First Casualties and a Lesson Learned

My Auntie Brenda, Mother’s younger sister was quite a vivacious and outgoing young woman in the prime of life. At the beginning of 1944 we received terrible news. She had been engaged in War Work in a Munitions factory. On that fateful day, when she should have been celebrating her twenty-first birthday she was working a shift. There had been an unstable detonator among several in a box. As she picked one out, the whole box had exploded blowing off her lower right arm and blinding her.
The war had not touched us physically but the awfulness of this tragedy left the family stunned. Apart from losing our home to German bombs in London, our family had been lucky.
During the initial stages of hospitalisation while Auntie Brenda’s life had been in the balance, my mother had been allowed a week off her war duties to be near her sister.
When the physical wounds had healed she was sent to St Dunstan’s the Armed Services organisation for the blind, to help her to come to terms with her disabilities.
A few months after the accident my mother told us that Auntie Brenda would be coming to live near us in Shropshire to undergo training to cope with her blindness. During the war a temporary St Dunstan’s Training Centre had been set up at Church Stretton about twenty five miles away from where we were living at the time.
Travelling any distance could be difficult but my mother was a determined woman and she would not allow anything to stop her getting there.
I remember that first visit to Church Stretton. For an eight year old, whose world had been concentrated into an area of about five square miles, such a journey then was an adventure.
My mother accompanied by my two elder sisters and me, set off by Midland Red bus from Donnington early that June morning. We arrived in Wellington about nine o-clock and changed buses for Shrewsbury. Passing through the rolling Shropshire plain, dominated by the large “camel hump” of a hill called the Wrekin, we were soon approaching a small hamlet called Atcham, a crossing point where the river Severn meanders towards Shrewsbury. Just before we reached the boundary wall of Atcham Park, a large country house that had been taken over by the American Army Airforce, the bus slowed to a halt in a long line of traffic held up by Military Police. The driver switched off the engine preparing for a long wait.
For a brief moment there was silence. Then a noise like the buzzing of a thousand bees came from the direction of a nearby wood. It grew louder and louder until it became a roar. Suddenly we saw three “flying fortresses” rising slowly in formation from the trees and passing directly in front of us. They passed so low that I could make out slogans painted on the fuselages. In the nearest aircraft the face of one of the crew looked out from the cockpit, I could see a gunner in the bubble under the fuselage and another in the tail gun position. The aircraft were followed by wave after wave climbing into the sky.
My mother explained that it was probably a daylight raid and she hoped they’d give “old jerry “hell. There was unashamed cheering from the halted vehicles, we all joined in. (I was later to learn they were from the 8th US Army Airforce stationed at Atcham Aerodrome). We spent twenty minutes watching this spectacle before we were allowed to continue.
Arriving at Shrewsbury bus station we once again changed buses and after a short wait we headed out of town towards the distant mountains of the Welsh borders.
As we reached the start of the town by-pass we were ushered into a single lane again by Military Police. Lined up along the opposite side and down the length of one of our lanes was row upon row of military vehicles. Large lorries, tank transporters with tanks mounted on the rear, bren-gun carriers with small trailers attached, armoured cars and jeeps all with large white stars painted on the sides. Some drivers were at the wheel and others stood by the side of the vehicles waiting for an order to move. We waved cheerily from the bus window and the soldiers returned our greeting. It took us about half an hour to pass by this mass of armament and soon we were approaching Church Stretton.
We arrived there about 1.30 p.m. My mother made enquiries at the Police Station and located St Dunstans. Soon we were climbing a steep hill past a church. It had a large Lynch gate with seats on either side. Mother decided it was a convenient place to rest.
People were encouraged to save various things for the war effort and all over the place dustbins were set aside for the purpose. As we rested at the churchyard gate my mother suddenly began to laugh out loud. We couldn’t see the joke until she pointed to a dustbin by the churchyard wall. Painted in large white letters on the side was “Old Bones Only”!
We soon located the house at the top of the hill and walked up a long gravel drive to the front door. An Army nursing orderly ushered us inside. My mother was taken away down a corridor while we waited in the hallway. She returned shortly and announced that Auntie Brenda was waiting to meet us. Mum explained quietly that we would find her face changed a little but it was nothing to be scared about it was still the same Auntie Brenda inside. The thought of this made me feel apprehensive, but these notions were soon dispelled as we were ushered into a large sitting room.

