Saturday, 16th November

  Tuesday, 19th November

  Wednesday, 20th November

  Saturday, 23rd November

  Sunday, 24th November

  Tuesday, 26th November

  Saturday, 30th November

  Wednesday, 4th December

  Friday, 6th December

  Thursday, 12th December

  Saturday, 14th December

  Monday, 23rd December

  Wednesday, 25th December

  Monday, 30th December

  Thursday, 2nd January 1941

  Saturday, 4th January

  Friday, 18th April

  Postscript April 1946

  Historical note

  Timeline

  My Story– a series

  Copyright

  Saturday, 20th July 1940

  I jumped out of my skin when the air-raid siren started wailing last evening. I was in the garden picking sweet peas for Mum and the whole bunch nearly went on the ground. It was very hot, even at seven o’clock, and there wasn’t a breath of wind, the kind of weather that always makes you feel something’s about to happen.

  At tea Mum had been saying how rattled everyone seemed. That morning there’d been chatter at the shops. Someone knew for certain the Germans were going to invade this weekend, and they’d be in London by Monday unless our boys looked sharp. There are always rumours doing the rounds. It’s difficult to know who to believe.

  Anyway, Mum shouted from the kitchen for me to come in at once, sounding panicky. I wasn’t going to argue. I couldn’t see or hear any German bombers, but I’ve never been in an air raid. How much time do you have between hearing a bomber fly over your house, and a bomb dropping and blowing you to bits?

  As I went up the steps to go inside, I could see old Mrs Andrews from next door. She was walking in circles around her patch of lawn, looking up at the sky and wagging her finger, just like she was giving someone a good telling-off. God or the Germans? Who knows?

  From inside our kitchen we could still hear her, the muttering turning into shouting.

  “She’ll get herself killed, she will,” said Mum, sounding anxious and exasperated. “Barmy woman! Whatever’s she doing?” Mum wafted me towards the hall. “You, go and get yourself under the stairs quick, while I try to sort Bessie out. As if life wasn’t difficult enough!”

  We’re waiting for a proper air-raid shelter to be put in the garden. The Council’s going to deliver one this week. In the meantime we’re making do by sitting under the stairs or the kitchen table. It seems daft to me, but Mum says it’s better than nothing.

  I didn’t do what Mum asked. I wanted to see what happened. I watched as she ran down the garden, out the back gate, and into Bessie Andrews’s wilderness.

  Old Bessie was drifting around in a world of her own. Mum might as well not have been there. Mum tried talking to her softly and when that didn’t work she caught Bessie by the shoulders and shook her gently. The mad old woman pulled away and stared in complete amazement as if it was Mum who was off her head. I held my breath, wondering what I’d do if Bessie started hitting out. But she broke away in a sudden flood of tears and scuttled inside to her thirteen cats. Like Mum says, completely barmy!

  Because it was Friday evening, and Dad was doing an extra shift at the Fire Station, no one else was at home, so Mum and I crouched together under the stairs listening to the wireless until, fifteen minutes later, the all-clear sounded. Just another false alarm!

  Monday, 22nd July

  When my sister Shirl crept out to go off to work this morning, I lay in bed for an extra half-hour. While the birds chirruped away merrily in the tree outside our window, all I could feel was miserable. It seems so muddled that there can be a beautiful blue sky and thrushes singing their heads off while there’s a war with Germany going on, ships being sunk and people shooting at each other.

  There’s no one left to talk to, now that Maggie’s gone. Alison left first, back in the panic last September. Lots of the children from my class at school were evacuated then, to Bexhill in Sussex. Mum says she can’t think why they think it’s safer there. If the Germans invade, it’s the first place they’ll arrive. Then, in May, Betty’s parents got all nervous and packed her off to her Aunt Sally’s in Devon.

  Maggie’s my best friend. She’d always said her family would never send her away, until last Friday she suddenly mentions casually she’s off to Northampton till I don’t know when. She might as well be going to the moon, as far as I’m concerned. So here I am all on my own-i-o, and feeling really fed-up and lonely, even if the sky is a wonderful clear blue.

  That’s why for the first time ever I’ve decided I’ll keep a diary. I’m going to write down my real feelings about the awful, frightening war in this old exercise book. If I haven’t got Mags, Alison or Betty to talk to, at least I’ll have some way of giving vent to my thoughts and feelings.

  Tuesday, 23rd July

  So I’d better tell you about my family and where we live, hadn’t I? I’ll make a start with the house, and we’ll get on to the people in a minute.

