Billy One Boy's War

By Bill Green

Bill Green’s Memoir Captures the Second World War Zeitgeist
The story begins one September morning in 1939 with the author describing how he and his brother were evacuated from the city to the supposed safety of the coast never to see their mother again. His story progresses through a series of events that change his life dramatically as a young boy. Readers will witness a real life account of fates that become inextricably entwined amidst the clamour of wartime and the transformational odyssey of a young boy growing up during a volatile period.
By turns harrowing and inspirational, 'BILLY' One Boys War, is a profound read that seamlessly merges history with personal experience and brings down the phenomenon of war into a real and humanized level. Eye opening and beautiful, this book potently captures the Second World War zeitgeist while actively demonstrating the unwavering essence of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Green
• Release date: Oct 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311290977

Bill Green

Bill Green was born in West Bromwich, England in 1936. He was evacuated to Exmouth in Devon at the outbreak of war in 1939. When the war finished he moved to Canvey Island in Essex, before going to Elmbridge Boarding School in Cranleigh, Surrey. At age seventeen he joined the Royal Navy and served in submarines for twenty-five years. After leaving the Royal Navy he emigrated to South Africa and thirteen years later emigrated to Australia. He is married, has five children and lives in Perth, Western Australia.

Book preview

1

Torn Apart by Turmoil

‘Billy, Billy, come on, time to get up you’re going on your holidays today,’ my mother’s voice called that morning in early September 1939.

Before leaving the house my parents tied a label to mine and my brother’s coat with our name, age, sex and destination. They said it was in case we got lost.

Our worldly goods, such as they were, had been packed into a cardboard box and secured with a length of rope. The gas masks in the brown cardboard boxes hanging from our necks, which had to be carried at all times, our only other luggage.

By the time we arrived at Bristol railway station later that morning, it was a hive of activity. Teachers; railway staff, police, children and parents were bustling everywhere as they tried to make sense of the confusion. It was obvious that something major was happening but, as a three-year-old boy, its significance meant nothing to me: yet, was the beginning of a journey that would change my life forever.

‘Where is everybody going?’ I asked my dad.

‘Maybe they are also going on their holidays,’ he replied.

However, we were not going on our holidays at all, but were part of an evacuation scheme code named ‘Pied Piper’.

A few days earlier, Britain’s Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, had announced that Britain was at war with Germany. In the first four days following that announcement, nearly 3,000,000 people were relocated from numerous towns and cities in England to places of safety. A committee, led by Sir John Anderson, had been set up in May 1938. Railway officials, teachers and the police were consulted and local billeting officers appointed to find suitable homes for the evacuees. For months they interviewed possible hosts who, once selected, were compelled to take one or more evacuees. Anyone refusing faced the threat of a fine, which prompted people to take in an evacuee more to avoid being fined than the desire to foster a child. Hosts, or foster parents, were also paid a fee by the government which provided an incentive more for the money than a moral obligation.

The thought of going to the seaside was uppermost in my mind as I excitedly boarded the train and sat down. My father placed our cardboard box on the overhead luggage rack, but instead of sitting down he re-joined my mother on the platform.

The sound of carriage doors being closed, an indication the train was about to depart, could be heard as the guard worked his way along the platform. Only when the guard closed our carriage door and my parents were still on the platform did I realise something wasn’t right. Jumping up from my seat, I wriggled my head out of the already crowded window and called out to my parents.

‘Mum, dad, come on you’ll miss the train.’

‘You go on. We’re not coming with you.’ they both replied.

Of all the things I could have said, all I could think of was that my dad had not given me my pocket money.

‘Dad, dad, you didn’t give me my penny,’ I shouted as the train slowly pulled out of the station.

‘I’ll give it to you next week when I come down to see you,’ he called back.

I continued waving until they were out of sight before finally sitting down, disappointed and confused that my parents were not coming with us

My dad didn’t come to see me the next week, or the week after. In fact it was more than two years before he visited. My mother, on the other hand, never once visited.

2

A Lonely Child Cries in the Darkness

The disappointment of my parents not coming with us soon passed as the excitement of being on a train took over. But that excitement was also short lived as I quickly became bored with nothing to do.

‘I want to go to the toilet,’ I whispered to my brother in an attempt to break the monotony.

