World War Two Tales
Tony Bernie
We lived in New North Rd in 1944. Upon yet another air raid siren mum decided to stay out and bath me. My Auntie Violet, grabbed me and took me down the Essex Road tube station. Mum duly followed. Upon emerging the next morning the shop and above where we lived were destroyed. Had I stayed with mum, had my aunt not intervened I would not be enjoying our emails.
Keith Morgan
Tony apparently has a few years on me, being born August 1947. Dad, as a trained machinist, did his part for the war effort from 1939 to 1941 manufacturing parts for small arms in a munitions factory which is where he actually met my Mum, He then enlisted in The Rifle Brigade at their Winchester Barracks. Two months later after a basic training stint somewhere in Scotland he was deployed to N. Africa. Dad returned home (thankfully uninjured) in the summer of 1946 otherwise I wouldn’t be here today. Dad passed away at 90 years old in 2000, after 67 years married to my Mum. I still miss him, dearly.
Tales of the ‘Blitz’ and air raid sirens were often topics of family conversation when I and my younger brother (Glyn) were growing up in post-war London (Kentish Town, Camden Town and later Islington) often being chased off bombed sites by the local coppers. I’ll always remember the absence of (removed) metal railings around local parks and buildings, taken down by the army due to the shortage of ferrous metals needed for munitions; and, occasionally the sound of an explosion from the controlled detonation of an unexploded bomb, of which apparently there were many and often incendiary devices.
Mum, the second of eight children, remained in London during the war years, taking care of her youngest two siblings, her Mum (my Nan) and her Dad a WWI veteran of the British Army. Her older brother (Richard) had been called up and was already in service (RAF) somewhere in Europe. The teen and pre-teen siblings were evacuated to various parts of the British Isles that were not targets of the Luftwaffe. All were ultimately reunited after the war. Uncle Richard was ‘de-mobbed’ and returned home in late 1945.
Mum lived with her folks in the Great Portland Street area during the ‘Blitz’ and the many stories of spending nights in the tube stations as air raid shelters are spine-chilling. My Nan never really recovered from that experience, and she wouldn’t ever go down a tube station or even get into an elevator (lift) again. Mum is hail and hearty at the tender age of 92! She is an amazing example of the ever dwindling numbers of the ‘Greatest Generation’ for whom I would imagine we all share admiration and gratitude.
Okay James,
Couple more tidbits: My Dad’s commanding officer (whose name escapes me right now) after the regiment was largely demobilised (some remained for the liberation of Nazi death camps) offered him a very lucrative job in his family business. Dad politely said thank you, but basically ‘F’ you, I’ll make my own way. Dad had no bloody time for ‘toffs’ just did his bit and got on with it. Work was plentiful in the post-war years, and Dad ended up working ‘in the print’ building and repairing “Linotype” machines. I’m gratefully blessed by having inherited his ‘hands-on’ working skills.
Guess it runs in the family, because as the story goes my granddad (on Mum’s side, a horse wrangler with a cavalry regiment) was offered freehold on a south coast boarding house by his commanding officer after WWI. Granddad’s response was about the same; albeit augmented by his reference “Once a Londoner, always a Londoner” and he went on to own the car park concession at the ‘White House’ in the West End. Granddad was the ‘go to’ guy for black market stuff after WWII and could get anything for anyone (at a price). He worked from a public phone and his local pub (I think it was the ‘Green Man’) and always came home with a pocket full of cash in his ‘great coat’ pockets which weighed a ton. Mum tells me his ‘entrepreneurial’ spirit courses through my veins.
Again, my apologies for any induced boredom . . . Best, Keith in LA
Micky Simmonds
Not boring at all Keith, really interesting; it just shows what our parents went through. My Dad was based in Italy and just one of the tales he told me about was him and his mates, after Italy surrendered, selling blankets to the locals. Around the corner, dressed as MPs, were more of his mates and as soon as the locals saw them they dropped their goods and ran. Dad and his mates just picked them up and sold them again. I do believe that this built on Dad as he was always a ducker and diver but he was never unemployed and worked till the day he reached retirement age. But the one thing he said that always remained in his mind was the tragedy of war.
