A child in wartime

I wake up to the sirens drone
I was small but not alone
Sound was like a mournful scream
Blinds drawn so our lights are not seen

I am a small boy once again
See my mother's eyes in pain
Dad's in London fire watching
It is wartime no time to sing

We hear the planes up in the sky
Can't look out even if I try
Blackout curtains do make sure
If light seen warden will knock door

Under the table we huddle
Pillows, blankets and cuddle
Quietly I fall asleep
Wake up in bed heard not one peep

Mother must have put me to bed
Now it's morning I'm not dead
So must get up, off to school
Can't miss the bus that is the rule

The bus is late, I can see why
Buildings bombed Mum starts to cry
Hoping dad will soon come back
Working all night he'll hit the sack

Dad arrived when we got back home
Shrapnel gift from a dropped bomb
Showed it off at school next day
Kids crowd around at break for play

I liked watching planes overhead
Or listen to them when in bed
War's horrid I've seen it all
Still recall it while standing tall

Image found at https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00x543b

Kids in wartime

As a child growing up
When times were so tough
Just didn't have enough
And what we did have 
We would barter and trade

What I really liked best
In fag packets poked
That our dads smoked
Were all sorts of cards
So we'd barter and trade

With filmstars and airplanes
And fifty to collect
Swapping them the object
Each one had a value
So did barter and trade

Some were worn or torn
In albums they did not go
Were not wasted, oh no!
But kept to play a game
Not to barter and trade

Boys six feet from wall
Played game that was not hard
In turns would flick a card
Nearest to wall would win
Far too damaged to trade

Most cards issued long past
Though stopped in World War 2
Still abound for me and you
Too precious for a wall
But still barter and trade

Image found at http://kevanbundell.co.uk/blog/2014/10/21/flick-cards/


Although not a collector of cigarette cards now I was addicted to the hobby in my early school years in WW2. Even though cards in Britain were not issued then cigarette shops still had the albums available for the latest sets and my dad who worked in London could find them somewhere in the city! Most kids were serious about collecting some issues to get the whole set of 50 and use their swaps to trade for other collectables or if the cards were unpopular or worn they could be used for the wall game. Rules were loose but occasionally thirty or more cards could be won (half of them yours) by you having flicked one card nearest the wall! If you lost, too bad but not drastic as they were not usually in the best condition or you had no interest in them but they were merely ammunition for the game!

Didn't know we were poor

Cash came in our hands
When I was seven years old
A few pence in wartime

My brother and I
Went to Saturday movies
And sat near the front

We'd holler and scream
At the Cowboys and Indians
And all the cartoons

What little we had left
Spent of lemonade powder
Licked out of our hands

Looking back today
Very little pleased a lot
I didn't feel poor

We'd go to the park
With river running through it
Wading in water

We would climb trees
Pretend we were who we weren't
All life was a game

We'd play in the woods
Pretend we were Robin Hood
And fish for tadpoles

Dad was paid Friday
In time for Saturday flicks
Didn't know we were poor

Image found at https://www.sunlife.co.uk/blogs-and-features/a-look-back-at-the-saturday-morning-pictures

Leaving London

She stood there waiting
A small packed case at her side
Now leaving London

Orphan in wartime
Flower wilted by war's woe
Fleeing to safety

Father still working
Ma, sis and brindled dog
Gobbled up by bombs

Everyone agreed
Evacuate kids from London
To a better life

Torn from all they knew
Now hearing such strange tongues
No time for regrets

Kids shipped far away
Fleeting hopes now disappear
Many broken hearts

This precious cargo
Kept safe from wartime danger
But just to what cost?

In Great Britain during WW2 thousands of families were split up to ensure the safety of the children as the untargeted or blanket bombing of London was meant to frighten the population and force the government to submit to enemy control. Only when Britain had regained control of the air were the families reunited but sadly some never were.

