Ray Horswell-
I was born and spent the whole of my early life in Torquay. At the outbreak of the war I was nearly nine years old and my first memory was the sinking of the aircraft carrier HMS. Courageous, I think about the third week in September.
I recall being particularly affected by the photographs printed in the newspaper at the time which showed the ship listing very heavily and sailors falling or jumping from the sloping flight deck into the sea.
Torquay in common with many other seaside resort towns was chosen by the RAF who established an Initial Training Wing there and many of the local hotels were requisitioned to be used for accommodation and training purposes. as young boys I and my school friends would spend many an hour watching the new recruits "square-bashing" by the harbourside and thinking we might be doing the same thing if the war dragged on for as long as seemed probable then.
Torquay and South Devon seemed far removed from all the action and consequently proved to be an attractive retreat for many who could afford it to escape from the larger urban areas which were under the threat of bombing attacks. This led to an article in the Daily Mirror which published a front page photograph of the harbour and the hill above under the banner headline "Funkhole" with a tirade against those who were leading a sheltered life there.
I was born and spent the whole of my early life in Torquay. At the outbreak of the war I was nearly nine years old and my first memory was the sinking of the aircraft carrier HMS. Courageous, I think about the third week in September.
I recall being particularly affected by the photographs printed in the newspaper at the time which showed the ship listing very heavily and sailors falling or jumping from the sloping flight deck into the sea.
Torquay in common with many other seaside resort towns was chosen by the RAF who established an Initial Training Wing there and many of the local hotels were requisitioned to be used for accommodation and training purposes. as young boys I and my school friends would spend many an hour watching the new recruits "square-bashing" by the harbourside and thinking we might be doing the same thing if the war dragged on for as long as seemed probable then.
Torquay and South Devon seemed far removed from all the action and consequently proved to be an attractive retreat for many who could afford it to escape from the larger urban areas which were under the threat of bombing attacks. This led to an article in the Daily Mirror which published a front page photograph of the harbour and the hill above under the banner headline "Funkhole" with a tirade against those who were leading a sheltered life there.
Peter West-
Memory is odd, how much of what we remember is really our own recollections and how much have we accumulated from the stories of others, especially close family. Hopefully most if not all of what I am about to relate is a first-hand account of the war as I lived through it. Anyway, to the best of my knowledge the story which I will tell is true in all its detail.
It was a silly place for a six year old to be when the war started. Let me explain: My Dad was a soldier, a regular, having joined up as a fourteen years old bugle boy in the Royal Artillery. Shortly after my birth, in July 1933, he transferred to the Army Physical Training Corps as a PTI and was soon promoted from Sgt through Staff Sgt to QMSI (Sgt Major). I was very proud of him of course. My Mother, baby sister Diana and I lived in a married quarter at the Sir John Moore Barracks, Shorncliffe. Well, for those of you whose geography is not too hot I should explain that Shorncliffe is located near Folkestone, on the white cliffs of Dover, just 22 miles from France; hence my suggestion that this was a silly place to live in 1939 and even worse in 1940!!
Memory is odd, how much of what we remember is really our own recollections and how much have we accumulated from the stories of others, especially close family. Hopefully most if not all of what I am about to relate is a first-hand account of the war as I lived through it. Anyway, to the best of my knowledge the story which I will tell is true in all its detail.
It was a silly place for a six year old to be when the war started. Let me explain: My Dad was a soldier, a regular, having joined up as a fourteen years old bugle boy in the Royal Artillery. Shortly after my birth, in July 1933, he transferred to the Army Physical Training Corps as a PTI and was soon promoted from Sgt through Staff Sgt to QMSI (Sgt Major). I was very proud of him of course. My Mother, baby sister Diana and I lived in a married quarter at the Sir John Moore Barracks, Shorncliffe. Well, for those of you whose geography is not too hot I should explain that Shorncliffe is located near Folkestone, on the white cliffs of Dover, just 22 miles from France; hence my suggestion that this was a silly place to live in 1939 and even worse in 1940!!
Jeanette King-
We were evacuated from Birmingham to South Devon because my mom was blitzed out. I was only two and my dad was in the 8th Army with Romal in the desert. Because I was naughty, my mom had to keep moving to different homes!!! We did settle in Paignton and I went to school. I was about four years old at the time. Since my mother was very beautiful, I remember her getting food from the shops from under the counter, along with her ration allocation. This included dairy produce and meat. I remember the powdered eggs being very nice. I also remember that we had to turn out all the lights because the Germans would fly over on their way back and would drop the bombs to make their load lighter. I remember that we occasionally wore gas masks, especially at school.
My father came back from Dunkirk when I was seven years old. He decided that I was spoiled (which I was), and he imposed strict rules on me. For example, he would make me eat all my food from the plate, clean the floor with a toothbrush, bathe in cold water and other disciplinary tactics.
We ended up settling in Devon. When I was 21, my family moved to Brighton. I thought that it was just for a holiday, but we stayed.
We were evacuated from Birmingham to South Devon because my mom was blitzed out. I was only two and my dad was in the 8th Army with Romal in the desert. Because I was naughty, my mom had to keep moving to different homes!!! We did settle in Paignton and I went to school. I was about four years old at the time. Since my mother was very beautiful, I remember her getting food from the shops from under the counter, along with her ration allocation. This included dairy produce and meat. I remember the powdered eggs being very nice. I also remember that we had to turn out all the lights because the Germans would fly over on their way back and would drop the bombs to make their load lighter. I remember that we occasionally wore gas masks, especially at school.
