Another week has
gone by. Today
is Monday. Wash
day for Mum, all
day. A school
day for me, at
Sandwell School
in
Blackwood Road. I
haven't broken
up yet for the
Easter holidays.
Easter isn't
until 25th April
this year. So I
wasn't at home
today.
Thank goodness.
Mondays are
dreadful, here
on the
Chester Road
in
Streetly.
Nothing much has been happening to me. But in the big outside world, which I don't know a lot about - or at least I don't yet - it's a different story. There's lots of fighting near a place called Kursk in Russia and also in North Africa where the Afrika Corps and the other German forces aren't beaten yet. And the RAF is getting busier and busier, out every night. You hear news on the wireless every day. About attacks on places like the Ruhr - wherever that is. They sometimes say "All our aircraft returned safely to base". But often they don't. Sometimes it's my favourite announcer reading it, with his lovely smooth and kind voice. "Here is the news and this is Alvanidell reading it". (I think his real name is Alvar Liddell, but it sounds like Alvanidell to me).
I wonder why they say "base". Rather than aerodrome. That's what they really mean. I can't visualise a base. But I certainly know what an aerodrome is. (As you can see, I can even spell it). They are really interesting places and some are on the very edge of roads. But the trouble is, cars aren't allowed to stop anywhere near them. Dad always drives past one as slowly as he dares, so that I can have a good look, and so I can sometimes see the planes. Sometimes out in the open, sometimes, if they are smaller, like a Spitfire or a Hurricane or a Defiant, under a curved shelter where the men can repair them. They seem to be dotted around everywhere. Sometimes really near to the road. Dad says that's called "dispersal". Another new word for me.
When they say the word "base" it makes me think of the basin in our bathroom. Don't know why. I suppose it's just a similar word. Ours is cracked, by the way. Mum dropped a pot of facecream or something onto it. She was so worried about having to tell Dad what had happened when he got home from work. She knew that we could never get a new one, not these days. It's quite impossible. So it'll have to stop like that until the end of the war. Which might be for ever. But Dad forgave her of course. And anyway I don't think it leaks at all. Or not very much.
For me, everything seems to go on as usual. Did the air raid siren go recently and was it enough for Dad to decide that my sister and I should sleep downstairs, in the dining room? I can't really remember. We certainly haven't been down into the air raid shelter in the garden for a long time. I can't say I miss it. It smells all musty and damp and concretey. And the air is always full of paraffin fumes. But now and then I'm got out of bed and told to sleep downstairs, on the floor in a sleeping bag. How does Dad decide that's the right thing to do? I have no idea. My place is on the floorboards at the foot of our grandfather clock. We've had this tall thing which stretches right up to the ceiling for more than two years now. It belonged to my grandfather, so it was my grandfather's grandfather clock! Grandpa was bombed out of his Handsworth home and Dad found him rooms in Hardwick Road. But his health never really recovered so that he died a few weeks later. That was around Christmas 1940. Poor Grandpa. I miss him. He was always very kind to me. He used to come to us every Sunday, before the war. I'd watch him from the other side of our dining table at tea-time. He loved anchovy sauce and it fascinated me how he would pour it, ever so neatly, in narrow lines all over his slice of hot, buttered toast. To and fro, side to side.
I sometimes lie there in the dark, in my sleeping bag, feeling warm and comfy, and I listen to the drone of a lone aircraft as it goes slowly on its way far above, up in the dark sky. I wonder who's in it and what they are doing and where they're going. They sound so lonely up there. No bombs fall and it was probably one of ours anyway. Slowly the drone fades away and we are back in silence again, apart from the steady ticking of grandfather's clock.
I've mentioned before a lady called Mrs. Milburn in Balsall Common. She worries a lot and tells her diary about it. She worries about her son who is a prisoner-of-war in Germany. She's worried about the news from Tunisia. Good news always seems to be followed by disappointment. But there are consolations for her. She has had a letter from an officer who is back in this country after escaping from the POW camp where her son, Alan, is. He's been there for nearly three years. This man is able to tell her a lot about how her son has been getting on. That made her very happy. And the day before yesterday there were blue skies:
"A pleasant morning about 11 a.m., when the grey skies cleared and the sun came out, warming up the world. I enjoyed biking to the butcher........ Many spring flowers were seen in London today, now that the ban on the sending of flowers by train has been lifted. There are some things people badly need, and flowers do keep up the spirits of townspeople in their wretched bombed cities. I am so glad they can have them. Our forsythia, daffodils, violets and flowering currants are all out now – not many daffs yet, but opening day by day".