Tony Azzopardi
My father served during the War in the RAF. He always told me how tough it was battling every day against the Nazis.
One of his missions was the destruction of the V1 & V2 positions that were very well protected, as we all know. I think that many of us have a parent who gave their life for Great Britain and our liberty.
Today I am 67, going on 68, but I'm alright and I hope that you're all also in good health.
Alan French
Me Dad was in the RAF. Aircraft mechanic based in India then Sri Lanka, or Ceylon as we used to know it. He applied to join the Navy but knew he'd never get what he wanted. The pilots wouldn't take the planes up after repair unless one of the mechanics accompanied them. Quality control we call it today. Locals sometimes broke into the barracks at night to steal, their way of escape was to grease their bodies so capture was almost impossible, slippery characters. He did tell me he thought it was six wasted years of his life. When he received his war medal he sent it back saying “dedicate it to the people of London who endured the most horrendous bombing "
Tony Azzopardi
Alan, what your Dad said about the bombing on London people is filled with wise words and permit me to say that I have great respect for the people that were killed or injured. I know that my Dad had the same world as yours.
My very best to you.
James Sanderson
As a lorry driver, my father's job at the end of the war became one of transporting concentration camp survivors. The practise was that on long journeys everyone was given sandwiches for their lunch.
On his first transport duty my father, head in the clouds, drove off as usual and hungry after a few hours driving, he pulled over and began eating. Eventually he realised how quiet it had become. All talk had ceased. He looked in his rear-view mirror and all he could see were eyes watching him eat. His desperate passengers, unused to the luxury of regular meals, had eaten their sandwiches as soon as they got into the lorry. And they were still hungry. It frightened my father and he threw what was left of his food over his shoulder into the back where a fight ensued for the scraps. Turning the ignition, he didn’t stop until he reached his destination.
Barry Page
From my aunt's memoirs : " … The war had turned into our favour. The Allies were sweeping across into Germany, and I knew it wouldn't be long before Keith (my uncle) would be freed. Doris (my mother) had a letter from Peter (my father) in the R.A.F. Regt, now in Europe. His unit guarded airfields. He said they had come upon one of the Jewish Death Camps, and he was horrified, but couldn't say much in letters. … "
George Kent
My dad was in the RAF in WW1 and he was medically discharged on the 11th November 1918 (Armistice Day) but apart from that I know nothing about his war service. On a lighter note my father-in-law was with Ord Wingate in Burma serving with the Chindits fighting the Japs in the jungle 250 miles behind enemy lines. They had mules with them and he would sieve through the mules feed and take out the oats to make porridge that supplemented his own rations, and after the war he continued to make what became known as “Granddad’s famous porridge” which also included in more recent years, the crumbs from the bottom of his biscuit barrel of custard creams, and this was still being made for the grandchildren and great grandchildren up until a couple of years ago. Sadly we lost him at the end of May this year at the ripe old age of 93 years.
Peter Duplock
My dad was based with the RAF in India. Apparently, on a night out, it was customary to hire a rickshaw (or the Indian equivalent). At the end of the journey, the “driver” was asked whether he wanted 2 rupees or 3 cheers. Knowing 3 was greater than 2 the driver invariably opted for the 3. Hip, hip, hooray followed and then a rapid exit.
One of my uncles was based in London during the war. I’ve no idea on what medical grounds he missed military service but at some point he was drafted in to the Home Guard. On a night duty he was left to guard one end of Hammersmith Bridge.
As he told the story, he was bored and started fiddling with his rifle and accidentally discharged the weapon. The bullet(s) skimmed the other end of the bridge. This triggered alarm/panic as it was assumed an armed attack was in progress. My uncle ran to the other end to explain and was promptly detained. A night in the cells followed.
