The sailor who saved me

On the evening of 19 June 1944 my father left for his job as a Post Office engineer at the local telephone exchange. It had been a happy evening and he had read Nicky, my older brother, a bedtime story before tucking him in for the night. I was the naughty one - at twenty months old I had discovered the joys of climbing out of my cot and had been put back to bed a dozen times or more before he finally kissed my mother goodbye.

We lived in the lower ground floor flat of Gotham Villas, Water Lane, Twickenham with a lovely garden overlooking the embankment and the river at Eel Pie Island. Daddy said that, despite the war, life with my mother was like being on holiday every day. They loved their family and the cosy flat by the Thames.

That night changed everything. My father finished his shift at the telephone exchange and began to walk home. He'd heard that a V1 had made a hit locally but it wasn't until he got nearer that he realised it had landed in Water Lane. The house, his family, his upstairs neighbours had all gone.

I don't know how long it was until he was told that there was an unidentified baby in the hospital. Would he like to see her? Of course, he rushed there to find me, almost in one piece, and learnt about my rescue.

Apparently, as the rescue services searched the rubble they found me buried and trapped by a beam which had crushed my leftleg. It was impossible to pull me out without causing further damage and it was decided the only option was to amputate. A young sailor, home on leave, couldn't bear the idea of amputating the leg of a baby and he pushed forward to help. At last he managed to heave the beam away and pulled me out.

My discharge certificate from West Middlesex Hospital dated 17 July 1944 says I was suffering from multiple injuries and shock, but I still have both legs and, as I've grown, the scars have faded to almost nothing.

Understandably, my father could not bear to talk about this event and I didn't press him to tell me more. For decades I only had the barest outline of what had happened and sometimes wondered what had happened to the sailor who had saved me.

About thirty years later the phone rang late in the evening. It was a very excited friend. "You will never believe what I'm going to tell you. I've been in the pub with Alf Moffat and he was talking about Twickenham in the old days. As you know, he used to live along the river and he and his brother both joined the Navy during the war. One night when he was home on leave, the house next door got hit by a V1. Alf rushed out with everyone else and watched while the rescue team tried to find anyone alive. They found a baby. But they couldn't get her out from under a beam. They sent for someone who could amputate the baby's leg, but Alf couldn't bear to watch any longer. He went in and got the beam out of the way and pulled out the baby. He'd often wondered what happened to her. I told him "it's Jenny".

I had known Alf Moffat for years but never in that time had we ever talked about the war. My rescuer was known to me all that time, and neither of us knew it.

Just one P.S. As I write this, my PC is on a table which was given to my father to help furnish the little cottage he and I moved into. It's not the most convenient desk in the world, but I wouldn't part with it for anything.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.