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MEMORIES  Memories are a collage of images, imagined or remembered? Childhood is elusive, blurred by time and longing. The child is shown photographs and told tales. What is reality?
Is that image, of a young boy on a tricycle, an actual memory or a faded photo? Yet the memory of that bike is real enough. So difficult for a frail five year old to push the pedals and turn the wheels. The frustration and falls, with the scrapes and sobbing, remembered well. A year later, the War broke out. Life changed for everyone except that little boy, for he knew no other childhood than that of a Blitz kid. He had no other memories. Those memories are mine for I am that boy.
The air raid siren was real, wailing and screaming every night. The darkness came and so did the Nazi bombers. The screeching sirens warned of the approaching terror and death. Mother and I lived in the center of Cardiff, capitol of Wales, and, as the major coal exporting port, a prime target for the enemy. Air raid shelters were built to protect the populace. Our shelter was built against an enormous and thick wall. Unfortunately for us, the wall ran along the main railway line from the coal mines up in the valleys. To bomb the port and railways was a major objective for those planes.
For this young boy, every night was the same, pretence by my loving mother that everything was normal. Changing into my pajamas, I was told a story and tucked in with a goodnight kiss. Then came the inevitable siren screech and waking wail for the bombers were coming. The sleeping boy was awakened and the nightly confrontation began about clothes. Mother insisted that I keep my pajamas on but wear my shorts and blazer. The wails of protest were louder than the sirens, as I did not want my 'jammies’ showing under my shorts! Every night, the same ritual of siren and protest, always in vain. To this day, I never understand why we didn't dress for the shelter and go there to sleep? We always ended up there anyway. I suppose that going to bed deceived us into thinking everything was going to be alright that evening. Never was, as the raids and bombs came and came again. Yet to act normal and have dignity was important, as was concern over those pajamas showing under my shorts. Say if anything horrible happened and I was found with 'jammies’ showing? In the face of the horror of war, pride and appearance means everything, even for a little boy.
CHILDHOOD I was born July 1933 in Cardiff, my father died when I was two years old. My mother, now a young widow, saw her mother die that same month. My grandfather, also widowed, became the man in my life. I adored my grandfather, Jack Stone, as a child and forever, as ‘Granpy’ help raise and bring me up. Jack was born a cockney, within the sound of the bow bells, and came to Wales as a young man. He drove an ambulance; became a chauffeur; opened a fish and chip shop; and, eventually, became transport manager for the largest retailer in Cardiff. I remember his magic tricks; love; humor; and grey hair. My mother had curly grey hair and blue eyes, as now do I. In those early days and throughout my life, my mother was always there, supportive and loving. Words can not express my love for her and my enduring gratitude; more on that later. In 1939, when the War and the Blitz came, I was distraught, as a young boy, to be taken from my mother.
Early in the War, evacuation of children started with those in cities being bombed by the Nazis. Children were taken from their families and sent to the quiet country away from devastation and death. I was such an evacuee, standing on a train station platform, with tearful farewells to my beloved mother. My wartime childhood experiences are those so vividly depicted in the movie "Hope & Glory", from ruins and rubble to bombs and barrage balloons.
My train was packed with tearful children, gas masks in small boxes carried over tiny shoulders. The gas masks made to look like Mickey Mouse, complete with big ears, were not visible but large tags were. These labels were attached to our chests and gave our name and age. Later these facts with other relevant, or irrelevant information, were proclaimed aloud when we arrived at our destination.
The train took us about twenty miles up the valley to a small Welsh mining village. The children, strangers to one another and everyone around them, were herded off to the Village Hall. Children were told, one by one, to stand on the stage to be offered to the local populace. "A boy, seven years old, quiet and polite" was how I was introduced, rather like an auction item or a slave. Someone in the crowd offered to take me and another boy into their home; so started my brief life as an evacuee.
EVACUEE
In the same day, to be taken from my mother and be given to strangers was a rude shock. Even more so, for an only child, was sharing a bedroom with another boy. Danny was an evacuee, taken the same day by the family, who received an allowance for each child. The family lived in a mining village. Their small row house was one of many that were built and crammed on the hillside of the valley. The pit head and its shaft dominated the landscape, as did the dark mounds of shale, covering and creeping over the green valley.