The strange tongues referred to are the many different accents encountered in England and Wales unlike Londoner's cockney one.

Image of children waiting to board trains found at www.animationoptions.com

The sun still shone

I remember seven
Back in nineteen forty three
It was wartime then

It was all I knew
Tanks, planes, bombs and doodlebugs
We kids loved it then

Everywhere shortage
Even I was short then too
We had milk at school

Didn't play with girls
Climbing trees was a boy's job
And scraping our knees

Few dads were about
'Less they got back home on leave
Then they looked so tired

But the sun still shone
And the rain bucketed down
Just like aunties tears

Uncle stayed out east
Because he never came back
Died in prison camp

Image found at www.pixcove.com

Dreading the day

Jim hobbles along
I hear the tap of his cane
Before I see him

The athlete now gone
Imagining better days
Disguised to most

I remember him
Swarthy sportsman in his prime
Footballer of note

What smooths his way now?
Uncanny the change of time 
He's past wanting fame

Such songs that were sung
Poems of his fearsome skill
I too dread this day

Image found at www.pinstopin.com

Old woman waiting

My old mind thinks back
It seems only yesterday
Times were different

I was different
Boy marked by another war
Privation still rife

Shortages everywhere
Our family had little
But the sun still shone

We walked everywhere
Looking at the empty shops
In early morning

Old woman waiting
To buy a stale loaf of bread
At the baker's shop

They sold at half price
She couldn't afford fresh one
How times have now changed

Image of 1940's postcard by D. Tempest found on www.ebay.com

War Games

Summer of Discord
Foolish men discussing peace
Neither a winner

A compact of lies
To both each other and us
Death's scythe comes reaping

I'm learning to walk
Unaware of wars cruel threat
Parents fear the worst

We start a new life
Hate devastation and death
None are neglected

My childhood lessons
Jubilant, peace comes at last
Yet another lie

We still play the game
Conflict always our boardgame
Man's foolish hobby


Image from at www.histclo.com

A schoolboy in action

I hadn’t begun school when WW2 started but when I did I was a war veteran. OK I didn’t wear a uniform unless you count the Gas Mask in its box that I was required to carry over my shoulder as I caught the bus to school each morning. If the air raid siren sounded its urgent but mournful call during class we were very disciplined. We kept quiet and followed our commander (or teacher) in an orderly fashion outside across the playground and into the air raid shelters that were a few yards from the school buildings. There with hardly a chatter we would sit on the timber benches and quietly did what we were told to like good little soldiers. I don’t remembered being frightened but when we all packed in we were allowed to talk while the teachers would stay near the baffled entrances to listen for the all clear siren that signaled that the danger from the aircraft flying overhead was passed. However the school was never bombed which some boys thought was rather sad.

At home such a warning would be less of a concern. Our house was in a street close by to farmland and we didn’t have a shelter to hide in. If the siren sounded at night we would stay downstairs and sleep there. For small boys this was an adventure that I can hardly remember as I still needed my sleep. I just let my parents worry themselves sick should any bombs fall close by. Some more concerned people had shelters in their back garden where they could escape from the house collapsing around them. My grandfather had put a corrugated iron Anderson shelter in his garden half sunk into the ground and to me it smelled of mould and damp. We were going to get a Morrison shelter for indoors which with a table top over it could be more useful when the bombs weren’t dropping but for some reason that never eventuated so we just slept under our normal dining table or huddled in the space under the stairs. I guess we were just lucky as most of the streets near us escaped any damage. At the end of our garden was a field and copse of trees and at the end of our road was a very large field indeed so no bombers wasted their bombs on us.

War is a terrifying time for parents but a very exciting time for children. This is because the main streets were filled with army vehicles, trucks, Bren gun carriers and most exciting of all tanks that roared menacingly like huge beasts looking for prey which of course they were, or would be once they had crossed the channel and started chasing the enemy.

