The Wave

The wail of the siren and my Mother shaking me, shouting "Get up, Get up" woke me from the bed I shared with my sister. The planes droned overhead as we clattered down the stairs of our small, two-bedroomed, terraced house in the Black Country and out across the blue bricked yard. As we dashed through the back door of the house, my father rushing ahead to open the door of the air raid shelter, my mother running behind with my sister in her arms, grabbing my hand, a bomber flew very low directly over the house and dropped flares to mark his path. The flares lit up the scene. My mother screamed and we looked up to see the face of the pilot clearly.

And he waved to us!

He flew on to drop his bombs on the factories immediately behind the house.
We huddled on the bunks in the air raid shelter, my mother terrified but trying not to show it. It was pitch black except for the flashes from the explosions. The noise was like thunder. Frequently a thud hit the shelter as the tremors from the bombs travelled through the ground. For the first and only occasion during the war and the bombings I felt afraid. This was because my mother was afraid. Never before had she conveyed this feeling to us. I was about five years old but never shall I forget the lit up scene of the terrified, running family and the face of the German pilot. And his wave!

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