How Britain Kept Calm and Carried On (9 page)

The policeman couldn’t agree and instead took her to the police station. One week later, she appeared at Bow Street Magistrates’ Court accused of failing to obey a police order not
to enter a building.

She told the court: ‘I wasn’t in there long. I went in to wash after I’d buried my poor son who was killed in that terrible raid. Anyway, the flat isn’t in such a bad
state. I wish you could see it. They’re going to repair it this week.’

Hearing that she was now sleeping down the Tube and spending the days wherever she could, the magistrate, Mr Fry, told her: ‘Well, I hope that someone takes care of you.’ Then he
dismissed the case, leaving Mrs Heffer to keep calm and carry on, just like she was trying to do.

Anonymous

One night, at my other grandmother’s house, as twelve of us gathered, the air-raid warning sounded. There was no time to run to the shelter before an uncle shouted:
‘Duck! There’s a bomb coming!’ I flew under my mother’s skirt, two aunties scrambled under the table, and the rest cleared the room in seconds. Only when we heard nothing
but silence did we realize it was another false alarm.

Brenda Shaw, Kingston upon Hull

Football matches in London were the worst. They were always being interrupted. I used to take my ukulele with me and when we came off, we’d have a sing-song in the
dressing room until the all-clear sounded and we could resume the game. George Formby numbers were particularly popular.

Jack Wheeler, Birmingham goalkeeper

My mate’s father was an ARP warden. On his first night the sirens sounded and he was struggling to put on his kit. He finally managed to get everything on –
uniform, gas mask, cape, steel helmet – except his new rubber boots – they were like wellingtons – that he’d left till last. He planted his feet in them and took one step
forward, only to fall flat on his face. They were still tied together with string. He was rolling around on the floor, his wife was shouting to him that the Luftwaffe was coming, and he just looked
at her and said: ‘Well, they’ll have to wait because I’m not ready yet.’

George Bradshaw, London

I was a gunner on a gun site on a bomber station in 1940 when bomber stations were being heavily attacked by German aircraft, and a football match had been arranged between the
RAF personnel and the gunners who were operating the low-level-attack guns. There was this match, being played near my gun site. For that reason I was allowed to referee the game. In the middle of
the game, we hear a low droning sound. It was a day of low clouds. We look up at the aircraft and it is a Ju88, a German light bomber. And so I raced to my gun, whipped on my steel helmet and
respirator that we had to wear – you never knew when there was going to be a gas attack – and manned the guns in refereeing kit. We had to abandon the game.

Ken Aston, international football referee

I remember one game between Charlton Athletic and Millwall at The Valley in 1940. There were only sixty seconds remaining when the air-raid warning siren sounded. The raid was a
heavy one with shrapnel from nearby anti-aircraft guns falling on the stadium. The 1,500 spectators took cover and when the all-clear sounded, the game resumed and the final minute played out.
Millwall won 4–2. Can you imagine, people just hanging around while an air raid was taking place, just so that they could see the final minute of a football match where the result was already
beyond doubt? I think that shows just how much people took things in their stride.

Frank Broome, Ottery St Mary

During the Blitz one bomb scored a direct hit on a house a few doors away from ours in the East End. It was a right mess, and out of it a big bedstead was thrown right across the street and
landed on its legs. And, would you believe it, there was a pair of trousers, neatly folded, still hanging over the rail.

But I think the funniest thing I ever saw was in the West End. It would have been late in 1944, and I was in a long queue, waiting for a bus. Suddenly we heard a doodlebug. Then all went quiet
and everyone chucked themselves on the floor. We had no idea where it was going to land. Fortunately, for us at least, it was some streets away. Everyone got back up and the queue reformed. Then I
felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a ‘city gent’.

He said: ‘Excuse me, but I think I was in front of you.’

I won’t tell you what I said to him.

George Foster, London

I
t was something that my mother often used against my father. Even thirty years after VE Day, she would, when provoked, remind him of the day in
September 1939 that he asked her to stand in a queue and find out how he could avoid military service. To be fair, her version of the event was tailored to suit her point. On the day war broke out,
my father was a Linotype operator – a typesetter – employed by the
Hull Daily Mail
. As such, he was in a ‘reserved occupation’ and, like most other skilled
tradesmen, would have found it difficult to be accepted into the armed forces even if he had wanted to join up. Which he clearly did not, but all he had asked her to do was to pop down to the
Labour Exchange and collect the relevant forms.

He was not alone. In 1939, and unlike in 1914, there was no patriotic surge to join the Colours. Memories of ‘the last unpleasantness’ were still raw. Conscription had ended in 1920,
but in May 1939 the rapidly deteriorating international situation saw the introduction of the Military Training Act. Single men aged between twenty and twenty-two were liable to be called up as
‘militiamen’ to mark them as separate from the regular army. They were even issued with a civilian suit as well as a uniform, just to underline their status as part-time soldiers who
would undergo six months’ basic training before being discharged into a reserve, from where they would be recalled for short training periods and an annual camp.

But before the first intake had completed their initial six months, war was declared and they found themselves regular soldiers. The National Service (Armed Forces) Act had been passed and now
all men between the ages of eighteen and forty-one (by 1942 the upper limit had been raised to fifty-one) were liable for military service, except if they were medically unfit, of course; or unless
they were in one of those coveted reserved occupations like lighthouse keepers or newspaper Linotype operators.