World War Two Childhood, Part 2 , By Tracey Vale

Before long, we could differentiate between German and British planes. We would hear the German bombers flying over our town on the way to Birmingham and Coventry. We would then listen to the German planes returning with the ominous knowledge that if any bombs were still on board, they would be released over Walsall.

My fear of this happening over our home was lessened by the nearby presence of the hospital and my Dad’s assurances. Malcolm, a school friend and also Mrs. Preece's grandson, and I had been standing on top of our air-raid shelter one afternoon after school, when we noticed a small plane flying low over the houses. As it approached, and descended even lower, we could see that it was a German plane and the pilot was waving to us. As soon as Dad returned home I told him about it.

“It was so close, Dad, we could see the pilot waving!” I told him as soon as he opened the front door. “What was he doing flying over us like that?” I asked.

“He would have been photographing possible bombing sites,” he answered, and then swiftly upon seeing my eyes widen in fear, he assured me. “As we live opposite the hospital, we’re safe. A big red cross is painted on its roof. Not all Germans are bad,” he said. “They won’t bomb the hospital, or near it.”

He was right. Our street survived the Blitz, the German onslaught of both night and day bombing raids. Not a window was broken, although Mrs. Preece had an incendiary bomb land in her backyard. She was ready with the Government-issue tongs and an already-full bucket of water. We were told that an incendiary bomb dropped in water within minutes of landing would not explode.

On the next school day following a session of heavy night-bombing, we would chatter amongst ourselves about which shop or street had been bombed and which of us had collected the biggest piece of shrapnel. I remember our delight when we saw what was left of a German aircraft which had been shot down the night before and now lay derelict in the street beside our school.

A large underground Air Raid shelter was built at the school underneath the playground as, by 1941, daylight bombing raids had begun. We were frequently marched across to the shelter upon hearing the air raid warning siren. The shelter was horrid. Often, it was flooded and we would have to manoeuvre across planks to reach the uncomfortable benches we sat on for the duration of the raid, until the ‘All Clear’ siren sounded.

The shelter was dank, musty and dark, limiting our learning opportunities. We would do spelling tests, sing songs or make suggestions as to how we could all help in the war effort against the Germans.

We spent a great deal of time down there singing war songs and telling of our relatives who were being sent away in the armed forces. We had no doubt that the Allies would win—the songs told us so.

We sang ‘There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover...’, ‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when...’, ‘We’re going to roll out the barrel...’, so that we knew all the words thoroughly. We even made up our own war-time ditties such as “It’s raining, it’s pouring. Hitler went to Goring! He lost his pants in the middle of France and won’t be back ‘til morning!” Jean, Malcolm and I would sing this on the way to school, stopping along the way to purchase a stick of licorice root or a carrot stick, the replacements of pre-war sweets.

We were all word-perfect when singing the songs intended to keep up our spirits. We belted out such numbers as ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and ‘Run, Rabbit, Run!’. No German was going to frighten us! Later, of course, huddled in our Anderson shelters at night with the ominous sounds of falling bombs and of German planes overhead, it was a different story. No-one was singing then.

Class numbers were decreasing as some children in our area were offered evacuation to safety zones in country areas. It was a choice our parents had to make but most of my friends stayed on where they were. I was thankful not to be sent away.

School days were reduced to half a day. We were all reminded by our parents that, on the way home, “if the siren sounds, run into the nearest shelter”. If the siren didn’t sound, we would seek out the nearest bomb site and fossick for the biggest piece of shrapnel. This was followed by a trip to the nearby shop for the usual carrot or stick of liquorice root.

Despite the rations and the grimness and uncertainty that war on the homefront entailed, we all settled into a life that seemed normal. As children, there was plenty of fun and excitement and plenty of things to do. I don’t recall ever being bored.

Having an air raid shelter in the garden was like having a den. When there wasn’t an air raid, we would have secret meetings in them and arrange concerts. We made wonderful costumes out of coloured paper and performed on top of the air raid shelter or in the Wardens shed. Entrance to our show would set you back one penny.

My mother taught Jean and I to make little golliwog lapel pins out of wool. We stood outside the hospital, assisted by Jean’s sisters, to sell them at a threepence a piece. The local government gave us an award for our war effort.

After school, when we weren’t commissioned into a queue, my school friends and I would often travel on foot quite a distance from our homes to go tadpole fishing. During the Spring, Jean and I, prior to the daylight bombings, would catch two buses just to pick bluebells from our favourite site. Even with daylight bombings we would still go on little adventures with the warning to “Go to the nearest shelter or house if the siren sounds.” Despite there being a war on and with all the dangers that entailed, we children were given so much more freedom than the children of today.

