Blitz Kids, page 3
For children like Bill Edwardes and his classmates, the threat of war had been hanging over them for a year. The Munich Crisis of 1938 had given children a taste of what was to come. For Roy Bartlett, living with his parents above their West London hardware shop, the impending conflict had little impact:
The prospect of war was talked about in hushed tones. I became familiar with names like Hitler and Mussolini, and the Rhineland. But at nine years old, it all sounded rather exciting, I wasn’t worried. I was more bothered about how many goals I scored in the playground kickabout – or The Adventures of Tarzan at the pictures. Until gas masks were distributed at school. I didn’t like the look of them. I was under the impression that once they were issued, I’d have to wear it all the time – even in bed.
The sudden arrival of gas masks was the one thing that changed their world. From early 1937 factories had been producing gas masks at a rate of some 150,000 per month and these had started being issued in 1938. With their issue, war was no longer something that concerned only the adults. At Roy Bartlett’s school, the distribution of gas masks was a less than formal occasion, despite the efforts of the instructor:
A very bossy lady arrived. ‘Stand still! Line up! I’m going to show you how to put a gas mask on!’ I can clearly remember it was horrible feeling. There was the smell of new rubber and the claustrophobic feeling as the mica at the front misted over. I was pleased because it meant no one could see that I was crying. But there was some light relief because one of the lads realized that if you exhale harder, the air can’t get out of the filter. Instead it makes the rubber vibrate and makes a farting sound. If you can imagine forty kids, all doing it! We loved it. This poor lady was jumping up and shouting ‘Stop it!’ The idea that this was supposed to save our lives didn’t even enter our heads.
He and his classmates soon realized that gas mask cases had many potential uses: ‘If you stood three on top of each other it became a cricket wicket. Stand them three yards apart and they were goalposts for football. Or you could chuck them up into trees and knock conkers down.’
Despite the light-hearted antics of children who were too young to understand war, there was a serious undercurrent that soon impacted upon them: evacuation. In preparation for war, some schools had embarked upon evacuations, moving their pupils into the countryside for safety. Born in July 1929, Colin Ryder Richardson was at Arnold House School in St John’s Wood, London, at the time of the Munich crisis. Suddenly the children were told the school was moving to Scotland:
We were told to pack some food and clothes and that we would be getting the night train. It was an enormous shock to me, my parents packed me off. We arrived in Scotland and went to a hotel on an estate. We stayed there a week whilst the school tried to carry on – turning a day school into a boarding school in a temporary location. Then Munich was resolved and we came back. But it left an impression on me and indicated to me that the political situation wasn’t very stable.
For Roy Bartlett, the discussion of evacuation seemed somehow unreal:
All the chit-chat at school was about evacuation. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. It seemed to be a mad scheme where you were taken away from home, sent hundreds of miles away, to a place that was totally secret, to people you had never met in your life – and they said we’d have a good time. I decided to ignore the whole silly affair and tell my mother I wasn’t going.
It was just the start of a process that saw some sixty million changes of address in six years of war, a remarkable figure considering the population stood at less than fifty million.
Despite the opposition of children who had no desire to be evacuated, the story of the children’s war effectively began on Friday, 1 September 1939. The evacuation of the cities, ports and industrial areas began immediately. This was the starkest possible warning of what ‘total war’ might mean: the transportation of one-and-a-half million people out of danger. Never before had such a movement of population been attempted in the UK. There were 735,000 children who were separated from their parents and a further 426,500 mothers with young children. From London alone, 339,000 children left London in the government scheme. Many more left the city with private schools or with families who decided to relocate to the countryside.
All across London and the big cities, parents were faced with an uncomfortable choice. The government reaction, though extreme, was deemed logical. For all the tears it inspired, from children and parents alike, the threat of modern war was too great for anything else to be done. It was a terrible dilemma: should they lose their children to the safety of the countryside or risk staying – and possibly dying – together?