Man had not yet been flying for forty years but now the skies were full of planes taking off and landing at a myriad of newly constructed airfields to house them and their crews. Boys like us were in their element spotting the planes with sharp eyes and identifying them by wing shape, sound and number of engines. As I was the younger brother my elder sibling had grabbed ownership by choosing the Supermarine Spitfire as his favorite so I was left to attach myself to the Hawker Hurricane which I liked best in any case.

Once or twice at school assembly an announcement would be made that one of our classmates had been killed in an air-raid we were sad for one day but continued fighting the war our way the next. We boasted of what our fathers and uncles were doing and what service they were in or what countries they had visited as war was with us day and night.

On one of the last days of the summer 1940 our family spent the afternoon on the Hampshire downs and in that glorious setting we all watched a dogfight overhead. There high in the sky above us almost out of sight except for young boys’ eyes a battle was being fought by tiny planes droning and firing and circling and falling on that dying day of summer. It was the culmination of the Battle of Britain, a deciding point in the war. The action that day was proof to the British people that we could win the war despite the odds.

Later as the war wore on we were playing cricket in the field adjacent one day and heard the drone of a doodlebug or V1 guided rocket launched from enemy occupied territory. We paused in our game and listened carefully and waited as it flew overhead. The droning of the engine did not stop so we were safe, so like seasoned heroes we continued with our game of cricket as the rocket would fall to ground when the engine stopped.  It was all part of the action.

At the foot of the Apennine hills

This piece was originally posted way back in 2009 without a prompt and has now found a home in Two Shoes Tuesday for the prompt Sacrifice.

The coach sped along the autostrada. Forty six contented tourists basked in the morning sun. Their tour of Italy was nearly at its end. The drive today would see them back in Rome in the afternoon with just a farewell dinner, a good night's rest and they would go their separate ways again.

What a great tour it had been. Ten days of sights sounds, food and friendship. Each one had a favourite city.

"I loved Venice."

"Oh. No Stresa and the Alps for me."

"Pisa was so spectacular."

"But what about Rome and it's history?"

"The romantic scenery of Capri, you can't beat that."

"Surely the remains at Pompeii?"

And so it went on, everyone's senses had been filled; not one disappointed. The attempts at the language, the fabulous food and wine, the irrepressible humour of the guide, what memories they would take back with them.

The coach slowed down and turned off the main road. The guide explained that the group would now pass the monastery of Monte Cassino. He was less buoyant now. He spoke slower. It was as though he something difficult to say.

"It was destroyed in the war by allied bombs and ground attack...the monastery buildings were rebuilt after the war...many thousands of soldiers died on both sides, attacking and defending it.

He looked away for a moment, then went on.

"Perhaps it was not necessary to do this. Cassino...Cassino, it was not so important." He shrugged his shoulders and sat down again.

As the coach approached the towering structure on the apex of the hill, the sun disappeared from view and the sad edifice cast its shadow over the coach. A village was passed, a turning taken and the coach drew up at a lay-by at the foot of some steps.

The passengers emerged into the sunlight again and were invited to view the Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery, overlooked by the monastery so high above it. The coach party climbed the steps and were greeted by a crisp cut field of blinding white. There in front of them marked by countless rows of identical marble headstones were the many graves of the fallen allied soldiers who gave their lives in order to take the citadel from their enemy. Not far away we were told there were other cemeteries; American, German, Polish, all giving testament to those few weeks of the war.

But these were not some unkempt graveyards of neglect. This place was fresh and clean and alive with trees and flowers and sound of birdsong.

Tourists became mourners and without words being spoken, they separated and walked singly amongst the dead. It was as though the experience was too personal to share. Row upon row of young lives lost; sons of grieving mothers, husbands of stricken wives, fathers of orphaned children.

There they were, captain and corporal, private and padre, all equal in that part of Italy which was now their home.

