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...”
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