‘There’s no toilet, you will have to wait until we get to the next station.’

The carriage we were in had no corridor, just individual compartments. Passengers who needed to go to the toilet were expected to wait until the train stopped and use the toilet in the station.

Finally the train pulled into a station and the guard announced where we were. Station names were removed to prevent enemy planes using them for navigation purposes.

Glad to be off the train I skipped along the platform. Catching sight of the tea trolley, which had been wheeled onto the platform when the train pulled in, I asked my brother to buy me a cake, but he said he had no money.

When the guard blew his whistle for the train to depart I was still in the toilet. Oblivious to any urgency I came wandering onto the platform still tucking my ‘Willie’ up my trouser leg. My brother called out to me from the open carriage window as the guard ushered me onto the train. Someone annoyingly called out that if it happened again they should leave me behind.

After what seemed an eternity the train finally arrived at Exmouth. Blackout regulations ensured the station was in darkness.

Blackout regulations were imposed on 1 September 1939, before the declaration of war. These required that all windows and doors should be covered at night with suitable material such as heavy curtains, cardboard or paint, to prevent the escape of any glimmer of light that might aid enemy aircraft.

A billeting officer met the train and gathered the twenty or so children together. By the light of her hooded torch she checked our labels. Satisfied she had all her charges she led us to a bus.

After a short ride we arrived at what looked like a small hotel. The figure of a woman, barely visible in the dim light of the hooded headlights of the bus, stepped outside quickly closing the door behind her.

I looked at my brother for reassurance as we gathered on the pavement. I could hear the sound of waves across the road.

‘Do you think we’ll be able to go to the beach tomorrow?’ I asked him.

‘Maybe,’ he replied without much conviction. Within minutes the bus pulled away and with it the only source of light.

‘Right everyone inside, quick as you can,’ the woman ordered.

She waited until everyone was inside and the door securely closed before switching on the light.

‘Welcome everybody. I’m Sister Heppel, the matron.’

She told us to leave our belongings in the hall and began ushering us into the dining room.

‘Sit down; keep quiet, and no talking at the table.’ The matron had just given her first instruction and I soon learned that the matron’s word was law.

We all jostled for a seat but my brother was quicker than me. Before I could join him at his table all the other seats were taken. It was an early indication that I could not expect too much assistance from him and would need to learn to look after myself. I sat down at another table where I could still see him.

The cook immediately began moving between the tables ladling out soup. Several children, including me, picked up their spoons to begin eating. It was my first food since breakfast and I was starving.

‘Do not start until you are told; wait until everybody has been served,’ ordered the matron.

My soup-filled spoon was already inches from my mouth and continued its journey uninterrupted, bringing a disapproving look from the matron.

‘Right, you may begin.’

One child foolishly remarked she didn’t like soup.

‘It’s soup or nothing,’ she was told. She soon developed a taste for soup.

After supper we were shown to our beds. Space was limited so each guest bedroom had been converted into a mini-dormitory with four or more beds on each side of the room and a small locker between them.

My brother began unpacking our box, which had been placed between two bunks, quickly claiming his stuff. Apparently what was left in the box was mine, although I had no idea what I was supposed to have.

Completely confused by all that was going on around me it was no surprise I was still dressed when the matron came in.

‘Come along get ready for bed. Where are your pyjamas?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know.’ I replied.

‘Did you bring any with you?’

‘Don’t know,’ I again replied, shrugging my shoulders.

She pushed me out of the way, rummaged through my box and handed me a pair of pyjamas.

‘Here put these on,’ she said as she turned down the sheets.

The sheets had been starched and smelled of carbolic soap making the bed cold and impersonal. This was nothing like I had imagined a few hours ago when my parents told me that I was going on my holidays.

‘Right settle down everyone.’

The matron turned off the light, stepped into the hall and closed the door. An eerie silence immediately descended upon the room , emphasised by the tightly drawn blackout curtains across the windows. The only visible light was the small amount coming in under the door.

I lay for a while peering into the darkness. As my eyes became used to the dark I looked across the small space between my brother’s bed and mine, but he appeared to be asleep already.

Just as I was dozing off someone began crying. The door silently opened and a woman eased herself inside. She quickly located the crying child.

‘What’s the matter, why are you crying?’ she asked.

