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.
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.