During the blitz the same uncle was part of the London Fire Brigade. The story, as told, was that it was not unknown for the crews to take the appliance to a quiet spot and rest up (skive?). A favourite place was near the rear of London’s Savoy Hotel. On one occasion, Winston Churchill exited the rear of the hotel and on seeing the fire escape appliance, said “Get tea and sandwiches for these brave men”. I lost count of how many times I heard this as a child.
Tony Lawrence
I was born 8th November 1940 near Welwyn Garden City at a place called Brocket Hall originally a large private home but it became a Maternity Hospital run by the Red Cross during WWII. Over 8,338 babies were born at Brocket Hall during this period. Lord Melbourne's room became the birthing room and the Prince Regent’s Suite was the recovery room. My mother recalled the “Throne Room”, basically the loo, but she said you had to step up two levels to get to it, perched in the air so to speak.
Mum and I were evacuated and went to Littlehempston near Totnes in Devon to be away from a dangerous London, but dad stayed there as he worked at BSA [The Birmingham Small Arms Company Limited] at Enfield Lock. I was christened at St John the Baptist church at Littlehempston. Did not stay there long as mum was unhappy and missing her large family in Bermondsey and Islington, so in late December returned to London to live at No 6 Highbury Hill, Islington.
Despite being so young I do remember many occasions of being woken up by the air raid siren [a noise which still brings goosebumps and shivers down the spine] and staggering half asleep down to the brick built air raid shelter built in the road just outside our house.
Nan and Grandad Lawrence lived in 172 Liverpool Buildings down near Highbury Corner and when he was home, dad used to take me there on Sunday mornings. We would also go and see great grandad John Theis [nan’s father who also lived in the buildings]. We would walk through Highbury Fields, down Highbury Place to Highbury Corner and then up Highbury Station Road to the buildings.
On one particular occasion we were walking back home and had just got past the open air swimming pool when the sirens went off. Dad grabbed me and started to run but due to a health problem he could not carry me for long so I had to run as well. By now the anti-aircraft guns in the fields had commenced firing. It was very frightening. Most of the houses on Highbury Place were privately owned, but one was also a little sweet/tobacconists’ shop. Suddenly the door to the shop opened and dad and I were unceremoniously dragged inside and rushed down to the cellar where we waited until the all clear sounded. We could just see what was happening outside as the cellar had a little window that was just about level with the pavement outside. We were friends with those people for many years to come.
Another one …
Dad was in the Home Guard when not working at BSA [Enfield Lock] and he was on duty near Highbury Corner. Being close to the railway line, the Luftwaffe used the tracks as a means of identifying where they were or going. The air raid sirens had gone off and, sometime into the raid, parachutes could be seen floating down, and by all accounts Dad and his comrades thought they were crew of a German plane that had been hit and they were determined to capture them; plus a nice bit of silk was a welcome asset in those days.
So they were running down Highbury Station Road towards the location of the parachutes when Dad and his mates realised there were people running in the opposite direction. Dad stopped one and said “Where are you going, haven’t you seen the Germans?” Only to be told, “Yes I’ve bloody well seen them, and they ain’t crew but landmines!!!” The story goes that Dad and his mates promptly reversed course and overtook some of the fleeing public. Good old Dad’s Army.
Another one …
I have previously mentioned that my Nan and Grandad Lawrence lived in 172 Liverpool Buildings, Highbury Station Road; in fact they lived on the ground floor right next to Laycock Street.
Apparently when I was about 18 months, my Mum and Dad had taken me round to see them and I was all dressed up in white in the pram which they placed in front of the range, which in those days was always alight with a kettle gently bubbling away and perhaps a rice pudding in the oven.
They had all been chatting for a while when the dreaded air raid warning siren went off. Okay act normal, the enemy cannot be that close when, “Wumph. Wumph”, down the bombs came and everyone jumped under the substantial kitchen table as best as four adults could. After about 15/20 minutes, the all clear sounded and everyone got up from under the table muttering “that was a bit close for comfort”, or similar words!!! Then someone noticed me … I was absolutely covered from head to toe in soot from the chimney and all they could see was my two white eyes blinking through the soot. Yes they all laughed!!!