  Summerfield Road runs beside a steep railway embankment about three-quarters of a mile from the town centre in Lewisham, and we live at number 47. It’s all terraced houses round here, and I suppose our street is just the same as lots of others, except I like ours best. There are trees along the road, and you know you’ve arrived at our house because the front gate’s painted bright green, Dad’s favourite colour. Out the back there are lots of flowers and vegetables in a garden which goes down about 30 yards past the shed to the foot of the embankment. Every quarter of an hour during the d
ay there’s the long, loud rattle of an electric train on its way to Charing Cross. That’s a big station right in the middle of London, eight miles away. Shirl and I are lucky to have a front bedroom. In the boys’ room at the back it’s far too noisy because of the constant clatter from the trains.

  I often wonder what it was like when there really was a “summer field” where our house is now. It’s funny to think of cows and sheep in our nice back garden. Perhaps that’s why things grow so well. All that manure!

  Anyway, now you know I’ve got a sister called Shirl, short for Shirley. She’s much older than me. Seventeen and a bit full of herself, but she can be a good laugh. Considering we have to share, she doesn’t get on my nerves too much. She works on the linen counter at Chiesman’s department store in the centre of Lewisham, which is useful for us Bensons.

  Tom’s my little brother. He’s ten, so he’s very nearly two years younger than me. Tom can’t keep still. There’s always a streak of dirt showing on him somewhere. Unlike me, he doesn’t read books unless he’s forced to. What more can I say? He’s a boy!

  When Frank and Maureen were here, I had to share with Tom, which was horrible with a capital H. Even so, I’d rather have Frank back. We all miss him terribly. I worry about him all the time and so do Mum and Dad. Frank is one of the ground crew at a Royal Air Force station called Biggin Hill. Everyone says he’ll be safe and it’s quite a cushy number, but how do they know? I’m sure the Germans are going to try to bomb the runways and planes Frank looks after. RAF pilots are killed every day now.

  Frank’s the oldest of us Benson children. Maureen’s next and she’s 21, but we don’t hear from her much. She’s with the army up north at some training camp. When she comes home, which is only once in a blue moon, she looks really smart in her khaki uniform, but I don’t really know what she does. We’ve never got on, you see. Frank always brings me a present when he visits, even if it’s just an old comic, but Mo just ignores me. Always has done!

  My dad is Mr Albert Benson and he’s wonderful. Nearly everyone calls him Bert. I think I told you he’s a fireman, and he’s as big and strong as you’d expect a fireman to be. He doesn’t get cross very often (and never with me) though Mum makes up for it. She’s nice underneath, but she hides it well by shouting a lot. I think she does the worrying for too many people, though maybe it’s just her red hair. Mum’s name is Beatrice, which sounds a bit old-fashioned to me. Don’t tell her I said so!

  So there you are! Now you know all about us. Oh, I nearly forgot. I’m Edie, short for Edith (ugh!). Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.

  PS I mustn’t leave out Chamberlain, our fox terrier! I know it’s a funny name, but Dad says it’s because he’s always hopeful, just like the old Prime Minister. That was Mr Neville Chamberlain who thought he could make peace with the Germans. He was the one who came before Mr Churchill. Our Chamberlain’s usually disappointed too! I suppose if we ever had a bulldog, he’d be called Churchill. You can tell from looking at his face Mr Churchill won’t take any nonsense from Jerry.

  Thursday, 25th July

  You know that lovely back garden I was telling you about? Well, it doesn’t look half as neat and tidy as it did a day or two ago.

  Frank came home on leave yesterday afternoon. He’s got a motorbike down at Biggin Hill, and he managed to wangle some petrol, even though it’s not really allowed because of the rationing. He looks just so wonderful and romantic in his uniform, though Dad didn’t let him keep it on two minutes. No sooner was Frank through the front door than the two of them were in the garden digging the hole for our new air-raid shelter. Now we’ll be safe no matter what Hitler tells his bombers to do!

  Mind you, Dad was a bit fed-up when he found out he’d have to buy our safety. He had to shell out seven quid for the shelter, and apparently all because he earns too much. First I’ve heard! Most people in the street have got theirs free. It’s called an Anderson shelter after the man who thought it up, and the first thing you have to do is dig this hole.

  You should have seen the size of it. I said it looked as if they were tunnelling to Australia, and Frank said it felt as if they were. The hole’s three feet deep, and of course it’s got to be long and wide enough for us all to sit inside. Dad and Frank bolted together the corrugated iron sheets to make the roof and sides, and finally they piled all the earth back on to the top, deep enough that you could grow rhubarb. Dad says that’s what we’re going to do. Fancy spending the night under a clump of rhubarb! Anyone would think we were a family of rabbits – still, at least we’ll be safe rabbits! When they’d finished, Tom and I lit a candle, and crept inside. It felt really cold and spooky, but I suppose when we’re all in there together it won’t be so bad.