Our daffs are all out here in Streetly, though. Here they are, in front of my sister, Mum and me, in our front garden in Chester Road. I've got my Sandwell blazer on. As usual. I don't look all that happy. I can't remember why. We are going out - or have just got back.
My dad writes to my brother today. He's started to write on airmail paper. One flimsy sheet and you can write on both sides. It folds up and you don't need a separate envelope. Dad tells him the home news and also what he's been doing with the Home Guard, and also what he did last weekend which was a free weekend with Home Guard duties cancelled. That was very unusual. He has a busy life, unlike mine which, as I have said before, usually consists mainly of mucking
about.
Apart from
school, that is,
where they keep
my nose to the
grindstone. This
new letter is
Serial No. 2.
What I am not
sure about is
whether Dad
knows exactly
where Graham is.
It's either some
place in Tunisia
or it could be
somewhere else
in
North Africa.
Apart from
anything else
the last line of
the address which this
letter goes to is
"B.N.A.F." I
think that means
British North
Africa Force. I
suppose it is
what they call
"a clue".
But my brother is OK, so far, and that is all that matters. We are all still feeling very relieved, here at home. Yet the world remains full of dangers, for him and, I suppose, for all of us. But that's the way it is, has been for years, and will probably always be. I can't imagine it ever being anything else. It doesn't really worry me. Except that it WOULD be nice to have a new Dinky Toy.
Eventually I shall probably know a lot more about what my brother saw and did and felt in these few weeks of March 1943. But today I know nothing. I am still six, for another few days at least, and I can only know and imagine so much. I can see in my mind's eye soldiers in khaki uniforms with rifles, and ships carrying hundreds of them, and aircraft dropping bombs, and the sort of big gun which my brother operates. But I cannot even begin to imagine what it's really like for a young man in the army when he's about to go into battle for the very first time. And in a country I haven't even heard of until now.
I shall never really know, because after this war there'll never be another one. Ever. So I'll never have to do it myself and learn what it feels like.
Lucky me.
Nothing much has been happening to me. But in the big outside world, which I don't know a lot about - or at least I don't yet - it's a different story. There's lots of fighting near a place called Kursk in Russia and also in North Africa where the Afrika Corps and the other German forces aren't beaten yet. And the RAF is getting busier and busier, out every night. You hear news on the wireless every day. About attacks on places like the Ruhr - wherever that is. They sometimes say "All our aircraft returned safely to base". But often they don't. Sometimes it's my favourite announcer reading it, with his lovely smooth and kind voice. "Here is the news and this is Alvanidell reading it". (I think his real name is Alvar Liddell, but it sounds like Alvanidell to me).
I wonder why they say "base". Rather than aerodrome. That's what they really mean. I can't visualise a base. But I certainly know what an aerodrome is. (As you can see, I can even spell it). They are really interesting places and some are on the very edge of roads. But the trouble is, cars aren't allowed to stop anywhere near them. Dad always drives past one as slowly as he dares, so that I can have a good look, and so I can sometimes see the planes. Sometimes out in the open, sometimes, if they are smaller, like a Spitfire or a Hurricane or a Defiant, under a curved shelter where the men can repair them. They seem to be dotted around everywhere. Sometimes really near to the road. Dad says that's called "dispersal". Another new word for me.
When they say the word "base" it makes me think of the basin in our bathroom. Don't know why. I suppose it's just a similar word. Ours is cracked, by the way. Mum dropped a pot of facecream or something onto it. She was so worried about having to tell Dad what had happened when he got home from work. She knew that we could never get a new one, not these days. It's quite impossible. So it'll have to stop like that until the end of the war. Which might be for ever. But Dad forgave her of course. And anyway I don't think it leaks at all. Or not very much.