I remember seeing people digging and collecting coal chippings from the nearby Bentley Estate ‘slag heaps’ on Pleck Road and also recall the long queues for people wanting coke for their household heating from the Walsall Gasworks, a pleasure we did not have to endure as we enjoyed electric heat, thanks to Dad, and an oil heater for our shelter.

These same ‘slag heaps’ got me into trouble one day when some school friends introduced me to sliding down the open-pit mines on a piece of tin. It was great fun but I arrived home a far cry from the clean child that had left for school that day. Not only that, but the back of my dress, as well as my knickers, were torn to shreds!

“Never again!” were my mother’s last words on the subject.

And, of course, we had our fears and fair share of sadness amongst all of this. It was a  deeply sorrowful time when someone we knew had been killed. I remember hearing the hushed words of my parents when a relative of my father’s had been killed during the London bombings. She was a dancer and I was given one of her costumes, an elaborate, velvet cape which I later remodeled into a leotard.

As for the fears, we had heard stories of German pilots machine-gunning children on their way to school. I don’t know if this was true but we nevertheless sought out ‘hidey-holes’ along the route as a back-up plan. No-one ever walked to school alone. We were always in groups—although, strange as it may sound, a parent accompanying any of us was a rare sight.

After school, our mothers would be waiting for us to begin queuing for food, as this was the optimal time. We would queue for the food that wasn’t rationed. Mum and I would begin with the local Bakery. It was a good day if we came out with cake or buns.

On other days I would queue alone and it was quite a common sight to see children patiently waiting in line. My mother would often give me money with the instruction: “After school, if you see a queue, join it and bring back whatever they are selling. Try the Butcher’s first.”

Sausage meat, whale meat and horse meat were not rationed and were therefore on offer. We never ate the latter two options and our own rabbits and chickens were also off limits, much to Mrs. Preece’s disgust. When the Ministry of Food men would come to kill the Preece’s pigs, we would go out for the day, so as not to hear their death squeals, and I would shed more than a few tears for them.

Birmingham was our nearest city. Beyond that was Coventry. They, along with London, were bombed almost out of existence. Birmingham had become an industrial centre with munitions and aircraft factories taking up the spaces once used for peace-time manufacturing of motor vehicles, clothing and so on. As such, Birmingham was a major target for German bombing.

Despite this, many times, mum and I caught a bus to Birmingham during the war. Mum loved shopping there and so we would board the Midland Red Bus for the nine-mile journey. Often, just outside the City Limits, the bus would come to a halt.

“Everybody out!” The conductor would bellow. “Can’t go any further! Street has been bombed.”

So, along with the other passengers, we would all alight from the bus, climb haphazardly over the bomb-damaged area and discover another bus waiting on the other side or in the next street. We would board the bus and I would have another piece of shrapnel to add to my collection.

We would always go to the big Lewis’ Department Store. I think Mum just liked the feeling of being there as we never seemed to buy much. We would go to the basement cafeteria and queue for whatever was available. I loved it, yet I don’t know why we risked this trip and why we did it so many times. Perhaps mum thought it brought normality to our lives—but it was far from normal. Worse and riskier still, were the times when I was sent alone.

Mum had read in the paper that there was to be a “Once in a Lifetime Sale” at the Lewis Store, offering such items as sheets without requiring the sacrifice of clothing coupons. Mum had planned to go but had woken with one of her headaches and was on the threshold of one of her ‘bad’ days.

It was in October of 1941. I had only just turned nine and there I was alone on a bus to Birmingham to purchase anything that wasn’t rationed at the Lewis Department store. I don’t recall what I bought, and often this was the case when a queue was spotted—you joined it, regardless of whether you knew what it was for, but I returned home safely with my purchases.

Two days later, in that same month, I heard in a radio broadcast that, along with Selfridges and Marshall and Snellgrove, Birmingham’s Lewis Department store had been bombed. Worse still—it had been bombed during a daylight raid with many people killed, unable to escape from the basement.

“In Birmingham, yesterday,” the broadcaster reported, “Lewis Department Store was bombed during a daylight raid. There was a large loss of life...”

 

A World War Two Childhood, By Tracey Vale

I watched the slow spin of the triangle as I held it by its string in front of me, waiting for the moment to strike it in my own contribution to the raucous music lesson that was underway at the Wolverhampton Road Infants’ School.