We lived in New North Rd in 1944. Upon yet another air raid siren mum decided to stay out and bath me. My Auntie Violet, grabbed me and took me down the Essex Road tube station. Mum duly followed. Upon emerging the next morning the shop and above where we lived were destroyed. Had I stayed with mum, had my aunt not intervened I would not be enjoying our emails.
Keith Morgan
Tony apparently has a few years on me, being born August 1947. Dad, as a trained machinist, did his part for the war effort from 1939 to 1941 manufacturing parts for small arms in a munitions factory which is where he actually met my Mum, He then enlisted in The Rifle Brigade at their Winchester Barracks. Two months later after a basic training stint somewhere in Scotland he was deployed to N. Africa. Dad returned home (thankfully uninjured) in the summer of 1946 otherwise I wouldn’t be here today. Dad passed away at 90 years old in 2000, after 67 years married to my Mum. I still miss him, dearly.
Tales of the ‘Blitz’ and air raid sirens were often topics of family conversation when I and my younger brother (Glyn) were growing up in post-war London (Kentish Town, Camden Town and later Islington) often being chased off bombed sites by the local coppers. I’ll always remember the absence of (removed) metal railings around local parks and buildings, taken down by the army due to the shortage of ferrous metals needed for munitions; and, occasionally the sound of an explosion from the controlled detonation of an unexploded bomb, of which apparently there were many and often incendiary devices.
Mum, the second of eight children, remained in London during the war years, taking care of her youngest two siblings, her Mum (my Nan) and her Dad a WWI veteran of the British Army. Her older brother (Richard) had been called up and was already in service (RAF) somewhere in Europe. The teen and pre-teen siblings were evacuated to various parts of the British Isles that were not targets of the Luftwaffe. All were ultimately reunited after the war. Uncle Richard was ‘de-mobbed’ and returned home in late 1945.
Mum lived with her folks in the Great Portland Street area during the ‘Blitz’ and the many stories of spending nights in the tube stations as air raid shelters are spine-chilling. My Nan never really recovered from that experience, and she wouldn’t ever go down a tube station or even get into an elevator (lift) again. Mum is hail and hearty at the tender age of 92! She is an amazing example of the ever dwindling numbers of the ‘Greatest Generation’ for whom I would imagine we all share admiration and gratitude.
Okay James,
Couple more tidbits: My Dad’s commanding officer (whose name escapes me right now) after the regiment was largely demobilised (some remained for the liberation of Nazi death camps) offered him a very lucrative job in his family business. Dad politely said thank you, but basically ‘F’ you, I’ll make my own way. Dad had no bloody time for ‘toffs’ just did his bit and got on with it. Work was plentiful in the post-war years, and Dad ended up working ‘in the print’ building and repairing “Linotype” machines. I’m gratefully blessed by having inherited his ‘hands-on’ working skills.
Guess it runs in the family, because as the story goes my granddad (on Mum’s side, a horse wrangler with a cavalry regiment) was offered freehold on a south coast boarding house by his commanding officer after WWI. Granddad’s response was about the same; albeit augmented by his reference “Once a Londoner, always a Londoner” and he went on to own the car park concession at the ‘White House’ in the West End. Granddad was the ‘go to’ guy for black market stuff after WWII and could get anything for anyone (at a price). He worked from a public phone and his local pub (I think it was the ‘Green Man’) and always came home with a pocket full of cash in his ‘great coat’ pockets which weighed a ton. Mum tells me his ‘entrepreneurial’ spirit courses through my veins.
Again, my apologies for any induced boredom . . . Best, Keith in LA
Micky Simmonds
Not boring at all Keith, really interesting; it just shows what our parents went through. My Dad was based in Italy and just one of the tales he told me about was him and his mates, after Italy surrendered, selling blankets to the locals. Around the corner, dressed as MPs, were more of his mates and as soon as the locals saw them they dropped their goods and ran. Dad and his mates just picked them up and sold them again. I do believe that this built on Dad as he was always a ducker and diver but he was never unemployed and worked till the day he reached retirement age. But the one thing he said that always remained in his mind was the tragedy of war.