  I’m a woodenhead. I told you my name the other day, but afterwards I realized you don’t know anything else about me. Well, I’m tall for my age (about five-foot-three), and I’m skinny, and in summer I get awful freckles all round my face. Mum says I’d be clever if I put my mind to it, but I don’t know about that. I look a lot like Shirl, but I don’t think I’ll ever be as pretty. (Mind you, she spends long enough doing her face!) I like going to the pictures, I like books, and I’m good at netball. I’m as good as Tom at football too, but you’d better not tell him. Oh, and I hate rice pudding, which is a pity because Mum makes one every Sunday dinnertime. All that sloppy milk with bits in. Ugh!

  Saturday, 27th July

  Mum’s been like a cat on hot bricks since Frank’s visit. I caught her moping in the kitchen after he’d roared off down the road towards Bromley. She said Frank had told her bad things.

  Apparently there’s German aircraft in the skies over Kent every day now, trying to take pictures, and Frank says it’s only a matter of time before they try to shoot up the airfields. After that he thinks they really will start bombing London.

  Building the Anderson has made it all seem so much more real. Dad’s taking it more seriously too. He checked all our gas masks last night and made Tom and me practise putting them on, in case Hitler puts poison gas in the bombs. When you look in the mirror, it’s like there’s a monster or a creature from outer space looking back at you.

  Then after dark we tried out the shelter. Dad’s made it as comfortable as possible with a bit of old carpet laid across the planks, but it’s cold and clammy even on a nice warm and dry July evening. Whatever’s it going to be like when it rains and it’s the middle of winter? As soon as we got in there, Tom decided he wanted to go to the toilet. Mum tutted and said he should have thought of that earlier. That’s all very well, but what if we’re in the shelter for hours, and the bombs are falling? What do we do then? Run inside the house and go as quickly as possible, I suppose. Dad won’t have time to read the newspaper like he usually does!

  Tuesday, 30th July

  What a cheek! I know Mr Churchill, the Prime Minister, says we’ve got to “dig for victory”, because Britain needs to grow more food, but digging up the Lewisham municipal park’s going a bit far! Where am I going to walk Chamberlain now?

  I said to Dad I couldn’t see the point, what with it being July. There wasn’t anything they could plant. Dad said he reckoned they’d put in allotments and everyone would grow cabbages. Wonderful! So not only is the park going to look horrible, it’s going to smell awful too. Not fair!

  Shirl’s got herself a boyfriend at last. I’m sure she has. If not, who was the bloke who walked her home after work last night?

  Friday, 2nd August

  The strangest thing happened yesterday, really frightening. It’s getting dark slightly earlier again now, and when I went up to bed at about nine o’clock there wasn’t enough light to read. Shirl needed to take off her warpaint and we had two candles lit in the room so we could both just about see without having the electric on. Anyway, we mustn’t have drawn the curtains properly, because five minutes later there’s a huge knock on the door like the world’s coming to an end and when Mum ans
wers it she finds a policeman on the doorstep making a fuss. Then he elbows his way past her into the house, saying someone’s signalling to the Germans.

  Mum tells him as politely as she can that he must be off his rocker, but he demands to see our room and waltzes upstairs to give us a right bawling out, shouting didn’t we know there was a blackout and were we on Jerry’s side? Shirl was completely shocked and embarrassed, and I cowered under the eiderdown. Good job Shirl still had most of her clothes on!

  When he’d finally gone Mum went completely mad. She didn’t know whether to be more annoyed with us for showing her up, or with him for being so rude and barging in like that. Shirl and I ended up in tears and all in all it was a horrible end to the evening. When Dad came home at the end of his shift this morning, Mum packed him off down the police station to tell the desk sergeant what he thought, but I don’t see what good that’ll do.

  I suppose the blackout’s necessary. It makes sense that we shouldn’t give the Jerry bombers any idea of what’s on the ground, but it doesn’t half cause problems. Dad said it was a good thing it was only a beat copper and not one of the ARP wardens who usually go round telling people to put lights out, because they really are little dictators. Then Mum shocked us all by saying that if you can’t beat ’em you should join ’em, and that she thought she’d apply to be a warden, because none of them had two grains of sense to rub together and if things got really nasty we couldn’t afford to leave it to morons. So that’ll be four of the family with uniforms, five if you include what Shirl has to wear for Chiesman’s. Shirl said I could always join the girl guides if I was so desperate. I told her she must be joking. No uniform was worth that!

  Tuesday, 6th August