The head of the household was a Welsh miner. Every evening, he returned home covered in black coal dust. The house was small and the tiny kitchen was where the daily ritual of bathing took place. The grimy miner sat crammed into an iron bath tub, while warm water was poured over him, a task for small boys. Often at sunset, us boys would see miners emerging from their shift far below in the pit. These coal miners would walk in a line, from the pit, across the valley. They would be singing, as only the Welsh can sing, with rich voices that harmonize spontaneously and spiritually, their passion and sound filling the valley. Moments that are remembered forever, as is the miner's response to a small boy.
One evening, during the daily bathing, I asked the miner, in the naive way of a child, "Why do you sing?" With face grimy with coal dust and bright white eyes, the miner looked at me and, normally a man of few words, replied, " Son, when you have spent the day in the blackness of pit, deep in the bowels of the earth, and come up from that endless darkness to see the brightness of day, we have to sing. We are grateful to be alive. With feeling, we sing to thank God for his light and mercy"
The passion of that response and the sound of those Welsh miners, I will never forget. Much else of that time away from home was forgotten; although, I do remember breaking my arm. To reset the fracture and apply the plaster, I was taken to the basement of the doctor's office, so my screams could not be heard. After a few months of enforced evacuation, I made the decision to run away.
In wartime, travel was restricted. However a daily bus went, from the village, twenty miles back to Cardiff and my home. In those days that was a long way, down winding, narrow roads through villages and flocks of sheep.
One Saturday morning, I was sent off to the market with money to purchase potatoes. With false bravado, for one so young, I purchased a bus ticket. To be only eight years old and travelling alone raised eyebrows and questions. I said my sister was meeting me, which, being an only child was impossible but feasible to my fellow passengers and bus conductor. With lots of glances and glares, I sat, seemingly serene yet nervous. What would my mother say? After nearly three hours, the bus arrived in the terminal at Cardiff. Pointing to a woman, telling the conductor that was my sister, I thanked him and slipped into the waiting crowd.
My mother, as most women in wartime, was working. She worked downtown, near the terminal, and usually walked home for lunch. That day, I followed her, now nervous and fearful. As she put her key in our front door, I blurted out, “Mum, I'm home!".
Surprise and shock, tears and hugs, then pandemonium and the police followed. Of course, my disappearance had been reported and the police were on the lookout for a runaway! Eventually all was forgiven and my short life as an evacuee was over. With air raids, daily bombings and nights in the shelter, I was happy to be again a Blitz kid.
THE BLITZ
Every night, the sirens screeched and screamed with searchlights scanning the sky, the Nazi bombers came and bombs rained down from the darkness. Our air raid shelter was built alongside the railroad, a prime target, and the shelter shook, time and time again. Then silence and the survivors came staggering in from nearby houses, now rubble. These shocked and suffering survivors were covered in the dust of destruction and death.
In Cardiff, like many other cities, there was debris, rubble and ruins; the gray mantle of dusty death covered the injured and innocent. With the coming of the land mines, floating slowly earthward on billowing parachutes, streets were wiped out and gone, lost in shattering explosions and horrifying force. At dawn, as the all clear sirens sounded, we would leave our shelter. Through the dust and smoke, we would look toward the city hall. The clock tower was visible for miles around and became a symbol of our survival and spirit. The city and its docks were badly damaged from the endless and relentless bombing but the tower survived, as did we, mother and I.
Sometimes, during the day, the Nazi planes would come in, flying low and strafing the streets with gun fire and cannon; bombs would fall. The swastikas and crosses on the planes could be clearly seen. Smoke and shrapnel remained, eagerly collected by us young boys, for shrapnel was to be traded and exchanged. Such barter became more prevalent with the arrival of the G.I. for the American soldiers brought candy, comics and cigarettes. “Got any gum, chum?” became the plaintiff cry of us youngsters and the Yanks were generous. Gum was a rare pleasure but the wrappers were as important, for, with empty cigarette packs, they formed part of the barter. These wrappers, with comics, were the first color images I can remember. I was brought up with the colorful images and graphics of Batman and Robin; Superman; Lucky Strike; Camel; and Spearmint. From being a Blitz kid, I became “Yankee Doodle Dandy” with a love for all things American; for with the coming of the Yanks, the War and Blitz was over.
Celebrations occurred as the war ended in Europe (VE Day) and then Japan (VJ Day). Street parties were held; flags flew; and the troops came marching home. Eventually, ration coupons were no more; meat, chocolate and fresh fruit were available again. At age eleven, I remember the delicious delight of the taste of ice cream. I knew the war was over now for good; the sirens were silent.
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