The Day I Was bombed

Years after the war I chronicled my experiences in a book. This is an excerpt from my book Six Years of Darkness.

On March 8, 1945 I sat on my high stool working hard for a good bonus. I was employed by a factory in Holborn. We reconditioned engine parts from damaged planes.
My partner Florrie and I took the gyroscope apart, cleaned it in an alcohol bath, replaced worn parts, reassembled and tested it. We had to produce a certain number a day; any above that were paid extra.
Florrie was a big woman, tall and wide, probably in her late thirties. A true cockney, she was always cheerful, always ready with a wisecrack. I was twenty-three and rather serious. We were a good team.
On that morning we were working steadily, singing along with the radio.
Suddenly the groung trembled, my stool swayed and a thunderous explosion shook the building. Glass rained down on us from the glass ceiling and the large windows. My heart pounding, I couldn't move. It's happened, I thought, it's finally happened. I almost felt relief.
I forced myself to get up and look around. The buildng was standing, we were alive. Then I glanced at Linda sitting by the window. Her head, face and hands were covered with blood. I felt dizzy.
"Are you all right?" I asked when I could speak. She gave a weak smile. "I think I have a few cuts."
The huge window frame had come off the wall and hung in mid air across her desk. Glass and wood splinters were embedded in our work tables and alcohol baths. Glass crackled under my feet. The foreman came over, dabbing with a handkerchief at a cut in his face. "Anybody hurt?"
I nodded and pointed to Linda.
"Stay with her," he said. "I'll call an ambulance."
Florrie came over. "You hurt?" I shook my head. She looked at Linda. "You have a few cuts, love. Feeling a bit weak?"
Linda nodded. Please don't pass out! I thought.
I looked at Florrie. "You have a cut on your cheek." She touched her hand to it. "Gor blimey! They've gone and marred me beauty!"
I grinned, but Linda couldn't quite make it. To my relief the foreman returned. "An ambulance is on the way." He glanced at me. "Better have your hands bandaged. They've set up a first aid station upstairs."
I looked at my hands They were covered with blood. When I came back down Linda was gone. We were sent home.
Dust, smoke and the acrid odor of burning hung over the area when I passed by on my way to the tube station. Two buildings were on fire, the others rubble, bricks, wood and glass all mixed together. The little cafe on the corner were I often stopped for a cup of coffee no longer existed. The road had disappeared. Rescue workers, marines and American soldiers were digging out the buried. Ambulances, taxis and trucks arrived empty, leaving with the wounded.
My hands had bled through the bandages and a rescue worker asked me about it. "It's just a cut," I said. "Better have it seen to, Miss. You may have glass splinters lodged in it." He was about to shove me into an ambulance. "No!" I said, embarrassed by my little cuts. He nodded. "All right. But have it seen to."
I followed his advice. A dozen or so little splinters were buried in my hands. The nurse took them out with tweezers. It didn't hurt.
A V2 had hit Farrington Street market, a block from our factory, around eleven in the morning. 90 people were killed and 300 wounded. An hour later the market the would have been crammed with lunch time shoppers, including me.

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