I wasn’t scared so much by my auntie’s appearance, more shocked. She had always had a lovely soft complexion but now her poor face was pitted with small holes and there was a strange sunken look about those closed eyelids. The right arm of her red woollen jumper was pinned up neatly revealing the loss of the lower part of her arm.
“Here you are “Bee” it’s Iain,” said my mother pushing me forward.
“Gosh haven’t you grown” She said feeling the top of my head. Then moving her left hand down to my face her delicate finger started to trace the contours.
“You are like your mother. Isn’t he like you Doris?”
“I think so,” my mother responded “except for those freckles on his nose.”
“Give me a big kiss then”. My aunt said pulling me towards her. I kissed her gently on her cheek and withdrew slightly embarrassed.
Feeling much more at ease now that the greeting part was over, I was curious to know what it was like to be blind. As she greeted my sisters in the same manner I fired my first salvo.
“How do you know when its morning Aunt Brenda?”
“Be quiet Iain, that’s naughty” My mother rasped.
“It’s all right Doris he’s bound to ask questions”. She turned to me.
“I don’t, everything is black now” she replied, “ so I have this little watch here that shows me the time. She pulled up a small watch pinned to her jumper her fingers picking out the raised points. “There, it’s nearly ten past two”.
“How do you do that?” I said.
“It’s my new language. It’s called Braille, I am learning to read, type and tell the time with it.” She bent down slowly and felt around the base of the chair locating a large handbag.
“Come here children and see what I have for you”. She reached into the handbag and produced three little key fobs made of multi-coloured plastic sleeve, which had been plaited. “I made one each for you, do you like them?”
“They’re smashing” We chorused.
“Right. Now off you go through the french doors into the garden. while I have a talk with your mum”.
We left the sitting room and went out through French doors into a sunlit garden. There was a large lawn and flower borders surrounded by trees. Seated around the lawn on benches were several men wearing light blue uniforms, white shirts and red ties. Some of them carried long white canes. Others in wheel chairs had lost lower limbs, there were many without upper limbs but all were blind.
My eldest sister Jeane’ whispered that it must be awful living in such a lovely place and not being able to see it.
“Don’t you believe it, love,” said a loud cockney voice from the seat behind her, “you would be surprised what we can see, but not as you see things. My fingers are my eyes and I can hear and smell twice as good as you. I know where the roses are and can tell where I am in the garden by the smell of the plants. Any way what about the good news. Eh?”
We all looked blank and my sister Jeane’ said “What good news?”
“You mean you haven’t heard the news. Well there’s a turn up for the books. So you don’t know were back in France. It was on the one o clock news. We invaded Normandy in the early hours of the morning and our troops are on their way to give “old Adolph a bloody nose. Anyway those aren’t local accents where you’ from London?”
My sister Jeane’ explained that we had lived in Lewisham but had been “bombed out”. My father had been transferred to Shropshire and we followed him soon afterwards.
The man introduced himself as Bert and told us he came from Hackney we spent the next half an hour chatting with him and the other men. We found out that many of them had been returned from action in North Africa and Italy. They were glad of our company and chatted as if they had known us for years. When I was serving away from my own family later in life, I realised the reason for their interest; they must have been missing theirs.
After a while my mother came out to collect us.
“Now we are going to have tea and you have to be on your best behaviour.”.
“They’ll be all right Missus, don’t you worry. They’re a credit to you I’m sure”. Our newfound cockney friend commented. “TTFN” you lot. Be good”.(TTFN – a mnemonic for Ta Tah For Now, from the hit radio show of the time “ITMA” with Tommy Handley.)
My mother thanked the soldiers for keeping us occupied and we filed quietly into the lounge.
“Oh here you are.” My aunt called, “Come and make yourselves comfortable by me.”
We joined her. I watched fascinated as she located and positioned a cup and saucer on the large tray.
“Let me get you some tea. I’m getting good at this” She picked up the pot of tea.
“How am I for position, Doris?
“Right over the cup.” My mother replied cautiously.
“Bombs away. Say when!” she shouted.
“When!” We all shouted back and she stopped pouring with just the right amount into the cup. Placing the teapot down on the tray she located the jug of milk and positioned it over the cup.
“Bombs away. How’s that”
“When” we all chorused and the dash of milk was deftly delivered.
This routine was repeated until we all had a cup of tea and settled back with some toasted teacakes brought in by a nursing orderly. We chatted about the news we had heard in the garden late into the afternoon.
We visited my aunt on many occasions until she left the Centre at Church Stretton but that particular day stuck in my mind. I was later to realise it had been revelation about how ordinary people react in wartime.
On this one day, 6th June 1944. I had seen at first hand, bravery, humility and courage in the face of adversity. I had seen men and women with the spirit and determination to overcome overwhelming odds. It was a lesson that stayed with me throughout my life.

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