Authors: Anne Bennett
As the war news worsened, the call went out for men to form the Local Defence Volunteers. People joined in droves and despite the seriousness of the situation it was quite comical to see them drilling. The units were composed of the very old, very young and the infirm, and most had no idea about any sort of marching, let alone marching in unison.
Initially they had no uniforms either, other than a black band around their arms. In place of rifles, which were in short supply, they practised with broom handles.
‘If these are the only defence Britain has against Hitler and his disciplined armies then God help us,’ Joe remarked one day over breakfast. ‘And how the hell do they hope to defend us with broom handles?’
‘Be fair,’ Gloria said, though she too was laughing. ‘They’ll get organised in the end. They’re having uniforms made, I know, because a few of those who work with me have got fathers or sometimes brothers in the Volunteers. And they are getting rifles.’
‘God, are you hoping to make me feel better?’ Joe said in mock horror. ‘If they let that lot loose with rifles they will likely shoot each other.’
‘Give them a chance,’ Gloria laughed.
‘Have we the time to give them a chance, is all I’m saying,’ Joe said. ‘I sometimes wonder if anyone has a chance against Hitler anyway. He seems unstoppable.’
‘I often think that too,’ Gloria confided, serious now too. ‘Doesn’t do to say it because it’s bad for morale and that, but most must think that if they read the papers or listen to the news.’
The veil of secrecy was lifted and people read of the Allied troops massed on the beaches. Naval troopships were waiting in deeper waters to bring them home but they couldn’t get close enough to the beaches to reach the men. Those living on the South Coast with boats of all sizes capable of crossing the Channel went out to help ferry the men to the ships.
Pictures of the soldiers waiting to be evacuated, standing in line on the pierheads they had made from discarded vehicles and anything else that they could find, were splashed across the pages of the newspapers. Even in the grainy newsprint, the fatigue and the desperation on the soldiers’ faces were evident, and Gloria’s heart went out to them.
But of course the Germans did not wave them off joyfully. The reports told of Stukas raking the soldiers unmercifully as they hurried across the sand, or stood in line waiting to be rescued, though some of the soldiers had hastily erected field guns to try to shoot the planes down. They had to cope with bombs too. The bombers also targeted the naval ships full of soldiers and a fair few were sunk.
By 4 June it was all over and Britain seemed to be looking at defeat. More soldiers had been rescued than had been thought possible, but still there were too many left behind, either dead or captured, and added to that was the colossal loss of equipment that all had to be replaced if Britain was to have any sort of chance against Germany at all.
France surrendered on 21 June. Most people were only too well aware that only a small stretch of water separated Britain from the French coast where German armies were massing prior to invasion, while Hitler’s bombers pounded the coastal towns.
Invasion was on everybody’s lips, and the government
directives sent to every household urged people to hide maps, and disable cars and bicycles not in use. At the same time, signposts were removed from roads and the names on the train stations were painted over. Railings surrounding parks and gardens were sawn off, and households were urged to take all unwanted metal objects to their nearest metal collection point. Every bit was needed to make planes, and in particular Spitfires.
Sometimes the skies were filled with these doughty little planes and whenever Gloria heard the drone of them in the distance she would feel her stomach contract with fear for the young pilots. Everyone knew Britain’s only hope of survival rested on the slim shoulders of these young men, and many lost their lives in their bid to hold supremacy in the skies, aware that unless Hitler crushed the air force, he wouldn’t risk an invasion.
While the battles were raging overhead, Tom wrote that the war was getting nearer to the farm, for a party of soldiers had arrived in Buncrana to protect Ireland’s neutrality.
‘Listen to this,’ Joe said to Gloria. ‘Tom says that Lough Foyle has been commandeered and is full of military craft now – warships, destroyers, frigates, all sorts. He has heard talk that they are making extra runways for military planes in the Six Counties all to protect the Merchant Naval ships. I wonder what happened to the fishing.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, Lough Foyle used to be full of fishermen,’ Joe explained. ‘There’s fishing to be had in the Swilly, but it is a much smaller lough altogether and couldn’t possibly accommodate all the men who used to fish the Foyle. It used to be grand on Saturdays in Buncrana. The fishing fleets would be in and selling their fish at the harbour, and boy, was it fresh. When we got in, we would have it for dinner, fried up in butter. My mouth would be watering just at the thought of it.’