“Instruments down!!” Miss Marshall, our stern-faced principal had swept officiously into the room, shouting above the noise of a cacophony of instruments. The room was quickly silenced and she began: “Children, you must all be very brave...” I have always found this a funny phrase—‘the silence deepened’—but that was indeed what it did as we sensed the gravity but lacked a full understanding of the impetus of her continuing words.

It was the first week in September of 1939. Next month I would be seven years old. On September 1, Germany had invaded Poland under the dubious yet somewhat spell-binding leadership of Adolf Hitler. By September 3, Britain and France had declared war on Germany. Then Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, had just broadcast the news. World War Two had begun.

“You will always be cared for in every way possible,” Miss Marshall finished.

We, as children that day war was announced, had a vague, detached idea of war based on the experiences, not much talked about, of our parents and World War One. My Grandfather Jenkins and his brother were sent to fight in France in 1915. Fortunately, both survived but my mother’s brother was not so lucky.

My Uncle Joe was killed in the Third Battle of Ypres during that war and, of course, never knew me and nor I, him. His daughter, Margaret was born not long after his death and I was to know her well during the ensuing war. He was my mother’s brother, Joseph Meers and, upon his death on the war-front in 1917, my mother left school and fronted up to the manager of a wholesale textile supplier, where Joseph had been employed prior to joining the armed forces.

The 14-year-old Isabel stated with determined defiance “My brother, Joseph Meers, has just been killed on duty in Belgium and I want his job!” Her stoic declaration was rewarded—she got the job. She worked as a cutter, cutting cloth for gentlemen’s suit orders from all over Staffordshire. She would tell me how difficult it was for her small hands to work the long, heavy shears. “Look! Those shears made my fingers crooked!” She would say, holding her right hand up. Then, with a sigh, “But I didn’t mind because they were my brother's”.

She continued to work there until her marriage, at which time she had become secretary to her employer. During that time, in her late teens, she suffered a nervous breakdown and spent three months in a sanatorium. I hadn’t thought about it then but, much later, I wondered how much the loss of her brother and the resultant sadness of her war-time experience had contributed to her breakdown. The tragic losses that changed the lives of so many grieving families were soon to be felt again and anew. It would not be long before all our childhood views were altered and we would all learn about war firsthand.

I became increasingly fearful in those early days listening to the radio broadcasts of the developing war. Poland’s position between enemy territories and, ultimately, her severe lack of armour and leadership against the well-equipped and well-strategised German forces, was to leave her floundering. At home, and with these forces encircling Poland with massive intent, we sat around the radio and listened to broadcasts of  Lord Haw Haw—“Germany calling...Germany calling..”—reporting that the German Army was headed for Warsaw.

I was frightened beyond belief at this news, for it was not “Warsaw” I heard but “Walsall”, where we lived. After several reports of this nature, I eventually shared my fear with mum and dad, who quickly clarified that the region was Warsaw, thus placating me. From then on, they decided to discuss with me what we were hearing in those broadcasts.

By  September 27, defenses at Warsaw had collapsed under defeat. Poland was to be carved up, with territories divvied up between Germany and Russia.

In a very short time, we were issued with gas masks. These came in a sturdy cardboard box with a string handle and we were told we “must never leave home without them”. Each morning at school, we would wear them for five minutes to get used to them. They felt alien and cumbersome and smelt pungently of rubber.

Large holes were dug in back gardens, or in the front where a back yard didn’t exist, and Anderson shelters were built for protection during air raids. Several curved sheets of thin steel were delivered to those families with gardens. These were to be half buried in the dug-out holes with earth heaped on top for camouflage and further protection.

We were issued with bunks to sleep on, with the size of the shelter and the number of bunks issued being determined on how many were residing in the house at the time. We spent many, many nights attempting sleep in the close quarters. I must have been warmer than most as my mother had cut up her most treasured fur coat to make me an all-in-one, hooded siren suit. It lasted me right through the war.

Apart from the routine of gas-mask practice and the building of Anderson shelters, life remained relatively normal and uneventful during the first few months of war. This portion of the conflict became known as the ‘phoney war’, believed to be run by civil servants and not soldiers, with Hitler the only beneficiary. The British Expeditionary Force were stationed on the Belgian border, with nothing to do but wait, while the French sat blockading their eastern frontier. Hitler, unfazed by this and on the back of his Polish victory, went on to plan his invasion of Norway and Denmark.

By the end of the first year of war thousands of anti-Nazi leaflets had been dropped by British and French planes over Germany, leading to the nickname of not only the ‘phoney war’ but also the ‘leaflet war’.

