off her. It’s heavy, but we’ve got to be very careful not to
hurt her any more, or even take things off too suddenly.
You stay beside her, make sure all that sick’s wiped away
out of her mouth.’
Polly began to lift bricks away, passing them to Judy to
toss into the corner of the room. Together they worked
while the man cradled his mother’s head in his hands,
imploring her not to go, not to leave him, not to die, for Gawd’s sake, not to die…
The blood continued to seep from under the rubble,
soaking their clothes. How much has she got in her, Judy
wondered, and how much can she afford to lose? She tried
to remember what she’d been taught in the First-Aid classes
all the WVS staff and volunteers had done. Was it eight
pints? A gallon? But this woman looked so tiny and
withered, she surely couldn’t have that much blood in her
body. And how much had she lost already? She’s going to
die, she thought suddenly, and her heart seemed to drop.
She’s going to die.
The old woman was rambling now, swearing at the
Germans, at the Government, at the bombers, at the ARP.
She called out for people she must have known during her
life - Johnny, our Moll, Fred and Rags, presumably the
family dog. She went further back and cried for her father
and mother, who must have been dead for years. Her son
pleaded with her to come back to the present, to know that
he was with her: ‘It’s your Jack, Mum, don’t you know me,
your Jack what’s looked after you all these years. Don’t say
you don’t know me, Ma, I can’t bear it … It’s your Jack,
your Jack…’
Their voices went on and on, calling and shouting against
each other, and the anguish of it tore at Polly’s heart. It
might be a slum, but this was a mother and son who’d stuck
together through who knew what bad times, and now they’d
come to this terrible end. Like Judy, she was sure the old
woman was going to die. Too much blood was being lost,
too much injury suffered. And yet she could not give up. As
long as the old heart could still beat, as long as the tattered lungs could still draw breath to scream, there must be hope.
While there was life, there must still be hope …
At last there was nothing left on the crumpled body but
the beam itself. It lay across the woman’s abdomen,
crushing her body and one leg which was curled beneath
her. Polly stared at it. She saw the mess of torn flesh and
broken bone, the twisted internal organs that should never
be revealed, and wondered sickly how the old woman had
survived this long.
‘Oh Polly,’ Judy whispered in her ear. ‘Whatever are we
going to do?’
Chris had been the first to spot the approaching wave of bombers.
He had been working overtime in the Dockyard until
noon, then gone home for his Sunday dinner. He’d had a
wash at the sink, grabbed his tin helmet, fastened his
brassard to his arm and then cycled out to the hotel, looking
forward to his date with Judy later on. She was a real
smasher, he thought, his heart quickening a little, but it was
a shame she was engaged. Still, she’d agreed to go for a walk
with him so maybe it wasn’t really that serious. If it was,
Chris wouldn’t push things, but he couldn’t help hoping…
He arrived at the hotel and went straight up in the lift,
thinking of the hour or so he and Judy had spent trapped
inside. Good old lift, he thought affectionately, watching the
walls as it creaked its way up. At least you were on my side.
The lift shuddered to a stop and he got out and climbed the
fire-escape ladder to the roof.
The roof was a large, flat area with a variety of small,
square buildings planted apparently at random over it. Some
were water tanks, one was the Fire Brigade lookout and one
was the ROC Observation Post - little more than a shack,
with a table inside on which lay a map with the pivoting
plotting instrument mounted on top. The Observers also
had a small wooden ‘caboose’ where they had a chair or two,
a stove and a kettle. Spud Murphy, Chris’s fellow Observer,
was already inside, brewing up.
Chris took a quick look around. The view from up here
must be the best in Pompey, he thought. To the north, you
could see the green bulk of Portsdown Hill, pocked with
chalk pits, with the whole city spread between. You could
see all the bomb damage — streets of demolished houses,
huge piles of rubble, the ruins of churches, shops and, worst
of all, the Guildhall, a gutted shell amidst the desolation.
His heart grew cold as he gazed at it.
Turning west, he could see the broad, glittering harbour,
always crowded with naval ships, and the Camber, driving
into the heart of Old Portsmouth, where the fishermen and
small commercial ships came. The square, white tower of
the cathedral looked deceptively strong and tranquil in the
late afternoon light and he wondered how long it would be
before that too was blasted to smithereens.
The Royal Beach faced south, over the Solent towards the
Isle of Wight. On an April Sunday afternoon in peacetime
this would have been thronged with yachts and sailing
dinghies and the beach crowded with families bathing and
having picnics on the shingle beach. Today there were just a
few, probably people who lived close by. Most of the others
who might have come out would be staying at home,
wanting to be within reach of shelter in case of a raid, and
South Parade Pier itself was almost deserted. Chris had been
to a good few dances there; like most young men and
women he was keen on the big bands and had never failed to
be there when Joe Loss, Ambrose or Sid Phillips were
performing. He wondered if Judy had been there on those
nights too - maybe with that fiance of hers - and thought
wistfully of taking her himself. He hoped that nothing
would happen to spoil their date tonight.
Spud poked his head out of the caboose. ‘Tea up, mate.
Anything in sight?’
Chris shook his head, turning to gaze eastwards across the
sweep of Langstone Harbour, smaller and shallower than
the main harbour and used mostly by fishermen and leisure
sailors. It was from that direction, over Hayling Island, that
enemy attackers usually came, or sometimes from the Isle of
Wight. The two Observers who had been on duty came out
of the shack. There was nothing to report, they said, and
clattered off down the steel ladder, leaving Chris and Spud
in charge.