‘I want my mum,’ a sad voice said in between sobs.

The woman tried comforting the child saying,

‘Don’t cry she will be coming to see you soon, now go to sleep.’

Suddenly another woman entered the room immediately recognisable as the matron.

‘Stop that crying, we will have none of your nonsense, now get to sleep,’ she ordered. The other woman stepped back from the child recognising the authoritative figure.

‘You mustn’t be too soft with them otherwise they will take advantage of you and you will be in here all night,’ pointed out the matron.

Both women exited, the door closed and the child’s sobs continued. No one came back to check on her and I soon fell asleep.

3

Lonely and Confused

It still seemed like the middle of the night when I was suddenly awakened by the lights being switched on and a voice shouting, ‘Time to get up, come on everybody up.’

It felt like it was only a few minutes ago I had gone to sleep. My bed was now warm and comfortable, so I ignored the voice and dozed off. I was soon awakened as the bedclothes were pulled off me and a large hand shook my foot. The voice and the large hand belonged to one of the staff; a woman who was less than tolerant with small boys, especially those that didn’t want to get up.

‘Come on up you get we have a very busy day ahead.’

She left me shivering in my pyjamas and took her annoying voice off to harass someone else, no doubt, trying to sneak a few extra minutes in bed.

Still half asleep I got dressed and went downstairs to look for my brother. I found him in the dining hall, but the table he was at was already full.

Porridge was on the menu, as it was most mornings. Anyone who was at all fussy quickly realised that if they didn’t eat what they were given they went without.

After breakfast everybody moved into the play area, a large room off the main entrance hall. There was no furniture in the room so I sat on the lino covered floor and gazed out the window. I soon became bored and thought I might sneak upstairs to the bedroom. I was quickly chased away and told no one was allowed in the bedrooms during the day. I returned to the playroom and resumed my position in front of the window.

I could see the beach, no more than one hundred yards away, on the other side of the road and wondered when I would be allowed to go there. The matron had told us that no one was to leave the building unless accompanied by an adult. I couldn’t see how I was ever going to get out, as apart from her and her staff, who were always busy, there were no adults.

It was all very miserable watching people entering and leaving the building, all the time hoping the next one would be my mother come to take me to the beach.

The toys in the room were donated by the local community and obviously there were never enough to go around. It was supposed to be first-come, first-served but the older children just took what they wanted and left the rest of us sort out what we could. It was not long before two boys were squabbling over a toy. The bigger boy wrested it from the smaller boy hurting his fingers in the process. Crying loudly the smaller boy ran from the room. Seconds later the matron appeared dragging him with her.

‘Whoever hurt this boy had better stop right now or there will be trouble.’

The room went quiet, everyone fearful of the matron. She left the room without actually identifying who had caused the upset and within minutes the noise started again.

Being one of the youngest and smallest I had little chance of ever getting a toy of my choice. My brother, although only two and half years older than me, was as far as I was concerned, one of the ‘big boys’. I asked him to get a toy for me.

‘What for, someone will just take it off you,’ he replied.

Inevitably it was not long before another fight broke out. This time it was over the ownership of a toy lorry. The matron was soon into the room. Pulling the boys apart she gave each a quick clip around the ear and ordered them stand in the corner.

During the scuffle the lorry the two boys were fighting over fell to the floor. Seeing a chance to get my hands on a toy I scampered over and picked it up. One of the boys, upset at being told to stand in the corner, spotted me. Quickly snatching it back he placed it on the floor in front of him and placed his foot on it.

I waited until his back was turned before sneaking up, grabbing the lorry and running to the other side of the room. Furious at being caught unawares, he chased after me and made a grab for the lorry.

I hung on for dear life until finally, fingers aching, I was unable to hang on any longer. The sudden release caught him off balance and he reeled backwards landing in a heap amongst a group of children playing on the floor. The commotion had the matron, whose office was just outside the door, storming into the room.

Snatching the lorry from the boy she threw it to the ground and propelled him into the hall. The sound of his subsequent screams clearly audible in the temporary silence of the room.

Seizing my chance I again grabbed the lorry proudly showing it to my brother as I sought his approval. He was not impressed.

‘You only got that because the matron took it from him.’

4

Sister Heppel’s Hugs!