Tony Azzopardi
My father served during the War in the RAF. He always told me how tough it was battling every day against the Nazis.
One of his missions was the destruction of the V1 & V2 positions that were very well protected, as we all know. I think that many of us have a parent who gave their life for Great Britain and our liberty.
Today I am 67, going on 68, but I'm alright and I hope that you're all also in good health.
Alan French
Me Dad was in the RAF. Aircraft mechanic based in India then Sri Lanka, or Ceylon as we used to know it. He applied to join the Navy but knew he'd never get what he wanted. The pilots wouldn't take the planes up after repair unless one of the mechanics accompanied them. Quality control we call it today. Locals sometimes broke into the barracks at night to steal, their way of escape was to grease their bodies so capture was almost impossible, slippery characters. He did tell me he thought it was six wasted years of his life. When he received his war medal he sent it back saying “dedicate it to the people of London who endured the most horrendous bombing "
Tony Azzopardi
Alan, what your Dad said about the bombing on London people is filled with wise words and permit me to say that I have great respect for the people that were killed or injured. I know that my Dad had the same world as yours.
My very best to you.
James Sanderson
As a lorry driver, my father's job at the end of the war became one of transporting concentration camp survivors. The practise was that on long journeys everyone was given sandwiches for their lunch.
On his first transport duty my father, head in the clouds, drove off as usual and hungry after a few hours driving, he pulled over and began eating. Eventually he realised how quiet it had become. All talk had ceased. He looked in his rear-view mirror and all he could see were eyes watching him eat. His desperate passengers, unused to the luxury of regular meals, had eaten their sandwiches as soon as they got into the lorry. And they were still hungry. It frightened my father and he threw what was left of his food over his shoulder into the back where a fight ensued for the scraps. Turning the ignition, he didn’t stop until he reached his destination.
Barry Page
From my aunt's memoirs : " … The war had turned into our favour. The Allies were sweeping across into Germany, and I knew it wouldn't be long before Keith (my uncle) would be freed. Doris (my mother) had a letter from Peter (my father) in the R.A.F. Regt, now in Europe. His unit guarded airfields. He said they had come upon one of the Jewish Death Camps, and he was horrified, but couldn't say much in letters. … "
George Kent
My dad was in the RAF in WW1 and he was medically discharged on the 11th November 1918 (Armistice Day) but apart from that I know nothing about his war service. On a lighter note my father-in-law was with Ord Wingate in Burma serving with the Chindits fighting the Japs in the jungle 250 miles behind enemy lines. They had mules with them and he would sieve through the mules feed and take out the oats to make porridge that supplemented his own rations, and after the war he continued to make what became known as “Granddad’s famous porridge” which also included in more recent years, the crumbs from the bottom of his biscuit barrel of custard creams, and this was still being made for the grandchildren and great grandchildren up until a couple of years ago. Sadly we lost him at the end of May this year at the ripe old age of 93 years.
Peter Duplock
My dad was based with the RAF in India. Apparently, on a night out, it was customary to hire a rickshaw (or the Indian equivalent). At the end of the journey, the “driver” was asked whether he wanted 2 rupees or 3 cheers. Knowing 3 was greater than 2 the driver invariably opted for the 3. Hip, hip, hooray followed and then a rapid exit.
One of my uncles was based in London during the war. I’ve no idea on what medical grounds he missed military service but at some point he was drafted in to the Home Guard. On a night duty he was left to guard one end of Hammersmith Bridge.
As he told the story, he was bored and started fiddling with his rifle and accidentally discharged the weapon. The bullet(s) skimmed the other end of the bridge. This triggered alarm/panic as it was assumed an armed attack was in progress. My uncle ran to the other end to explain and was promptly detained. A night in the cells followed.