Rationing was introduced on the 8^th of January 1940. Everything good was rationed which meant that our diets were not great. To compensate by a small measure, the Government issued all children a bottle of milk each day and once a week, parents would line up at the Town Hall or library for a medicine bottle of thick orange juice—also only for children.

Our school sandwiches suffered perhaps the worst under rationing. Tomato sauce sandwiches, left for two or more hours in a paper bag, were definitely not for the squeamish. Jam and marmalade were also rationed and were only marginally better as a sandwich filling.

One of the many ‘placards’ wielded at us during the war—leading to another name, ‘the placard war’--was “Dig for Victory”, also known as “Grow for Britain”. This meant digging up any available turf for the planting of vegetables for self-sustainability.

We went at it with great enthusiasm, pulling up flowerbeds for our vegetables and fruit. We were also provided with animals and chickens for meat and eggs.

Dad built luxury accommodation for our rabbits, hens and bantams and felt proud of our contribution to the war effort. The neighbours kept pigs as well but we felt it was a very sad day when those pigs became bacon and pork. Although offered, we couldn’t take even one slice of their bacon.

We named all of the rabbits, bantams and chickens on the Jenkins’ property and all, therefore, survived the war. I’m not quite sure how our rabbits contributed to the war effort but at least the chickens could provide eggs. Dad argued that they were morale boosters and, for me, I’m sure he was right! 

Later, around 1942, we were to receive assistance with the "Dig for Victory" campaign from Italian

prisoners of war, who were put to work  to assist us in our endeavours. They were also utilised as farm workers. They were free to walk around, allowed out under loose escort from the labour camps and hostels that had been specially erected for them, but wore regulation red ties to signify that they were P.O.W.s. We children loved talking to them.

Meanwhile, Hitler was putting his spring offensive into action. The war and our first-hand witness of its devastation was about to be played out.

We heard Neville Chamberlain’s announcement that “Hitler has missed the bus”. But, only four days later, on April 8, 1940, British warships in the region discovered that this was far from the truth. German craft were transporting troops to five major ports on the Norwegian shore. Norway was crucial to Germany as a launch point for aerial attacks on Britain and on the British navy, the latter of which posed a threat to the passage of ships carrying vital Swedish iron ore to Germany.

Exactly one month later Neville Chamberlain resigned and, on May 10, Winston Churchill was sworn in as the new Prime Minister. His first priority was to form a coalition government to focus utmost on the conflict.

On that same day, May 10, Germany struck Holland and Belgium. By May 14, they had forced their way through France’s Maginot Line, thought to be impenetrable by tanks.

“Have yer heard?” called the familiar, carrying voice of our neighbour, Mrs. Preece. “They’ve put a call out for yachtsmen to rescue our troops and the Frenchies from Dunkirk!”

Thousands of British and French troops were trapped and the evacuation of British and Allied troops from Dunkirk ensued, amid calls to amateur yachtsman to assist with the mammoth effort.

Our radio declared that the Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini, had announced that Italy was now at war. By June 10, 1940, Italy declared war on Britain and France. Two days later the Royal Air Force responded by bombing Genoa and Milan. 

Life in Walsall continued with the announcements of the various stages of war becoming interesting background but, as yet, nothing more. Little did I know that the events at Dunkirk would signify the beginning of the worst this war would offer to the British home front.  Most exciting for me during this time was the arrival of three cousins who were to stay with us for the duration of the war. I was no longer an only child but part of a larger family like that of my friend Jean’s.

At 23, Margaret was the eldest. She was the daughter that Joseph never knew. Her mother, Ethel, remarried when Margaret was in her early teens and they moved from Walsall to the nearby town of Cannock. She was not happy there and, eventually, sought out her Aunt and Uncle in Walsall to live and find work. Before long she was doing her bit for the war effort, which I thought was terribly brave. On duty a few nights during the week, she would stand on the roof of the Co-op Grocery store, about a ten minute walk from where we lived. Her job was to search for aircraft or fires to alert the air-raid Wardens. My mother didn’t like it and would so often say “She’s so young...”

The other two cousins were Gordon and Ceiwens. Their parents had a boarding house in Saltburn, on the Yorkshire coast. It was thought that Germany would make a landing for invasion on the north coast, so they came to us. After the war, and after their father died, their mother came to live in Walsall too.

With these three young people in our home, my mother seemed to have less depression. There was lots of laughter, music, excitement and concerts. But, after the war when distractions were few and the household became small once again, she would hide in abandoned air raid shelters when she was not nearly as happy with life.

