Jack's widow has found three stories that were missing. I have not needed to retype these, but a quick look would be appreciated.

~S~

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EVACUATION

The Battle of London continued. However on November 3, 1940, for the first time in nearly two months, no sirens sounded in London.

For a while the Luftwaffe's efforts were now concentrated on various provincial towns and cities, culminating in the devastation of Coventry on the night of November 14.

On November 15 London again came under bombardment, although German bombers were still attacking other cities. During the last week of the month and the first few days of December, the weight of the air raids shifted to the seaports, from Southampton in the south to Glasgow in the north.

The climax of these raids came again to London on Sunday, December 29 and was timed to coincide with the dead-low-water hour of the tidal Thames River. Water mains were broken at the start by very highly-explosive parachute mines. These were followed by incendiary bombs almost exclusively, resulting in between 1,500 and 2,000 fires burning simultaneously- the majority out of control-with little water with which to battle them. It was said that the Thames was pumped so dry that one could have walked across it.

By the end of May, 1941, the air raids had ceased. Over 20,000 Londoners were dead. Ten times that number had suffered injuries, and one in six were made homeless. For over three years all was virtually quiet until the V-1 (doodle-bug) bombardment began, followed by V-2 rockets.


In late March or early April, 1941, my parents decided that London was no place for children and, in anticipation of continued heavy bombing which never came, accordingly made plans to evacuate my brother and me to the country. As Mum was a seamstress and Dad a tailor's cutter, they both were working twelve-hour days engaged in the vital war work of making military uniforms. This left my brother and me largely unsupervised, which I believe contributed to their decision to send us to the country.

Evacuation of London's children had been going on since the beginning of the war and was primarily organized through the schools. Children from our borough were being sent north; Mum and Dad thought that was too close to some major industrial areas and therefore not too safe. With this in mind my brother and I went to stay temporarily with Aunt Lil (one of Dad's sisters) and Uncle Alf in south London. We enrolled in the local school there and when the next group of children were to be sent to the country, we were signed up.

So it was, then, that our departure took place very early one morning at the end of May, 1941, coinciding almost to the day with the cessation of enemy air activity. We joined a group of children at the school saying tearful farewells to parents and other relatives while struggling with small suitcases and bags to board the waiting buses. On a string around his neck and over one shoulder, each child wore the ever-present box containing their gas mask. And each child was decorated with a large cardboard label tied to their clothing, providing their name, school, and home address (which in our case was my aunt's).

Dad, Mum, Aunt, and Uncle all came to see us off.

"You boys will be alright," Dad said reassuringly as he hugged us both. "The people in charge will let us know where you are and we will write to you as soon as we can." He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. "Try to take care of your brother" he added.


"And don't you forget to write to us right away," Mum admonished with tears running down her cheeks.

Aunt Lil stood smiling a wan smile and Uncle Alf looked uncomfortable. "You might even learn to milk a cow," he said.

The buses pulled away from the school. We children crowded the windows to get a last glimpse of their loved ones, settling quietly into our seats as the bus turned the corner at the end of the street. There was not a sound; each of us was very much alone with our thoughts, and scared at the major changes coming in our lives.

After an unusually quiet ride we were deposited at one of London's major rail terminals. Our labels were checked and we were directed to passenger cars identified by letters displayed in the windows. A good deal of confusion ensued, but finally everyone had entered the appropriate car, been double-checked, and had settled down awaiting the start of our journey.

The train full of children, teachers, and volunteer mothers pulled slowly from the station amid billowing clouds of steam. The platform was soon left behind, giving way to a wide expanse of parallel tracks upon which moved one other passenger train. I wondered if it was full of evacuees like us. We silently watched as the familiar jumble of grey slate rooftops, with their thousands of chimney pots, moved past the windows.

Gradually the houses changed from rows of terraces to duplexes and single homes, each with its own small lawn and garden. And then we were passing through the countrysides patchwork of fields and brilliant green hedgerows. Farms and villages dotted the landscape, which many of us were seeing for the first time in our young lives.


A few children quietly sobbed; some cried openly, comforted by teachers and chaperones and watched by those of us stoically accepting the separation from parents and other loved ones. But, as children so often do, one by one we each became absorbed in the strange sights of the English countryside; tears dried.

In a couple of hours the train stopped at a small wayside station and we were allowed to detrain in small groups, each being given a sandwich and a small bottle of milk. By the time we were back on the train and moving, most of us were boisterously making fun of each other and of the unfamiliar sights visible from the windows.

At one point the train was divided into small segments, each with its own locomotive, and each continuing its journey in a different direction.