In east London’s Bethnal Green, war had been prefaced by the rise of the Blackshirts and the conflict between them and many of the locals. Nine-year-old Reg Baker, who had watched the street fights in defiance of his parents, was under no illusion that the world was a violent place. The East End was a rough place, but his local community was close-knit and generous – those with spare cash would willingly loan their last pennies to a mate in need. His was a world of pawnbrokers and constant hunger, a world where a bus trip to Oxford Street seemed like travelling to another planet. Winter and summer, Reg wore the same battered woollen jersey, threadbare trousers and worn-out shoes: ‘You put cardboard in your shoe, but it’s no good if you step in a puddle.’
He was under no illusion about the world he lived in. Even the most loving parents had little time to show affection to their kids. Often it was the women who suffered most from the frustrations brought on by poverty, as Reg Baker soon realized: ‘They were such drab days – drink was the only way out. That’s why men got violent.’ The violence made an impression on the youngster:
It was a Saturday night. He was skint – and he’d had a few. Mum was cutting up tomatoes. All of a sudden he’s gone for her. She lifted up the knife and cut him across the wrist. The blood came out like a fountain. So my sister wrapped a towel round it and took him down Bethnal Green hospital.
The violence only stopped when Baker’s elder brother had grown tall enough to intervene: ‘I came home one night and my old man started on Mum. My brother came over and bang! He knocked him down. Dad sobbed – I think he was embarrassed that his son had hit him.’
When the time came for London’s children to be evacuated, it was no wonder both Baker and his parents were happy for him to go. Having one fewer mouth to feed made a significant difference – even before rationing was introduced. And so, when the time came, Reg made his way to school alongside his classmates. In later years Baker was always struck by one thought: whenever he saw photographs of evacuees they seemed to be well dressed and carrying small suitcases or wearing rucksacks. That was not his experience. He was dressed in his normal ragged clothes and had travelled with a carrier bag containing little more than a tin of condensed milk.
The children gathered at their schools. The older ones were evidently enjoying the adventure, anxious to discover what life would be like in the countryside and keen to maximize the opportunity. Younger children held their mothers close. Family groups held hands, the eldest sibling urged not to let the others out of their sight. In Ealing, Roy Bartlett had voiced his opposition to evacuation and his parents had originally accepted his protests, agreeing he should remain at home. When they discovered the rest of his school were going away the decision was taken out of the nine year old’s hands, his mother arguing that she did not have time to teach him at home. So he joined the classes assembling in his school playground at six in the morning:
I’d been scrubbed and polished to perfection. All the dads stood to one side because emotion was never shown by men in those days. They certainly never showed tears. It was a bit different from the mums. All the mothers were crying. My mother was desperately trying not to cry. She told me not to worry.
As the mothers cried, the evacuees had labels tied to their coats, were given a ‘goodie bag’ of food for their first meal and lined up to board the buses: ‘We were excited. It was an adventure. Which over-rides the fear. I was going with all my mates.’ As they boarded the bus, the children could hear their mothers shouting to them: ‘Don’t forget to write! Don’t forget to change your socks! Don’t forget to wash behind your ears!’ As Reg Baker left the East End for Oxfordshire he considered it an adventure. The most exciting thing was that they were given a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate: ‘It was supposed to last the whole day. I’d eaten mine by the time I left Bethnal Green. It was a real treat – I was always hungry.’
That Friday, as the children began their journey, there were awkward scenes the like of which the country had never seen. On the brink of total war, the children reached railway stations where they passed columns of soldiers heading off to join their units. The juxtaposition of the two was a stark reminder of the changes that were taking place. At stations, the evacuees climbed onboard one of the 1,500 special trains that had been laid on to carry them away from home. Around 600,000 were herded on to requisitioned buses and driven to their destination. The bright red of London Transport buses seemed incongruous in the country lanes as they weaved their way into the villages to unload their youthful cargo. On his bus, Roy Bartlett found the journey seemed to last for hours. It was all an illusion. By the time they reached their destination they had travelled just twenty-four miles. One lucky group of children were even evacuated from London to the Norfolk coast on a pleasure steamer more used to transporting holidaymakers on day trips.