When my cousins came to live with us, my grandparents, Nanny and Granddad, had moved to their retirement home, a cottage complete with an above-ground shelter, that they never inhabited, and enough space to grow their own vegetables. Soon after, Nanny adopted a cat she found outside the local fish and chip shop. After sharing her small piece of fish with him, he happily followed her home. With limited supplies in most pantries across Britain, Nanny’s was no exception. So she offered him a cup of beef stock and poured it over bread, which became his staple diet.

Further depletion of pantries was to come when some 30 000 tons of Allied merchant vessels headed for Britain were destroyed by Germany between June and August of 1940, compounding the pressure of rationing on the British home front. Germany followed this with their first concentrated attacks on British airfields and radar stations with the aim of destroying the RAF.

The next major broadcast announcement for us was what was to become known as “Battle of Britain Day”, September 15, 1940. This was the day Hitler realised the RAF was not defeated. From this date on, Germany’s attack on Britain was redirected to a predominance of night-bombing of its’ major cities. Our evening rituals in the Anderson shelter were about to begin.

“That’s the siren, Joan,” said my mother the first night of an air raid. Not that I could have missed it—it was an awful whining sound. Most nights during this 'Blitz' the bombings began around 7 or 8pm, under the cover of darkness. Black-out curtains in heavy fabric were installed in all windows, although often black paint or cardboard was used, to make it more difficult for the German planes to find their targets. The windows sported a criss-cross pattern of masking tape to prevent  shattering. These heavy curtains had to be closed as darkness fell and not a chink of light was allowed to escape onto the outside world. On his nightly patrol, the familiar voice of our ARP man, otherwise known as an Air Raid Precautions  warden, would bellow upon witnessing the slightest glimmer from a window.

“Put out that light,” he shouted, as he made his way along under the shelter of a black umbrella. Most air-raid wardens were older men and this one, one of our neighbours, was no exception.

“Silly old bugger!” my Dad would say. “That umbrella won’t stop a German bomb!”


Street lights were not lit and traffic lights and vehicle headlights were fitted with slotted caps to both reduce the light and to aim it downward. In some cases, street lights were also fitted with shields to direct light down to a minimal area. Another poster appeared declaring the warning "LOOK OUT in the BLACKOUT--Until your eyes get used to the darkness, take it easy." Deaths and injuries during this terrifying time were not limited  in cause by bombings and falling debris, but were also attributed to road accidents and falls due to the darkness.


In an attempt to reduce these incidents, white stripes were painted on light posts and similar as well as on the roads, particularly at intersections. Men were urged to walk with their shirts hanging out to increase visibility and all pedestrians were instructed to walk towards the traffic.

“Go up and put on your siren suit,” mum would urge at the first sound of  a siren. My fur ‘siren suit’ lay in readiness across the end of my bed. I quickly got into it, collected our bird cage with the two budgies safely ensconced and, almost before I knew it, we were bustling into the shelter.

We never went into our shelter until we heard the siren. My father, who had joined the Home Guard,  was only a visitor to the shelter because he was sometimes on duty and, if he wasn't, he stubbornly chose to get a few hours sleep in our house, which worried me no end. The Home Guard was formed in mid-May of 1940 when a broadcast request was put out by Anthony Eden, then Secretary of State for War, calling for volunteers to protect the home front as British troops were ensconced in battle elsewhere and it was widely known since the German onslaught of May 10 that, unlike the First World War, civillians would not be kept safe in this one.

Men who were unable to enlist due to being too young or too old, were urged to join, particularly if they were fit enough to march and could operate a firearm. Originally titled the Local Defense Volunteers, or LDP, they were later titled the Home Guard in a speech by Winston Churchill. The response to Eden's call was overwhelming, and subsequently poorly organised, with over a million volunteers by June of that year. The Home Guard became more structured and featured a number of veterans from the Great War as well as a number of functions, becoming a threat to Hitler's efforts.

As a member of the Home Guard and a qualified electrician, Dad was sent to a nearby aircraft factory to work on the cockpits of crippled fighter planes and bombers. The job hardened him to the sight of splattered blood and worse. 

Sometimes if Dad was around during an air-raid, he would stand on the top of the shelter and inform us on what was going on and what he could see from his dubious vantage point. "Birmingham is burning!” He would call down to us.

“Come inside, Dad!” I would yell.

When the all-clear siren sounded—a happy sound--we were faced with the dilemma of whether to go back inside or stay put for the night where we were now comfortable. I loved the way our neighbours would call out. The all-clear would signal Mrs Preece, in her very loud voice, to give her commentary.

“Did yer hear that lot! Birmingham's going to get it...,” followed by, “Do yer want a cup of tea, there's some in the flask!”