Surviving the Attack on Chislet, October 1942

During the second world war my mother and father Anne and Bill Kenhard, who had married the week after the outbreak of war, moved from Ramsgate to avoid the heavy shelling from France. They rented a thatched cottage at Highstead, near Canterbury, where water had to be raised from a well by bucket and lighting was by oil lamp. It was nonetheless a haven, not least because my father could cycle to his job at Chislet Colliery and many happy times were spent at the cottage - mainly because my mother's family visited whenever they could, despite it being in a restricted area.
They lived in north London and like many city dwellers wanted some respite from the bombing raids.

However, in October 1942 the war, which until then had seemed to affect them more by unlucky chance than intention, became very personal. Up to then air raids had seemed relatively distant, although the battle of Britain had raged overhead and nearby Manston Airport was at the thick of the air battle. Dover docks was also targetted by the Luftwaffe. To people living in the countryside around Canterbury though it was more apparent because of the growing numbers of soldiers and military vehicles in the area, and of course because of the shortages.

Tyres for bikes and lights were hard to come by, so it became a matter of walking or using the bus service. Much of what was essential could be bought in the villages, or located by Mr. Greenstreet - a local character. Butchers, bakers and general stores were within walking distance, providing you didn't mind the odd mile or two and what could not be found in one, might be had in another.

In the autumn of 1942 my mother was walking from Highstead to Chislet pushing my sister Carole in a pram. She was two years of age. In the distance my mother heard bombs falling on Canterbury and turned when a fighter plane came into view. She thought it might have been a Spitfire heading back to Manston, but as she looked up she could see German markings. The pilot was clearly visible and my mother recalled being shocked to see the pilot's face over the controls. For her it was a very personal experience of someone intent on killing. She remembered being transfixed.

Fortunately a woman on a bike cycling nearby yelled to take cover, as the plane straifed the road with cannon fire. My mother, who had grabbed my sister, ran into a drainage dyke, protecting Carole by laying on top of her. When it had passed she had no choice but to continue walking in open country to safety, but with the realisation anyone was considered a valid target.

The plane carried on with its attack, killing a bus conductress on the village bus, and the butcher in Marshside who had come to the shop door to see what was happening. My mother always recalled his death with sadness, because two sons were also killed on active service. She always felt the loss of that wife and mother far outweighed here own experiences.

However, my mother never forgot this particular experience. It brought home that if a woman walking down a country road pushing a pram was a valid targe then there was no alternative but to fight such ruthlessness.

Eventually she had a long and happy life and my sister is a hail and hearty 64 year old, so this was one small tale of survival among many. I never forget, though, to tell the present generation about the sacrifices made by that generation - and particularly by people like the butcher and his family. You are remembered Mr. Wyborn

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