Each evening after supper, usually bread and soup, we all lined up in our underwear outside the bathroom. At the command ‘next’ I entered the bathroom where one woman gave me a wipe down with a wet flannel and another a quick rub down with the towel. I don’t remember brushing my teeth and I am not sure if I had a toothbrush.

The hostel was only to be a transit centre until we were found a foster home. Then we would be someone else’s problem.

Our underwear and pyjamas were all washed together so it was hit and miss if you got the right ones back. I often ended up with odd pyjamas and underwear that didn’t fit. Nobody really cared as long as you had something to wear.

Friendships in the hostel didn’t last long. You would no sooner meet someone and they would be off to a foster home. Generally that would be the last you saw of them, unless they were considered unsuitable and brought back to the hostel by the foster parents.

I formed a friendship with the boy in the bed opposite me. One evening I was talking to him whilst getting ready for bed when I was startled by being hit on the head with a pillow. I turned to see it was the boy who I had taken the lorry from earlier in the day.

‘That’s for taking my lorry,’ he said laughing and running from the room.

Grabbing my pillow I gave chase. He was waiting outside the door and gave me another swipe as I came after him, again laughing and running back into the room.

Now I definitely had to get my own back. Just as I was about to give chase I was grabbed by one of the staff and told to keep the noise down. By the time she released my arm my assailant was nowhere to be seen. Spotting a figure huddling under the blankets at the end of the room I sneaked up and gave it an almighty wallop. The blankets were immediately thrown back only for me to discover I had hit the wrong boy. He then jumped out of bed, grabbed his pillow and began swinging at me. ‘Lorry boy,’ seeing the fracas emerged from his hiding place and joined in. Soon the three of us were in full flight with pillows raining in all directions.

Suddenly one huge hand grabbed me and the other grabbed ‘lorry boy’. The third boy quickly jumped into his bed.

‘Get back here.’ ordered the matron.

‘It was not my fault, he started it,’ he blurted out pointing in my direction.

‘No I didn’t he did.’ I replied indicating ‘lorry boy’.

‘Quiet the lot of you. I don’t care who started it. It’s the same every night; shouting, screaming, fighting and if it’s not you it is someone else. All I ask is that you get into bed, now is that difficult?’

She released ‘lorry boy’ and sat on his bed. Taking hold of my arm she pulled me over her ample lap and brought her huge hand down onto my backside. My thin pyjamas gave me very little protection, and my squeals had absolutely no impact on her. By the time she stopped my backside had been well and truly warmed. Releasing me she systematically handed out the same treatment to the other two boys.

‘Let that be a lesson to you, all of you.’

She left the room and turned off the lights. The bedsprings creaked as everybody settled down. I rolled onto my side to ease the pain in my backside and silently sobbed into my pillow. At that point I understood what true loneliness was, still unable to understand why my parents had sent me here.

Sister Heppel, due to circumstances, may have been a strict disciplinarian but she also had a softer side. This manifested itself during times of sadness when she would be seen hugging a child.

‘Hope she never hugs me,’ said my brother.

‘Why? it’s better than being smacked,’ I replied.

‘Because if she hugs you it means your mum or dad have been killed.’

The matron had the unenviable job of breaking the news to a child if something happened to their parents.

5

The Boy With No Shoes

The following morning I was aimlessly wandering around the playroom to kill time when by chance I spotted the front door lying wide open. There were no adults about so I just walked out. I had no idea where I was but I could see the beach across the road, no more than a hundred yards away. There was very little traffic so I had no trouble crossing the road. The barbed wire strung along the beach, there to deter the enemy, presented little problem to me and within no time I had wriggled through onto the beach.

Taking off my shoes I approached the water’s edge. As each wave approached I ran up the beach laughing. Finally I let the freezing water lap over my feet. It was a cold day but was the best fun I’d had since arriving at the hostel.

As I innocently played my little game the sound of aircraft caught my attention. Intrigued I looked up and could plainly see the markings on the wings and fuselage as the planes flew over. I later learned that they were German bombers headed for the naval dockyard at Plymouth. Completely oblivious to their significance I continued watching them until they finally disappeared into the distance before going back to my game.

Suddenly as if from nowhere I was plucked from the sand by a strong pair of arms and tucked under an arm. I had been spotted by the ARP warden who ran up the beach across the Promenade and into an air raid shelter, before dumping me down. When he finally gathered his breath he said.

