Surviving a Direct Hit from a V1 'Doodlebug'

All Londoners experienced the initial bombing of the Capital in 1941 and many of them experienced regular bombing of some description thereafter, either by way of incendiary bombs, landmines or other airborne explosives. This was my experience and that of my family until Germany introduced the V1 in June 1944. Thereafter, everything changed.

We lived in Carpenter Gardens, Winchmore Hill. My father was a builder and was not therefore called up until 1943.On joining the army he was drafted into the Royal Artillery. My mother was left to look after my twin brother and I aged 9 years, and my sister aged 6 years. We went about our daily business in the context of war, which meant that my brother and I and my sister attended a school very close to our house. My mother spent her time looking after us, shopping, cleaning and perhaps more importantly, worrying whether any of us would be alive the next day.

During the war families were encouraged to protect themselves against enemy action, which meant applying for an air raid shelter to the local council. There was a choice of a Morrison shelter which was installed in the house, or an Anderson shelter which was erected in the garden. We chose an Anderson shelter, and as my father was a builder, he installed it below ground with several steps leading to the interior. I am not sure that we went down to the shelter every night, but air raid sirens were frequent most nights and on hearing one of these, we would descend to the interior of the shelter.

Germany decided to start the bombing of London with the V1’s towards the end of June, 1944, and within 3 weeks my young life and that of my family was changed dramatically. During the day of the 6th July, 1944 it was raining all day long, and our shelter was flooded, consequently we where unable to use it and had to sleep indoors that night. As there had been many German air strikes during the past few weeks, we took precautions and my brother and I slept under a big oak table in the front room (now referred to as the lounge), my mother and my sister slept in a put -u-up double bed which neatly fitted in to a crevasse in the room.

At 1 a.m. on the 7th July an off duty policeman who lived in the house which backed onto the side of our house, was looking out of an upstairs window and saw a crippled V1 losing height and approaching our house. Its engine had not cut out, which was unusual for such a projectile, and on reaching our house, it struck the chimney pot and exploded in our front garden. I remember hearing an enormous explosion, and thought that whatever it was it was occurring in our room. 8 houses were practically demolished — 4 on our side of the road, and 4 opposite. By a freak occurrence most of the blast was directed across the road, and 12 people were killed in 3 of the houses opposite to ours and our neighbours. Other people were seriously injured and at least one was severely maimed by being blown from one house to another. The dead included the fiancé of a girl opposite, who was in the Royal Air Force but was staying overnight with her parents. Although the front of our house fell inwards, the back of the house was completely open to the heavens. We all scrambled out to the garden walking over rubble and glass in our bare feet dressed only in our pyjamas. Fire was raging everywhere as gas mains exploded, and we could hear the incessant screams of very badly injured friends and neighbours. We had minor injuries, with my mother sustaining rather a bad injury to her leg which necessitated being admitted to hospital. However, prior to leaving the scene for hospital, my mother was concerned that she had left all our family photographs in a leather bag in the house. She immediately, foolishly perhaps, returned to the house to retrieve the photographs. Minutes after she returned the building completely collapsed. You may say, why photographs, well in those days we had very few personal possessions, but nevertheless, we lost everything that we owned.

The emergency services were soon on the spot, including the fire service and the ARP (a voluntary rescue service) One can imagine the situation, our father was in the army, our mother was in hospital, and our house was demolished. Fortunately, we were taken with other children who were homeless to a nearby rest centre — in fact a local church which had been suitably adapted for the purpose - and we remained there for best part of a week, before arrangements were made for us to be evacuated with our mother to Aylmerton, a village in North Norfolk. A few days later, my father was given some leave although he was unaware of the tragedy that had befallen us. You can imagine how shocked he was when he walked down Carpenter Gardens and was confronted by rubble where there were formerly 8 houses including ours.

We were evacuated to North Norfolk not only because we were homeless, but because it was considered a safe haven from the bombing of London. I suppose we had been in Aylmerton for no more than a week, when a V2 (self propelled rocket) landed on a public house called the Roman Camp, which was very close to where we were staying in Beechwood Avenue. We spent only a few months in North Norfolk before returning to Winchmore Hill to make enquiries of the local council to be rehoused. V1’s continued to bombard the Capital, and I clearly remember one of them exploding in mid air when helping the local milkman with his deliveries.

My sister now lives in the house which replaced the bombed house in Carpenter Gardens and only last week, she discovered in her garden the buried remains of the Anderson shelter which my father erected.
Robert Dickinson

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