After being cooped up for what seemed an interminable time but was actually less than two hours, our segment of the original train came to a stop in a tiny station whose name signs had been removed. We were assembled on the grass beside the waiting room building, clutching our small suitcases and other bundles of belongings.

The labels we wore attached to our clothing were checked, and we were directed to board the various buses awaiting us. My brother and I entered the indicated bus together with some fifteen other children. Again we rode in silence, watching the unfamiliar farms and fields from the bus windows as we passed along narrow roads. The hamlet surrounding the station had had all reference to its name removed. Across a valley I saw a small town on a hill, and we passed a road leading to it. I realized that all the signposts had been removed in order to confuse any German spies or saboteurs, many of whom were captured within 24 hours of parachuting into England. (This had been done throughout Britain.)


About two miles later the bus entered a small, unidentified village, coming to a stop at a red brick building. A dingy, peeling painted sign above the door proclaimed it "Jubilee Hall" and indicated that it had been built in 1887 to commemorate the occasion of Queen Victoria's 50th year as Queen of England. A formidable-looking woman wearing a green skirt and a green blouse emblazoned with the letters WVS (Women's Volunteer Service) climbed into the bus and looked at us each in turn with sad eyes. "Come with me, children," she said softly. With a smile she added, "Welcome to Chawleigh."

We reached for our belongings, but she held up her hand. "We will get your luggage for you," she said. As we followed her into the building, two more women identically dressed in green blouses and skirts boarded the bus to gather our meagre luggage and gas-mask boxes. As we entered the hall, a woman seated at a table just inside the door checked each of us against a list lying among a pile of other official-looking documents.

Once checked we were directed to the far end of the room. Here, tables had been set up bearing trays of sandwiches and large pots of tea. We ate and drank ravenously and then took our places on a row of chairs lined up along one side of the hall. We did not have long to wait.

People started arriving. After showing letters to, and conferring with, the woman at the table, names were called and these children left with the appropriate adult.

A sickly-looking boy went first, followed by a tall girl wearing glasses. Next, a pair of pretty twin girls, and a boy with a large mop of curly hair. Finally, my brother and I were the only ones left.

"I was supposed to get twin girls!" a matronly woman loudly complained to the lady at the table.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Webber, but they're already gone," the green-clad volunteer apologized.

"But they were to be mine, look!" and Mrs. Webber angrily threw her letter on the table.


"I'm truly sorry, but the school teacher took them. However we do have these boys who now need a place."

Mrs. Webber and the volunteer walked over to where we were sitting. Mrs. Webber was what my father would describe as a "handsome woman," with an open face and dark hair pulled back into a bun.

"I'll take one of them," she said, looking from one of us to the other.

Only that morning Dad had asked me, "Try to take care of your brother." Already I was being put to the test.

"No!" I retorted.

Taking my brother's hand I picked up our suitcase and started for the door.

"And where do you think you are going?" asked the official with the lists.

"Back to London," I answered. "Either we stay together or we're going home."

"And how do you expect to get back to London?"

"We'll walk to the station we arrived at and go back the way we came." I hoped I sounded convincing.

"How do you propose to pay for your ticket?" she questioned. I was mulling that one over when Mrs. Webber angrily interrupted.

"Why didn't you tell me they were brothers! Of course I'll take them both," she announced.

Putting down our luggage, we sat down and waited while the necessary paperwork was completed.

"Come on then!" Mrs. Webber picked up our suitcase and strode toward the door. We quickly followed.


Going to a strange place-with a woman who obviously wasn't keen on taking us in-was frightening, but it seemed better than the alternative. The last thing I wanted was to be put to the test of getting my brother and me safely back to London, although I had no doubts about trying it.

We made our way out of the building and around the stone-built school with its diamond-shaped, leaded window panes. We walked past the church and ancient churchyard, and on past several thatched cottages. We passed a large house whose blue lamp burning by the front door identified it as the local police station and home of the village constable.

Toward the outskirts of the village we turned in between a barn and house separated by a cobblestone courtyard. The barn had a huge door through which I could see metal storage bins, bulging burlap sacks, and strange implements and tools. A small gate opened off the yard revealing a vegetable garden, like my father's but much bigger.

But it was the house I found most interesting, for it was to be our home for who knew how long. A large rectangular building, it was plastered with cement, painted white with a two-foot high black band around the base, and topped by a steel grey slate roof. A one-storey kitchen had been added to the barn end of the house.

Mrs. Webber ushered us in through the kitchen door. "Welcome to Bells Farm," she said. And she smiled.