‘Don’t you know when the siren sounds you must run to the shelters?’

‘Yes,’ I replied somewhat confused.

‘So why didn’t you. Didn’t you hear the siren?’

‘No,’ I mumbled.

It probably wouldn’t have made any difference even if I had heard it. I was having too much fun, and anyway, I had no idea where the shelters were.

‘Where do you live?’

‘In the hostel.’

‘Well you will have to remain here until the ‘all clear’ goes and then you can show me.’

The people already in the shelter made space for me on the wooden bench. I looked at my bare feet, which were quite cold by now, and wondered if I would get my shoes back, or if they had been washed out to sea.

When the ‘all clear’ sounded the ARP warden and I left the shelter. By the time we reached the hostel the matron was already standing at the top of the steps a worried look on her face. The ARP warden told her what had happened indicating that he would need to make a report. She invited him in and led the way to her office quickly organising tea and biscuits. I was told to stand in the corner of her office and face the wall. Within minutes the tea was served and I listened to the satisfied crunching as the matron and warden tucked into the biscuits. I couldn’t remember the last time I had tasted a biscuit, and as far as the matron was concerned, my taste buds were not about to be reminded.

Once the tea and biscuits had convinced the warden not to take the matter any further the matron was anxious to get rid of him and began easing him into the hall. Through the door jamb I could see that he was reluctant to leave, milking the situation for all it was worth. Seeing my opportunity I quickly snaffled a biscuit and stuffed it into my mouth just as I heard the front door being closed. By luck somebody spoke to the matron delaying her long enough for me to swallow the stolen delight. She returned to the office her chair creaking as she eased herself into it. I remained facing the wall.

‘You can turn around now.’

Placing my hand over my mouth and coughing I quickly wiped any tell-tale crumbs from my mouth.

‘So what have you got to say for yourself?’ she asked.

Unable to offer an explanation I remained silent listening to her lengthy lecture, which I was sure was leading to a good hiding. Finally she stood up and grasped my arm. I was expecting to feel the weight of her hand but instead she led me into the hall directing me towards the corner.

‘Now face the wall and don’t speak to anyone. Do you hear.’

‘Yes matron,’ I mumbled.

‘If we don’t find your shoes you’ll have to walk around in your bare feet as there are no more,’ she said as she sent one of the staff to see if they could find my shoes.

The hall floor was cold on my bare feet. I tried warming them by rubbing them up and down the back of my leg. When this didn’t help I wandered over to the room off the hall and stood on the carpet. My brother saw me and came over and asked where I had been. Before I could answer the matron chased him away.

‘I told you not to speak to anyone and to stand in the corner. Now get back there and face the wall.’

‘But my feet are cold.’ I complained.

‘You should have thought of that before you lost your shoes.’

A few minutes later my brother came back. Still facing the wall I told him where I had been. Suddenly a huge hand smacked me across the head the shock of the blow bringing tears to my eyes.

‘Now perhaps you’ll do as you’re told,’ said the matron.

The smell of food as the evening meal was being prepared reminded me how hungry I was. When all the other children were seated and no one came for me I worried I would miss out on my supper. Cautiously looking around I began to move towards the dining room.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

The voice of the matron standing in her office doorway stopped me dead in my tracks and I eased myself back towards the corner.

‘You’re such a disobedient boy aren’t you!…Go on get your supper.’

My shoes were never recovered so I just ran around in my socks. Finally someone from the community donated a pair. They were not new and were too big, but there was still plenty of wear in them. It was them or nothing. One of the staff tied the laces as tight as possible but the only way I could keep them on my feet was to curl my toes up. Problem was, every time I dashed to get something they came off.

In the end I only wore them when we lined up before a potential foster parent. After all, who’s going to pick a boy with no shoes.

6

I’ll Take That One

About midmorning on the following day we were all ushered into the hall and formed into a line. The matron came out, called for silence and beckoned to a woman waiting in her office. The woman slowly moved along the line of confused faces meticulously eyeing each child. Finally she turned to the matron.

‘I’ll take that one,’ she said pointing to me.