During the blitz the same uncle was part of the London Fire Brigade. The story, as told, was that it was not unknown for the crews to take the appliance to a quiet spot and rest up (skive?). A favourite place was near the rear of London’s Savoy Hotel. On one occasion, Winston Churchill exited the rear of the hotel and on seeing the fire escape appliance, said “Get tea and sandwiches for these brave men”. I lost count of how many times I heard this as a child.
Tony Lawrence
I was born 8th November 1940 near Welwyn Garden City at a place called Brocket Hall originally a large private home but it became a Maternity Hospital run by the Red Cross during WWII. Over 8,338 babies were born at Brocket Hall during this period. Lord Melbourne's room became the birthing room and the Prince Regent’s Suite was the recovery room. My mother recalled the “Throne Room”, basically the loo, but she said you had to step up two levels to get to it, perched in the air so to speak.
Mum and I were evacuated and went to Littlehempston near Totnes in Devon to be away from a dangerous London, but dad stayed there as he worked at BSA [The Birmingham Small Arms Company Limited] at Enfield Lock. I was christened at St John the Baptist church at Littlehempston. Did not stay there long as mum was unhappy and missing her large family in Bermondsey and Islington, so in late December returned to London to live at No 6 Highbury Hill, Islington.
Despite being so young I do remember many occasions of being woken up by the air raid siren [a noise which still brings goosebumps and shivers down the spine] and staggering half asleep down to the brick built air raid shelter built in the road just outside our house.
Nan and Grandad Lawrence lived in 172 Liverpool Buildings down near Highbury Corner and when he was home, dad used to take me there on Sunday mornings. We would also go and see great grandad John Theis [nan’s father who also lived in the buildings]. We would walk through Highbury Fields, down Highbury Place to Highbury Corner and then up Highbury Station Road to the buildings.
On one particular occasion we were walking back home and had just got past the open air swimming pool when the sirens went off. Dad grabbed me and started to run but due to a health problem he could not carry me for long so I had to run as well. By now the anti-aircraft guns in the fields had commenced firing. It was very frightening. Most of the houses on Highbury Place were privately owned, but one was also a little sweet/tobacconists’ shop. Suddenly the door to the shop opened and dad and I were unceremoniously dragged inside and rushed down to the cellar where we waited until the all clear sounded. We could just see what was happening outside as the cellar had a little window that was just about level with the pavement outside. We were friends with those people for many years to come.
Another one …
Dad was in the Home Guard when not working at BSA [Enfield Lock] and he was on duty near Highbury Corner. Being close to the railway line, the Luftwaffe used the tracks as a means of identifying where they were or going. The air raid sirens had gone off and, sometime into the raid, parachutes could be seen floating down, and by all accounts Dad and his comrades thought they were crew of a German plane that had been hit and they were determined to capture them; plus a nice bit of silk was a welcome asset in those days.
So they were running down Highbury Station Road towards the location of the parachutes when Dad and his mates realised there were people running in the opposite direction. Dad stopped one and said “Where are you going, haven’t you seen the Germans?” Only to be told, “Yes I’ve bloody well seen them, and they ain’t crew but landmines!!!” The story goes that Dad and his mates promptly reversed course and overtook some of the fleeing public. Good old Dad’s Army.
Another one …
I have previously mentioned that my Nan and Grandad Lawrence lived in 172 Liverpool Buildings, Highbury Station Road; in fact they lived on the ground floor right next to Laycock Street.
Apparently when I was about 18 months, my Mum and Dad had taken me round to see them and I was all dressed up in white in the pram which they placed in front of the range, which in those days was always alight with a kettle gently bubbling away and perhaps a rice pudding in the oven.
They had all been chatting for a while when the dreaded air raid warning siren went off. Okay act normal, the enemy cannot be that close when, “Wumph. Wumph”, down the bombs came and everyone jumped under the substantial kitchen table as best as four adults could. After about 15/20 minutes, the all clear sounded and everyone got up from under the table muttering “that was a bit close for comfort”, or similar words!!! Then someone noticed me … I was absolutely covered from head to toe in soot from the chimney and all they could see was my two white eyes blinking through the soot. Yes they all laughed!!!