In their excitement most of the children failed to notice that some faces were missing. In every class there were a few gaps, children whose families refused to let them join the exodus. In east London, soon to be one of the most bombed parts of the country, there were plenty who decided to take their chances. When the Morris family heard the news that young Alf was going to be evacuated the discussion was brief. Alf listened as his mother boldly stated: ‘If I die, he dies with me.’ The decision was final: the whole family would face war together, come what may.
The children arrived at their destinations, some clumped together with friends, others holding the hands of siblings. It was a pathetic sight to see these lost and lonely children nervously waiting to see what would happen next. The comics they carried, bought by parents as a going-away gift, seemed altogether sadder than when they had begun their journeys. The pages were crumpled, courtesy of so many eager hands. They had served their purpose, keeping the children occupied on the journey; now they were little more than a reminder of home. Likewise, those who had left in their best clothes, seemed dishevelled after hours of travelling. Above all, behind the little bravado offered up by some, there was a quiet air of caution – and not a little sadness – surrounding the evacuees.
As hundreds of thousands of children began the exodus from the cities, a vast army of helpers was recruited to help look after them. In some areas, schools organized their senior pupils and prefects to support the evacuation system. Boy Scouts and Girl Guides played a major role in helping to collect children from railway stations and then deliver them to their new homes. Girl Guides also volunteered to clean homes, many of which had stood empty for years, to be used for housing evacuees. Their work also entailed using their sewing and handicraft skills to make blackout curtains. In the opening days of the war, many Guides were fully engaged in war work: as well as cleaning houses, they were looking after children and helping to dig air raid shelters. Once the evacuees were selected, Guides who had passed their ‘Child Nurse badge’ volunteered to help at nursery schools that had moved to their area.
One teenage volunteer was Jean Redman. At fifteen years old, she was just one year older than many of the evacuees. The daughter of a dentist, Jean was selected to assist at Bedford Town Hall: ‘I was seconded from school to help with the evacuation. The town clerk asked the Head if there was anyone who would be available to help with the evacuations. My friend and I had done our exams so we volunteered.’ After mustering at the Town Hall, Jean and the other volunteers walked to the railway station where they collected the children: ‘On the first train they were fairly young. Some were crying, but some were happy as they thought it was a holiday.’ The children were marched through town, with adult volunteers trying to keep order. They were then deposited in the local Corn Exchange, where they awaited selection.
Jean Redman watched as the children were assessed by potential foster parents:
That was the worst thing. Then I didn’t realize it – I was too young – but now I think that must have been absolutely terrible for those that were left at the end. I was watching them all being distributed. The nicest looking children went first … then the best dressed … it’s human nature. People didn’t want large families. Hardly any people even wanted two children together. If you were in the countryside you might find a farm big enough for two or three children, but the average family didn’t have space.
Arriving in the village of Wooburn Green, Roy Bartlett and his classmates exited the bus with some trepidation, then were marched into the village hall:
We were sorted out like dirty washing. My friend Ken and I were sitting on the floor and we were among the leftovers. Us two sweet angelic lads! We were put into this car to be touted around the village. I was absolutely petrified. We were huddled together. We didn’t know what was going on. The car was surrounded by women, all peering in. They spoke funny! They had these country accents. Then a couple opened the car door and said, ‘Would you like to come with us?’ We hadn’t got a lot of choice really.
After arriving in Oxfordshire, Reg Baker and his schoolmates had a similar experience as the children were separated, although in farming villages the emphasis was slightly different: ‘The big boys were chosen first, for the farms. Then good-looking girls were next. The scruffy ones – like me – were left to the end.’ Finally chosen by a blacksmith and his family who lived at the village forge, he began his new life. As they walked to his new home, Reg was shocked by his surroundings: ‘It was a world I’d never seen before.’ There was a village green with the obligatory stocks on it; the village pub faced the green. It was quiet, he could hear birds singing and the air was strangely clear. There was a vacant bus stop, where buses stopped every few hours: nothing like Bethnal Green, with its busy roads, constant noise and smoky air.