The matron told her I had a brother and where possible they liked to keep family together. The woman deliberated for a few seconds but, with a little prompting from the matron, agreed to take both of us. I had no idea what was going on but if my brother was coming with me it had to be alright.

Sometimes families didn’t always stay together. The hostel would split up a family rather than lose a potential foster parent, as happened to me later.

With the aid of one of the staff my brother and I packed our things into a cardboard box and minutes later were ushered out the door by the matron, no doubt anxious to get rid of us before supper. Two less mouths to feed. The door closed behind us before we had even descended the steps to the pavement.

Crossing the road to the bus stop I pointed out to my brother where I had lost my shoes. During the bus ride I sat next to the window excited at being out of the hostel and able to see the town.

Apart from my unauthorised walk on the beach, this was the first time since arriving in Exmouth that I had been outside the hostel.

After a short journey we reached our new home and were introduced to the rest of the family. A boy about my age, his brother a couple of years older and their grandfather. Their father was away in the army.

One of the boys showed us to our room. As we passed the dining room I noticed the table was laid.

‘Did you see all that food?’ I whispered excitedly once we were in our room.

‘Yes,’ replied my brother smacking his lips and rubbing his hands with glee.

They were a nice family and fed us well. Then for no apparent reason a couple of weeks after Christmas told us we had to go back to the hostel. We were not given any reason and I don’t think we asked.

It was later suggested that families took in evacuees, seeing it as the Christian thing to do for Christmas. Now that Christmas was over we were being returned; rather like unwanted Christmas presents.

But at least I had been away from the hostel for Christmas and had eaten well. I was not too fazed about leaving, not having been there long enough to form any meaningful relationships. Our belongings were packed into the same cardboard box and we returned to the hostel. I never saw that family again.

7

Boom

Although a number of new children had arrived at the hostel during our absence I quickly slotted back in. Soon it was as if I had never been away.

A few nights later we were soundly tucked up in our beds when the air raid siren sounded. Still half asleep we were all hustled into the air raid shelter at the back of the hostel. It was cold and musty with no heating or electricity, the only light coming from a couple of candles and the hooded torches the staff carried.

Wrapping my blanket around me I huddled on the cold damp concrete bench with the rest of the children. I was just dozing off when there was the most tremendous bang shaking the ground and startling us out of our slumbers. Several children began crying and the staff, who were probably just as scared, moved around calming them down. Finally, after a couple of hours the ‘All Clear’ sounded indicating that the threat had passed.

‘Everyone stay where you are until I have checked that it is safe to go outside,’ ordered the matron.

By the time we eventually emerged it was beginning to get light and we were able to see what had caused the bang. The church, no more than fifty yards from our shelter, had received a direct hit. Standing amongst the rubble which had been thrown in all directions I watched in fascination as the firemen fought the flames.

Eventually the ‘Fire Chief ‘ said it was safe for us to go back inside the hostel. All the windows had been blown out and our feet crunched on the broken glass lying everywhere. A fireman was handing out sweets to the snuffling children. Worried I might not get one I put on a less than convincing fit of crying which didn’t fool the fireman.

‘You can stop now, you’ve got your sweet,’ he said smilingly handing me a sweet.

The irony was that we had been sent to Exmouth supposedly to get away from the enemies bombs. It turned out to be anything but.

Eric R. Delderfield took an interest in all things to do with Exmouth. He was a local councillor and wrote several books about the town. I gratefully acknowledge the careful notes he made about the air raids on Exmouth. He wrote: Who will ever forget the air raids of 1940 – 1943. For a town of its size, Exmouth suffered very severely, both in lives and in property, during those years.

This is a summary of the raids which caused the greatest loss of life:

18 January 1941: In the early hours of the morning, three high explosive bombs hit the built-up area around The Cross and Chapel Street. Nine adults and three children lost their lives.

25 February 1941: Three high explosive bombs fell in the St. Andrew’s and Victoria Road areas. A visitor to the town (Arthur John Harding Hill) was killed by a direct hit.

1 March 1941: Five bombs were dropped at 8.0 in the evening, only two of which exploded – the one in the Parade caused four fatalities but the one at the back of Phear Park Lodge caused damage but no casualties.

28 May 1941: Bombs were dropped in the Woodville Road area, demolishing three houses and killing six adults and three children. A further 8 people were hospitalised.

