Chapter Four

We were given five days’ leave. The gunners were advised they would be posted to a gunnery school in Wales on their return. Hally, Blondie, Bill, Smithy and myself decided to go to London. A marvellous service bureau known as the Lady Ryder organisation provided an efficient service and booked us in at a Lions Club near Knightsbridge.1

Hundreds of books have been written about London at this particular period in her chequered history, but what impressed us newcomers was its tremendous size and the miles and miles of drab roofs and chimney pots that flowed past the train’s windows as we rode towards the centre of the city. We had expected to find it completely devastated but found that, because of its size, London had been able to absorb the punishment. In fact in the city proper, quite large areas were completely untouched by the Blitz, except where a burnt-out or bombed building made a gap amongst its untouched neighbours like a missing tooth. The area near St Paul’s Cathedral, however, was completely flattened.2

Our first three days were given to visiting well-known places such as Westminster Abbey, The Tower, etc. We also made the acquaintance of the Boomerang Club, situated in Australia House. This was exclusively for the use of Australians and without a doubt one of the best service clubs in England. Through its doors at some time or other passed every member of the RAAF to partake of excellent fare, read Australian newspapers, play ping-pong or billiards or just sit down and talk of cobbers in faraway Australia.3

The first night passed without incident but on the second, as we were doing the usual rounds of the pubs, there came the faraway nerve-torturing wail of sirens which swelled and grew as thousands more joined in. Then, like the rumbling notes in an orchestra, softly at first, but growing in intensity, came the growl of gunfire. Gradually it increased in intensity as the enemy planes moved up the estuary towards the centre of the city.

At the first warning sound the well-trained Londoners moved towards the public shelters and underground entrances in orderly file. There was no sign of panic or haste. A Cockney paper seller remarked, ‘’Ere come the bastards again’. Searchlights poked inquisitive fingers into the darkened sky, swinging and groping with their silvery beams. The gunfire worked itself into a crescendo. High above, you could see the burst of shrapnel and shells as the gunners attempted to throw the planes off their bombing run.

Soon the streets were silent except for the patrolling police and members of the National Fire Service and Air Raid Precautions. These stalwarts, ordinary working men, white collar workers, business executives, remained to face the danger from above, alone. Well-fortified with dutch courage, we had intended to watch the fireworks from the shelter of a doorway but a policeman caught us in a flash of his torch and put an end to this. ‘’Ere,’ he said, what are you doing out ’ere; do yer want to get yerselves killed?’4

Hally countered with the obvious, that the bobby himself was as likely to be killed, adding that it was our first air raid and we wanted to see what went on. The bobby was adamant. ‘Better get into the shelter over there, boys,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to be picking you out from under a building.’

A high-pitched shriek and a tremendous whoomph not so far away added force to his arguments and haste to our steps as we made for the shelter, a squat brick structure set in the centre of the street. Someone struck a match as we came around the brick blast front into the pitch black interior. The place was full, its silent occupants sitting on wooden seats that ran around the walls.

A voice said, ‘Why, it’s bleedin’ Orstrylians. Come and sit down, boys.’

There was a general reshuffling as room was made for us to squeeze in. In the brief glow of a matchlight I found a place between a fat old dear with a black shawl draped over her head and an English soldier who had his arm around a girl. Our arrival was the sign for a few facetious remarks but as the gunfire rose to a new pitch and the whoomphs grew in intensity silence fell on the gathering, the only sign in the darkness being the faint glow of cigarette ends that briefly lit the faces of the smokers. After each crash and whoomph my fat neighbour shook like a jelly and from her came a tortured, ‘Holy Mary Mither of God, pray for us sinners now,’ trailing off into an unintelligible finish.

The soldier, however, had his mind on more earthly things and from the darkness came giggles and half-hearted ‘don’ts’ followed by slaps.

The drone of planes seemed to pass directly overhead and a couple of nearby explosions shook our shelter. In the darkness you could gauge the tenseness as everyone followed the menacing drone; cigarettes were held in motionless fingers; even the soldier ceased his endeavours; the wheezy ‘Holy Mithers’ grew in intensity.

Gradually the sound of the planes and the gunfire seemed to move from our area. The cigarettes glowed again, the giggling resumed, and the ‘Holy Mithers’ dropped to a whisper.

The sirens finally, mournfully announced the All-Clear and as we came into the sulphurous night, we found to our astonishment the raid had lasted an hour – and the pubs were closed. We took the Tube back to Knightsbridge. I will always remember the sight of those thousands of Londoners huddled on the platform, sleeping in all sorts of positions right up to the edge. It was difficult to force a way through the groups. It reminded me of a giant casualty clearing station. The trains did not stop running till 11.30 pm, so these unfortunates, young and old, had to put up with the roar of the carriages and the passing of indifferent travellers till close on midnight. Most had come through the long and dreary winter dragging their bedding and blankets underground, emerging early in the morning to carry on their everyday tasks.5