Those who assisted with the allocation of children – many being members of the Women’s Voluntary Service (WVS) – found themselves scrubbing the heads of children who gleefully admitted to having nits. Others – including women and girls – were appalled and insulted at having their heads shaved. One woman was upset to see her young child having her teeth examined, calling out: ‘Hold up – she’s not a horse.’ Foster parents were shocked to encounter children without night clothing, who insisted on sleeping in their clothes, or refused to take a hot bath. Despite such complaints about the incoming children, the evacuees also complained about their hosts. Children from ‘respectable’ homes were appalled to be housed in draughty country cottages. One girl noted how she was unable to wash her hair for months and had to fetch all water from a pump at the bottom of a hill. Others found themselves billeted with drunks, the physically abusive and even paedophiles.
Having moved from Streatham in south London, nine-year-old Sylvia Bradbrook’s experience of evacuation was unremittingly miserable. She was housed with a family where the mother ruled the house:
The woman was terrible. But everyone thought she was wonderful, a pillar of the church, because she had ministers coming to lunch with her. My mum would come down to see me and bring me a parcel of food she’d saved like an orange. Mrs Morris would say, ‘Oh look at that – isn’t that lovely?’ but as soon as my mum was gone she’d have it off me. My sister’s firm was evacuated round the corner but she wouldn’t let her come to see me.
Sylvia found she was treated like a servant rather than foster-child:
I used to have to get up at 6 a.m. in the morning and cycle miles to Bracknell to do all the shopping. After that I had to cycle miles in the opposite direction to Woking where I went to school – and all that had to be done every day before school at 8.30.
In later years Sylvia realized her foster-mother’s mood swings were a symptom of the menopause:
She was forty-five to fifty and she would rage. She’d beat her dog with a walking stick and I’d scream because any minute the walking stick might come down on me. She’d make me keep the same clothes and underwear on for a whole week because she didn’t want to do washing. But she was nice when my mum came down and I was frightened to say anything.
Her hen-pecked husband seemed frightened to confront his wife, spending the evenings in his chair, smoking his pipe and desperately trying to avoid her wrath.
Sylvia also found she was given different food to the rest of the family: ‘The sandwiches I had were made out of something called tomato jam – a bit like ketchup – it was so bad I used to throw them in a stream on the way to school.’ They were so unpleasant that she was relieved to open her bicycle basket one day to find a rat was eating them. The situation made Sylvia yearn to be back in London – bombs or no bombs:
All she wanted was the ten bob a week. I don’t think there was a middle ground with evacuation: they either saw you as a child or a drudge who could do work. The house I stayed in had no electricity, just oil lamps. There was a bath in the kitchen with a wooden top. I never said anything to my mum because she would have been upset. I was glad to get home and I don’t think I was alone. The country people thought we should work for our keep. The abuse was under a cloak of religion. It was all very different from my life in London. I was only there for a year and it was the worst year of my life.
It was culture shock for both sides. Roy Bartlett was nervous of his guardians until he spotted the man’s uniform: he was a member of the village’s voluntary fire brigade. More importantly, the fire engine was kept in a shed at the end of the garden. However, when time came for their first meal, Roy and his mate refused to eat what the fireman’s wife had prepared. As he later recalled, corned beef, biscuits and homemade jam was a less than appetizing meal. The nervousness of the boys continued that evening when they were told to have a bath. At first they refused to undress and then hid behind the bath: ‘No way was a strange lady going to see our bits and pieces.’ One foster mother was shocked when her new wards refused to sleep in a bed with clean white sheets. The children were from a poor home and, as they explained, their family only used crisp white bed linen for laying out corpses.