12 June 1941: During the evening, a British plane returning from patrol was attacked by a Messerschmitt over the town. The British plane crashed in flames on a house in Cranford Avenue which was destroyed by fire. The inhabitants of the house escaped but the two crew members were killed.

12 February 1942: Just after 8.0am , three bombs were dropped in the area of the Beacon. One exploded in Bicton Place where there were five fatal casualties and seven were injured.

26 February 1943: Around mid-day, eight enemy planes attacked with high explosive bombs, cannon and machine gun fire. Eight bombs were dropped and all exploded. One demolished a row of shops in the Strand killing people who were working or shopping in them as well as a queue of people waiting at an adjacent bus stop. A total of 25 people died on this occasion and a further 40 were injured, some seriously. During the same raid, a man working on his allotment on Albion Hill (Thomas Maxwell) was killed by cannon fire.

There were many other air raids which caused damage to property and we may never know why Exmouth was targeted so consistently.

My thanks to the Devon Heritage Internet site for the above information.

8

Stench

Later, that day, we were again lined up in the entrance hall. The foster parent quickly walked along the line and pointed to my brother. ‘I’ll take that one’ she said. The matron told her he had a younger brother, so before long we were both on our way to our second foster home. Our belongings were again packed into a cardboard box and we silently followed our new ‘foster parent’ to the bus stop.

She didn’t speak or ask us anything about ourselves during the journey except to say, ‘this is it’ when we arrived at our stop.

She left my brother and me to carry our cardboard box saying, ‘follow me’ as she led the way towards a block of houses. The nearer we got the more apprehensive I became. I didn’t like the look of them one bit.

Using a latch key she opened the front door of a two-storey terraced house and was immediately greeted by two children.

‘Mum, mum did you get somebody,’ they yelled.

She pushed past them and disappeared into the house leaving my brother and me, the somebodies, on the doorstep being surveyed by the two children. One was a boy about my age and the other a girl a couple of years older. From within the house the woman called out, ‘Come on then, in you come.’

The girl moved down the passage and my brother followed. When I tried to enter the boy blocked my path. His mother saw him and called out,

‘Now don’t be naughty John, where are your manners, let Billy through.’

He reluctantly moved to one side. As I passed he sneered into my ear,

‘I don’t like you.’

When I heard that I knew that my initial misgivings were justified. It was bad enough arriving at a strange home without the added trauma of being greeted in this way.

The house smelled of stale cooking and unwashed bodies, and did not appear to be very clean. A woman, who turned out to be the next door neighbour, gave us a cursory glance and excused herself.

‘Take Frankie and Billy upstairs and show them to their rooms John,’ said his mother.

‘Don’t want to,’ he replied.

Janet, the girl, said she would do it. John immediately placed himself on the landing and watched as we struggled up the stairs with our cardboard box.

‘This is my room so keep out,’ he said.

Janet showed us into the smaller room next door. Sighting the double bed, which took up most of the space, I knew I would be sharing a bed with my brother which didn’t appeal to me.

The foster parent, who we were told to call ‘Auntie’, went to work each day. This didn’t help my relationship with John. He was unruly, noisy and made it plain that he didn’t like me. Every time we had a dispute he would remind me that this was his house and that I was an evacuee.

The next door neighbour looked in now and then and made our lunch. My brother and Janet seemed to get along well enough but I spent a lot of time on my own.

Things really came to a head when one day I aimlessly wandered into our bedroom just in time to see John peeing in the corner.

‘Ugh, you dirty thing, I’m telling on you,’ I said.

‘Go on then, see if I care, I’ll tell them it was you.’

He pushed past me and went into his own bedroom.

I told my brother and showed him the puddle of yellow urine in the corner. It was important to me that he saw it just in case John later blamed me.

Later that day John asked me to play ‘hide and seek’ as if nothing had happened. He may have forgotten about his disgusting act but I hadn’t. Out of sheer boredom I agreed.

I pretended to put my hands over my eyes whilst counting and watched him hide in the wardrobe in his bedroom. I then noticed the key was in the door. I silently locked it and sat on the bed.

When he realised I was not looking for him he tried to open the door.

‘Billy, let me out, I know you’re there,’ he called. I ignored him.

‘Let me out, let me out,’ he shouted