For me, everything seems to go on as usual. Did the air raid siren go recently and was it enough for Dad to decide that my sister and I should sleep downstairs, in the dining room? I can't really remember. We certainly haven't been down into the air raid shelter in the garden for a long time. I can't say I miss it. It smells all musty and damp and concretey. And the air is always full of paraffin fumes. But now and then I'm got out of bed and told to sleep downstairs, on the floor in a sleeping bag. How does Dad decide that's the right thing to do? I have no idea. My place is on the floorboards at the foot of our grandfather clock. We've had this tall thing which stretches right up to the ceiling for more than two years now. It belonged to my grandfather, so it was my grandfather's grandfather clock! Grandpa was bombed out of his Handsworth home and Dad found him rooms in Hardwick Road. But his health never really recovered so that he died a few weeks later. That was around Christmas 1940. Poor Grandpa. I miss him. He was always very kind to me. He used to come to us every Sunday, before the war. I'd watch him from the other side of our dining table at tea-time. He loved anchovy sauce and it fascinated me how he would pour it, ever so neatly, in narrow lines all over his slice of hot, buttered toast. To and fro, side to side.
I sometimes lie there in the dark, in my sleeping bag, feeling warm and comfy, and I listen to the drone of a lone aircraft as it goes slowly on its way far above, up in the dark sky. I wonder who's in it and what they are doing and where they're going. They sound so lonely up there. No bombs fall and it was probably one of ours anyway. Slowly the drone fades away and we are back in silence again, apart from the steady ticking of grandfather's clock.
I've mentioned before a lady called Mrs. Milburn in Balsall Common. She worries a lot and tells her diary about it. She worries about her son who is a prisoner-of-war in Germany. She's worried about the news from Tunisia. Good news always seems to be followed by disappointment. But there are consolations for her. She has had a letter from an officer who is back in this country after escaping from the POW camp where her son, Alan, is. He's been there for nearly three years. This man is able to tell her a lot about how her son has been getting on. That made her very happy. And the day before yesterday there were blue skies:
"A pleasant morning about 11 a.m., when the grey skies cleared and the sun came out, warming up the world. I enjoyed biking to the butcher........ Many spring flowers were seen in London today, now that the ban on the sending of flowers by train has been lifted. There are some things people badly need, and flowers do keep up the spirits of townspeople in their wretched bombed cities. I am so glad they can have them. Our forsythia, daffodils, violets and flowering currants are all out now – not many daffs yet, but opening day by day".
Our daffs are all out here in Streetly, though. Here they are, in front of my sister, Mum and me, in our front garden in Chester Road. I've got my Sandwell blazer on. As usual. I don't look all that happy. I can't remember why. We are going out - or have just got back.
My dad writes to my brother today. He's started to write on airmail paper. One flimsy sheet and you can write on both sides. It folds up and you don't need a separate envelope. Dad tells him the home news and also what he's been doing with the Home Guard, and also what he did last weekend which was a free weekend with Home Guard duties cancelled. That was very unusual. He has a busy life, unlike mine which, as I have said before, usually consists mainly of mucking
about.
Apart from
school, that is,
where they keep
my nose to the
grindstone. This
new letter is
Serial No. 2.
What I am not
sure about is
whether Dad
knows exactly
where Graham is.
It's either some
place in Tunisia
or it could be
somewhere else
in
North Africa.
Apart from
anything else
the last line of
the address which this
letter goes to is
"B.N.A.F." I
think that means
British North
Africa Force. I
suppose it is
what they call
"a clue".But my brother is OK, so far, and that is all that matters. We are all still feeling very relieved, here at home. Yet the world remains full of dangers, for him and, I suppose, for all of us. But that's the way it is, has been for years, and will probably always be. I can't imagine it ever being anything else. It doesn't really worry me. Except that it WOULD be nice to have a new Dinky Toy.