Lance Corporal William Scott, Dorset Regiment, Aged 21
Private John Hughes, Middlesex Regiment, Aged 19
Captain Reginald Farrow, Royal Ulster Rifles, Aged 27
Pilot Officer James Riddle, Royal Air Force, Aged 25

On and on went the inscriptions, each one a wound to the heart. More than one tear was shed at this frequent inscription:

A soldier known only to God

Once strangers, they were made brothers and sisters as the names were read. Closer too were they to the guide whose own soil had been soaked by these warriors' blood.

In grieving perhaps all now could see the futility of war. If lives have to be lost in causes not of their own making, there could be no better place to rest in that beautiful and awe inspiring cemetery at the foot of the Apennine hills.

(Photo by the author, names invented for privacy)

The Laundry Girls and the hinge of fate.

Look what I came across, it’s an old snap of the Laundry girls, and there is the foreman, five laundresses and the office girl. It is 1926 and it must be summer in England. For working girls the bobbed hairstyle was all the rage, even in a city on the south coast of England. Well they knew all about the latest styles because fathers and uncles worked the big liners that sailed into and out of Southampton all across the world. They would tell their daughters and nieces all about what they had seen and describe the exotic places they visited how the ladies dressed in America. So the tales from far off would germinate a need that would echo the black and white pictures they saw in the movies with the subtitles imposed and a piano player providing the music to match the scenes portrayed.  The hinge of fate has yet opened on their lives.          

That is Edna on the left and she has put her best foot forward. Curiously she was quite shy, and soon she will get engaged and later will give him up because he was too “fast”. Later she will marry the son of a friend because everyone will say what a hard worker he is. But that doesn’t make them love each other, and she will feel she has failed him because she can only bear him daughters and not sons. Edna lives to be 97.

Next to her is Patsy, what a pretty round face and smile Patsy had. Sadly she believed everything her first boyfriend told her and ended up pregnant a year after the photo was taken. Her mother raised the baby girl and Patsy thought of the little mite as a younger sister. Patsy died during a raid on the docks in Southampton in 1941 and her baby never ever knew who her real mother was.

Deirdre the office girl could type, so she worked in the office. She was the clever one and was good at dressmaking. Her indulgence was shoes because her mother used to tell of not having shoes to wear to school and having to wear her brother’s boots. So Deirdre decided to be different had four pairs of shoes including the black leather boots she is wearing here today!      

This is Bert the foreman with the two most senior girls linking arms with him. He was a veteran of the 1st World War but was too old for new war in 1939 forecast to be more lethal than the first; and it was for many. Bert joined the Home Guard and guarded the Post Office at night with a broomstick as there were not enough weapons to go round. He died in 1948 of tuberculosis after spending months in a sanatorium just south of Winchester.

Brenda is next in line with the big hair, I think she is a beautiful girl and she is in charge of all the girls except Deidre. Everyone loved Brenda. She married Frank a butcher’s boy who delivered meat on his bicycle and eventually had his own butcher’s shop. They had five children two boys and three girls. Their eldest boy became a politician and stood for parliament a couple of times but always got beaten by the sitting member.

Winifred comes next and she always looks sad. She is the eldest of eight and her father died many years ago. At home everything is left to Winifred to do, and must go out to work, get the younger children ready for school and somehow run the home while her mother takes in sewing. She said that when she married she would never have children but when one of her younger sisters had a child she changed her mind and never regretted it. She loved all babies and when she was old and ill her daughter looked after her.

Now what can I say about Lucy? Lucy was trouble with a capital T. When waists were not emphasized she bucked the trend and showed everyone she had one! With her dark come hither eyes and olive complexion some say she had Italian blood in her. Who knows? She didn’t stay long at the laundry for people to find out. The story is she headed straight for London and hit the stage with a bang. I like to think that when most of the theatres were closed down during the war she stayed on to entertain Londoners with some feathers and exotic dancing at the Windmill Theatre!

Note this is a conjectural piece with names and events invented