The ROC had been formed in the 1920s, almost entirely
of volunteers like Chris. Until only a fortnight ago, it had
been simply the ‘Observer Corps’, the title ‘Royal’ having
been conferred upon it in recognition of its services during
the Battle of Britain, last September. There was talk of their being allowed to wear RAF uniform as well and Chris hoped
this would happen. He still felt disappointed at not being
able to join up, and to wear His Majesty’s uniform and be
seen to be a part of it all would go a long way to make up for
that.
Carrying their mugs of tea, Chris and Spud went into the
lookout post. As well as the table with the map and plotting
instrument, there was a telephone and a large pair of
binoculars. It was one Observer’s job to scan the skies,
keeping a constant watch for aircraft, while the other plotted
their position and course. The details were then telephoned
through to the Winchester Observation Centre, where the
plotters worked at their large central table, using long poles
to move the counters that represented the aircraft into their
positions. With information coming through headphones
from three posts at once, each observing the same aircraft, it
was possible for the controllers on the dais overlooking the
table to see exactly what was happening in the sky many
miles away, and to take appropriate action.
Chris picked up his binoculars and immediately spotted a
plane, heading for the Fleet Air Arm airfield at Lee-on-the
Solent. ‘Friendly Fleet Air Arm,’ he reported, and Spud
quickly plotted its position and wrote it in the log book. Friendly civil. Friendly coastal. Each one was plotted and reported to Winchester. The overall picture was important,
even when there were no raiders.
The afternoon wore on, the few people who were still on
the beach went home and the sun began to dip towards the
horizon. It looked as though his date with Judy would be
safe. Spud took his turn with the binoculars and Chris made
another mug of tea and began to relax.
His four-hour duty was almost over when he picked up
the glasses for the last time and caught sight of the dark
spots far away over Hayling Island.
‘Raiders,’ he said sharply, and Spud, who was writing up
the log book, snapped to attention. ‘Blimey, there’s bloody
hundreds of them … Get their positions plotted, quick!’
Spud bent over the map which covered the table. It was
marked with Ordnance Survey grid references and, with the
pivoting mapping instrument mounted in the centre, he
could estimate the attackers’ present position as well as their direction. At the same time, reports began to come in from
the post further along the coast, giving details of the
invaders as they passed, and Spud began to set the
Micklethwait in position. ‘Altitude?’
‘Around 10,000 feet. Junker Ju88As … Dornier Do 17s
… Heinkels … They’re sending the bloody lot over - this
is going to be a big one … Coming in fast now — get on to
HQ.…’
Spud grabbed the phone and spoke urgently. ‘3M.3
calling, numerous planes seen 7592, flying north, height
10,000 feet.’ By the time he had finished, Chris was spitting
out more information. Continuing to operate the
Micklethwait, Spud relayed the details, knowing that in
Winchester everyone would be agog, watching the development
of what must be a big raid. But a big raid over which
city? ‘It’s going to be Pompey,’ he said, taking a quick look
through the window. ‘Bugger it, Chris, it’s going to be us!’
Almost before he had finished speaking, the sirens began
to wail. The steel ladder rattled and the Chief Observer thrust his way into the tiny shelter. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Large formation over Hayling, sir.’ Chris handed him
the spare set of binoculars. ‘Looks like a hell of a raid.’
‘You’ve been on to Winchester?’
The question was unnecessary. Spud was still on the
phone, reporting the progress of the invaders. ‘Looks like
they’re coming here, sir.’ He thought regretfully of his date
with Judy. ‘Blimey, they’re like a flock of bloody starlings
coming home to roost!’ The sky was darkening with the
mass of aircraft. In a few moments, the drone of their
engines would be audible; a few moments after that and the
bombs would begin to fall. ‘Hey, look, ours are up now!’ A
flock of wings had risen into the air down the coast,
somewhere near Chichester. ‘That’ll see them off! Atta
boy!’
The three men watched tensely. Chris had forgotten
about going off duty. The chances were that his relief
wouldn’t get here now. Like most of the Observers, the next
two on duty were Portsmouth boys and able to live at home.
If the raid were bad, they might well get caught or be unable
to make it through the streets. Observers had been known to
be stuck in their posts for hours, sometimes days, especially
during the snowstorms of January, and you never left your
post until relief arrived — not if you wanted to remain an
Observer.
Chris continued to watch the planes, still rapping out
estimates of position and altitude to Spud who swiftly
checked them on the map and relayed them to the plotting
rooms at Winchester. There was no time for anyone to think
about being off duty. No time to think of anything else but
the raiders, and the urgent need to prevent their deadly
progress.
‘One’s down!’ Chris could see the balloon of black smoke
and the spurt of flame as a Dornier spiralled into the sea.
‘Oh, bloody well done!’ But one was not enough. Ten would
not be enough, nor twenty, out of the mass of aircraft still
steadily approaching. ‘There’s bloody hundreds of them,’ he
said again. ‘Bloody hundreds’
The siren had wailed into silence. The hotel was almost
certainly deserted now, with everyone in it sheltering in the
basements, just as all those in Portsmouth would now be
crouching in their Andersons or pushing into the street
shelters. Those who could not would be huddled under the
stairs, while some who refused to shelter at all would be
sitting defiantly in their own back rooms, convinced that if a
bomb had their name on it, it would find them wherever
they were. And some, ignoring the danger, would be
to go out into the streets, ready to put out
incendiaries, fight fires, rescue the trapped from bombed
buildings or give First Aid to the injured.