‘Well, you won’t be treated that way here these days,’
Gloria said. ‘The grocer was telling me this week that he has heard the butter ration is being cut to two ounces very soon.’
‘Aye, I know,’ Joe grumbled. ‘And soon I won’t be able to have a cup of tea when I want one because they say that is being rationed from July.’
‘Honest to God, Joe Sullivan, aren’t you a first-class moaner?’ Gloria cried. ‘You have to make some sacrifices for the war effort, you know. And if all you have to worry about throughout this war is getting hold of a cup of tea, then you can count yourself as one lucky man.’
‘All right,’ Joe said, and added with a twinkle in his eye, ‘I consider myself suitably chastened. I shall never moan about rationing again all the days of my life.’
‘Hah,’ said Gloria. ‘And pigs might fly!’
On Saturday 7 September, the sirens went off the first time since the day of the false alarm when war was declared. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but Gloria was taking no chances. Ben, like most children whose mothers could afford it, had a siren suit, which could be zipped over any clothes he had on, and Gloria helped him into it and hung the gas mask in its box around his neck before attending to herself. In seconds the two of them were out on the street where they could plainly hear the drone of approaching planes.
This, then, was the real thing. Gloria was scared and wished that Joe was with them, but he took any overtime that was offered, and he was on duty as a volunteer fireman later as well, though up until now the nights had been quiet. The streets were no place to linger and, anyway, an ARP warden was at her elbow. ‘Hurry along do, ducks,’ she said, and Gloria threw the shelter bag and gas mask over her shoulder so that she could hold Ben’s hand.
She had already worked out the quickest way to the nearest shelter, which was in St Ann’s Road, and they hurried
down Harold Road, crossing over Wakefield Road. By the time they were scurrying down the High Road, following the streams of people, the first of the falling bombs could be heard. Everyone put on a spurt, and then St Ann’s Road was before them, and the reassuring sight of the reinforced sandbagged shelter.
The place was packed when Gloria and Ben arrived, but more and more piled in, so there was barely room to move. And there they stayed for two hours, while the explosions and thuds and thumps and crashes went on all around them. Gloria battled with a primeval fear, such as she had never felt before. This fear wasn’t for herself as much as for her young son, whom she had to protect at all costs. Other people were just as frightened as she was, and she heard their cries and screeches all around her. Mixed with the sound of the falling bombs, the noise was almost unbearable. Her arms encircled Ben as he jumped when a bomb fell very close. Babies were wailing, and the strident sound seemed to resound off the walls.
Eventually the reassuring sound of the all clear cut through everything, and Gloria gave a sigh of blessed relief. When she took hold of Ben’s hand, she realised that he was shivering and she willed her voice to have no hint of a tremble in it as she said to him, ‘That was a bit scary, I must say. But thank goodness it was over fairly quickly, and Daddy might be home when we get in.’
Joe wasn’t in the apartment, but he must have been home, for his fireman’s uniform was gone. Gloria guessed he had gone straight on duty to fight the raging fires.
Two hours later, the bombers were back. Gloria could hardly believe it. Ben was in his pyjamas ready for bed, and she pulled a jumper over them for extra warmth before zipping him into his siren suit, then put his socks and boots back on with hands that shook.
As they scurried through the streets once more, Gloria
looked back and saw the menacing planes in the sky, their intermittent drone filling the air. The ferocious fires were still burning brightly, lighting up the sky for the bombers, and she felt more terrified than ever.
Later, cowering in the shelter, everyone was aware that the pounding intensity of the raid was coming closer. Some people began to pray, and others to wail and cry. The bombing went on all around them for hour after hour, until Gloria felt she had always been there sitting on that hard bench, gasping in the rank, fetid air, holding her terrified son in her arms while the booms and thumps and crashes shook the walls.