My father came back from Dunkirk when I was seven years old. He decided that I was spoiled (which I was), and he imposed strict rules on me. For example, he would make me eat all my food from the plate, clean the floor with a toothbrush, bathe in cold water and other disciplinary tactics.
We ended up settling in Devon. When I was 21, my family moved to Brighton. I thought that it was just for a holiday, but we stayed.
Magaret Willis-
My eighth birthday was in June 1939. I lived in a semi-detached house in Coulsdon, which isn’t far from Croydon and Kenley airfields, an outer suburb of London, with my parents and younger sister.
I felt mixed emotions; fear but also a little excitement, to hear the voice on the radio announce ‘we are at war’. Also to hear my parents talk about gas and to have gas masks issued, to see my father putting sticky paper on the windows and making plywood screens for the black out were scary and exciting at the same time.
A brick building with a concrete roof, our air raid shelter, was built in the back garden with a blast wall erected in front. My sister, Gillian, remembers my father entering our bedrooms as the sirens started wailing, his face looking strained, picking her up in silence and carrying her to the shelter. Between the house and the shelter, I would look up and see German bombers caught in searchlights, weaving across the sky. I connected that sight with death and many years later that repressed fear manifested itself as a phobia of flying. Although I could fly at low level, flying at height in an airliner was unthinkable!
Unfortunately, we shared our shelter with our neighbours, as part of it was built on their land. Trying to sleep was difficult as our neighbour snored and the fearful sounds of the sirens and anti-aircraft guns rarely abated. It was unpleasant, but I did feel protected. During the daytime the shelter became a play area and I loved climbing on its roof.
As my father’s embarkation leave was finishing, he took me on a cycle ride. During this excursion, he sat me down and asked me, a 12 year old, to take care of my mother and sister. He was worried about my mother’s lack of education and her inferiority complex and wondered if she would be able to cope whilst he was away. I tried hard to do as he had asked, but my mother rose to the situation. She ran the National Service Group in our road and I would help her sell the National Savings stamps. Mother arranged our second evacuation to a village near Manchester and came as a helper. When we wanted to return home, she stood up to the dragon of a headmistress, who did not want this. Coping alone seemed to give her a strength she had not known she possessed.
Our first evacuation experience had been to Ilfracombe in Devon. The contrast with London meant a lot to me. I was fortunate to be with my mother and sister and I have good memories of sea, rock pools and the Polish troops’ glamorous shows.
I loved acting and I was delighted that the hotel opposite our house housed Poles who had managed to escape. They were an artistic group; musicians, artists etc. The hall in which they rehearsed was on a hill and I could bend down to watch rehearsals through the low windows. My mother would also take me to their shows and, excited and nervous, I managed to get the autograph of one of the stars.
We felt unspeakable joy on V.E. Day and hoped that father would soon be home. There was also great joy on V.J. Day although it was mingled with horror at the falling of the atomic bomb on Japan!
I had been on a holiday French course and I met mother at a London station. We joined thousands of people in front of Buckingham Palace. They were all deliriously happy and the lights were on!
My eighth birthday was in June 1939. I lived in a semi-detached house in Coulsdon, which isn’t far from Croydon and Kenley airfields, an outer suburb of London, with my parents and younger sister.
I felt mixed emotions; fear but also a little excitement, to hear the voice on the radio announce ‘we are at war’. Also to hear my parents talk about gas and to have gas masks issued, to see my father putting sticky paper on the windows and making plywood screens for the black out were scary and exciting at the same time.
A brick building with a concrete roof, our air raid shelter, was built in the back garden with a blast wall erected in front. My sister, Gillian, remembers my father entering our bedrooms as the sirens started wailing, his face looking strained, picking her up in silence and carrying her to the shelter. Between the house and the shelter, I would look up and see German bombers caught in searchlights, weaving across the sky. I connected that sight with death and many years later that repressed fear manifested itself as a phobia of flying. Although I could fly at low level, flying at height in an airliner was unthinkable!
Unfortunately, we shared our shelter with our neighbours, as part of it was built on their land. Trying to sleep was difficult as our neighbour snored and the fearful sounds of the sirens and anti-aircraft guns rarely abated. It was unpleasant, but I did feel protected. During the daytime the shelter became a play area and I loved climbing on its roof.
As my father’s embarkation leave was finishing, he took me on a cycle ride. During this excursion, he sat me down and asked me, a 12 year old, to take care of my mother and sister. He was worried about my mother’s lack of education and her inferiority complex and wondered if she would be able to cope whilst he was away. I tried hard to do as he had asked, but my mother rose to the situation. She ran the National Service Group in our road and I would help her sell the National Savings stamps. Mother arranged our second evacuation to a village near Manchester and came as a helper. When we wanted to return home, she stood up to the dragon of a headmistress, who did not want this. Coping alone seemed to give her a strength she had not known she possessed.
Our first evacuation experience had been to Ilfracombe in Devon. The contrast with London meant a lot to me. I was fortunate to be with my mother and sister and I have good memories of sea, rock pools and the Polish troops’ glamorous shows.
I loved acting and I was delighted that the hotel opposite our house housed Poles who had managed to escape. They were an artistic group; musicians, artists etc. The hall in which they rehearsed was on a hill and I could bend down to watch rehearsals through the low windows. My mother would also take me to their shows and, excited and nervous, I managed to get the autograph of one of the stars.
We felt unspeakable joy on V.E. Day and hoped that father would soon be home. There was also great joy on V.J. Day although it was mingled with horror at the falling of the atomic bomb on Japan!
I had been on a holiday French course and I met mother at a London station. We joined thousands of people in front of Buckingham Palace. They were all deliriously happy and the lights were on!