When the birds stopped singing

It was a cloudless morning in June
when,on my way to school, I saw
a never ending line of lorries
camouflaged and filled with soldiers.

In spite of bravado and merry grins
their eyes seemed tired and sadly wistful.
So many, even to me, looked young.
Some waved. Others gave us the thumbs up sign.

Everyone on the roadside was filled
with a terrible pleasure and dread.
Some cheered and shouted "Good Luck!"
"Good Luck! on the battle front."

Some turned to one side,
with tears in their eyes.
For all I knew my Dad
could be among them

We listened for news, held our breath
and hoped for clues: We whispered about it
at school, lest the Fifth Column might hear,
that at last 'God willing' this could be
the beginning of the end, of the war.

As our troops and allies progressed
we all grew blasé about the bombs
and my Mum had the idea that we should invite
one or two people, bombed out and stressed,
to stay for a break and relax in our house.

Everything sparkled, clean and polished.
There were flowers in every room.
Crisp, white sheets were on the beds
and the pantry was full of baking
as far as our rations would stretch.

What irony in her timing!
It was all undone at daybreak
when the birds stopped singing.

In a shelter, 'eleven by seven'
we sat together, taut and tense.
The siren's undulating wail
was followed by a trio of blasts,
the klaxon's rasp of imminent danger.

Three other noises filled the air.
The fut, fut, fut of a spitfire's gun;
its engine's whine and pulsing hum
and the robotic drone of a flying bomb
spitefully coded and ready to drop.
Fear caught our breath as it’s engine cut
and the spitfire pilot sped away, fast.

Hell in fury was bearing down
like a death-wish express.
A direct hit, nothing less.
Nemesis. What had we done?
We grabbed each other
as the earth convulsed.

We saw a swirling soup of dust,
and many things hurtle past.
Unable to breathe, but with minds alert
we remembered we'd read about victims
in bomb-blasted vacuums like us,
when found seemed unharmed but dead.

In a rush the air returned.
We choked and gasped,
and knew we were alive.

In their tower, our local firemen
had followed the doodle bug's flight,
'as the crow flies' to where we cowered.
They appeared from nowhere, astute and kind
like angels with gruff voices, in blue serge.
I threw myself at one and wept.

They asked about our neighbours
and quickly went to pull them out
from under glass and rubble,pale and shocked
but relatively free of trouble!

No air-raid warden had appeared
so someone went to their hut and knocked.
An elderly, bespectacled chap emerged,
slightly damp, with A.R.P. helmet askew,
wanting to know "What's up?"

We gazed at our home aghast.
Doors and windows were dark, bleak holes.
Inside walls were cracked and lopsided.
All that was left was a skeletal shell.

But a tap still worked so on a primus stove
we boiled water and brewed tea, pot after pot.
Then we tried to salvage whatever we could.

Too near for comfort a huge crater gaped.
Hard tennis courts were feet away.
We had been lucky that day, sure enough.
In the afternoon, my legs gave way.
"She must be tired." Everyone said.

While our house was repaired pro-tem
friends took us in. When we returned
klaxons shrieked less, but a doodle-bug
sometimes, still spluttered in the sky.
When the engine suddenly stopped,
without pride, we'd drop into the gutter,
satchels clutched over our heads.

Then silent and swift
V.2 rockets arrived.
Sudden mayhem and death
for many where least expected.

A broad impression of those days
leaves memories of everyone
living a brave pretence but with panache.
My peer group could hardly remember
what it was like, to live without war.
Our Eldorado dream was victory bells
ringing 'Peace' and everyone singing.

We were so grateful to be alive
It was hard to imagine wanting more.

Comment:

V.ls. were usually intercepted and shot down, before they could fly on to London. In the early hours of June 22, 1944 my home was badly damaged. 500 houses and bungalows also suffered some sort of destruction from the flying bomb that morning. The area was relatively spacious so the number was surprising high, but this might have been because the bomb dived down deep through the soft earth and caused wide-spread tremors. Fortunately no one was killed. The local history booklet omits to mention this incident or another very tragic one. During an air-raid a local house received a direct hit. The family were together in an indoor shelter and no-one survived.

There were many small munition factories in and around the small town of New Malden, and near enough for everyone to know why it was briefly renamed 'Little Dunkirk'.

We were about 12 miles 'as the crow flies' from the London Docks. During the Battle of Britain as they burned they lit up the night sky.

Post-war everything changed. People moved on. Quite a few local youngsters had been evacuated with their schools and unaware of what bad taken place. Naturally they would only remember incidents that actually touched or changed their lives.

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