 No. 2 - 101 Chester Road, Streetly, Birmingham - 29th March 1943 Dear Graham, We received your very welcome letters Nos. 3 and 4 this morning. No. 1 was received about one week ago and No.2 is missing to date. Awfully glad to get news so quickly of your safe arrival. Mother was wildly excited. She had been worrying a lot particularly after reading the German claims of U-boat sinkings in the Atlantic. Glad to note the trip was uneventful. Nobody who has not sailed the seas can realise the vast spaces. I think I only saw one ship during four Atlantic crossings. I suppose we shall have to wait for the full news until we meet again. You certainly are doing a spot of travel! Everyone at home is fit. Mother has had what appears to be an abcess in her face but this is getting better again. Sheila and Christopher are in the pink. There's not a lot of news of home. We have had your bedroom decorated and it looks very posh. Gardening is in full swing with beautiful weather and I was for Digging for Victory the whole of the weekend. I planted early spuds etc. Numerous people have been asking after you – all the Home Guard and a number of people at the works. Home Guard is about the same. We had a very full weekend exercise yesterday week, we took over defence of the 'drome (Walsall Airport) and had a very wearying weekend – no sleep and on the go the whole time. It was a big stunt with about 10-20,000 Home Guards engaged. A usual military mess up. So to make up, cancelled all parades yesterday and start again tonight at Battalion conference and films tomorrow. We have a new lot including the German action films of France, Russia etc. I'm night manager tonight at the works but that will have to wait till I'm through at Aldridge. Thursday I've to give a talk to the officers and NCOs of "A " Company on German tactics and the Battalion are asking for me to give ambush demonstrations to officers of the Battalion in about two weeks time. So am getting pretty busy, at works and outside.  Home
news is
very
scanty,
practically
nothing
to
report.
I had a
number
of panel
meetings
on
Friday
and so
took the
opportunity
to take
Mother
to
lunch.
Sheila
continues
with her
Youth
Club
activity.
Geoffrey Hall (left) has gone to the South Staffs Young Soldiers Battalion. Dodd has gone abroad. Nevitt is home o  n
indefinite
leave,
Winter
goes in
May,
Underwood
is in
the
Warwicks
and was
home on
a
weekend
leave a
week or
so back.
The
anti-aircraft
contingent
are now
officially
transferred,
82 of
them,
and are
getting
on well
with
their
training.
Naylor
(right)
has
become a
proper
commanding
officer
and I
believe
spends
most of
his time
taking
salutes
on the
gunsite.
Ramsay
(below
left)
is fed
up but I
believe
the
majority
find the
work
interesting.
We have
a very
sorry
crowd of
oddments
left but
they
worked
splendidly
on last
week's
exercise.
 By the
way, the
R stunt
is
working
well. (?)Headline news in brief. You should no doubt know what's happening in your corner. Over here nothing much moving except in the air. Berlin had a bashing on Saturday night, 900 tons of bombs in half an hour. We lost nine. They were out again last night, Friday was Duisberg and Essen had it good and proper a week or so ago. They are taking it all right now. There was a raid on north-eastern England and south-eastern Scotland two or three nights ago. 25 planes over, eight shot down. I will send a parcel in a post or so with the things you want. Do you want any money sent? Let me know means to send it. Very interested to hear of another example of how the Jerries have picked that country clean of foodstuffs. Like a plague of locusts as usual. What does G.B.D. stand for? (Part of the new address) By the way, I think it desirable to use this air letter service as much as possible as ordinary post takes so long. Glad to note you are keeping sober and presume you found out during your visits to France that you can't drink wine like beer. All send love – write again quickly and by quickest route. All the very best, old chap, and look after yourself. Your affectionate Dad |
Eventually I shall probably know a lot more about what my brother saw and did and felt in these few weeks of March 1943. But today I know nothing. I am still six, for another few days at least, and I can only know and imagine so much. I can see in my mind's eye soldiers in khaki uniforms with rifles, and ships carrying hundreds of them, and aircraft dropping bombs, and the sort of big gun which my brother operates. But I cannot even begin to imagine what it's really like for a young man in the army when he's about to go into battle for the very first time. And in a country I haven't even heard of until now.
I shall never really know, because after this war there'll never be another one. Ever. So I'll never have to do it myself and learn what it feels like.
Lucky me.