When the all clear roused her, she was leaning against a perfect stranger with Ben cuddled between them, fast asleep despite the noise, and she lifted him in her arms for she knew he was in no fit state to walk.
When they reached home, the clock read a quarter to five, and Gloria carried Ben through to his room and laid him in the bed just as he was, pausing only to remove his boots. Then she went back through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She ached with fatigue and her eyes felt sore and gritty, but she knew she was too churned up and worried about Joe to sleep.
In the end she made a cup of tea, hoping that it would warm her, for she felt as if she had ice running in her veins, but she drank the scalding liquid without really tasting it. It was as she drained the cup that she heard the dragging sound outside the door and she went to open it.
Joe almost fell through it. Red bloodshot eyes stood out in his blackened face, and a foul, caustic smell emanated from him. He was also barely able to stand with weariness.
‘Almighty God, Joe!’ Gloria cried. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’
Joe didn’t answer and, seeing his jacket was mud-smeared and dripping, Gloria unbuttoned it, eased it from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor before taking some of his
weight as she led him to the sofa and lowered him down gently.
She poured him a cup of tea and pushed it into his cracked and begrimed hands. ‘Drink that,’ she said. ‘It’s well sweetened.’
Joe took it from her gratefully, hoping it would help to stop him shivering. His trembling wasn’t from cold, but came from deep inside him, reaction to the God-awful things he had seen and done that night.
Gloria was sobbing, seeing Joe in such a state, and as she kneeled to unlace and remove his wet and muddy boots Joe ran a hand over her hair. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’
Even as he spoke he wondered if he would ever be all right again. The tea did revive him a little and as he handed the drained cup back to her his tortured eyes met hers as she sat back on her heels staring at him, tears trickling down her face.
‘I was helping with the fires,’ he said.
She nodded.
‘There were so many dead, so many suffering,’ he went on. ‘Fires were like raging infernos, breaking out everywhere. They needed everyone to help. I just couldn’t leave. I knew you would be worried. I’m sorry.’
Gloria put her arms around him. ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘None of this matters. Have you eaten?’
Joe gave a brief nod. ‘At a WVS van. I really need to sleep.’
‘Come on then,’ Gloria said. ‘Let’s get you into bed.’
‘No, not bed,’ Joe said. ‘I’m far too dirty and too weary to wash.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Please. I just want to stay here,’ he said, sagging back on the sofa.
He closed his eyes as if the effort of speaking had totally tired him out, and Gloria had no desire to fight with him.
He had gone through quite enough already that night, she guessed. She lifted his legs up gently, and he lay back and sighed. By the time she returned with a blanket to cover him, he was fast asleep.
She envied Joe that sleep. She lay awake for hours, for her mind refused to close, and she went over and over the events of that evening and night. She had the feeling, now the raids had begun, they would continue as they had in other towns and cities. She might spend many nights in the shelter, while Joe would be in the thick of it just as much as any fighting man. And she would have to draw on every vestige of courage to learn to cope with it as the wives of the servicemen did.
The next morning, Ben and Gloria were sluggish, and Joe still lay like one dead on the sofa. This surprised Ben greatly for he had never seen his father spend the night that way before and he had never seen him so black either.
Gloria saw his confused eyes and, knowing the rousing power of his high-pitched voice, drew him into the kitchen, saying, ‘Leave your questions till we are on our way to Mass, and eat your breakfast. I don’t want you to disturb your father.’
Once out in the streets, Gloria was appalled by the bomb damage they saw, only some of which had been apparent in the dark. There were many craters and gaping holes, and some of the stacks of debris were still smouldering. Burst sandbags had bled onto the street and a discarded hosepipe dribbled into the gutter. The putrid, pungent stink in the air lodged in their nostrils.
‘Why did the Germans drop bombs on us?’ Ben asked suddenly.
‘I think it’s just something that happens when one country is at war with another,’ Gloria said.
‘Will they do it again?’ Ben asked, and though Gloria was pretty certain they would, she said, ‘I don’t know, Ben,
but we have to stand firm and not run away in fright. Think how brave the soldiers are, fighting for us all, and your daddy helping to fight the fires last night.’