Open Writing

At the foot of every lamppost sandbags were always stacked for fire fighting. As I ran, I grabbed one. Running towards the Coach Station I realised that the sandbag was becoming lighter. The bag had rotted at the bottom and, on reaching the fire, the sandbag was completely empty.

"No worry, mate, it's in the open, let it burn out." Near the brilliant silver light of an incendiary bomb was an ARP worker. His tin hat was tipped back on his head; from the comer of his bottom lip hung the stub of a cigarette. Nonchalantly, with his hands in his pockets, he leant against a wall.

Ignoring his sound advice and, pumped up with a mixture of fear and excitement, I shouted, "We can't just leave it; we've got to put it out, but the damned sandbag is empty. What in the hell shall I do?"

For a moment he looked at the empty sandbag in my hand. Then with forefinger and thumb he shifted the stub of his cigarette to the opposite comer of his bottom lip. Rubbing the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand, he grinned and gave me the solution in a rich, cockney accent, "Tell yer what, guv, I've got it. Why don't yer piss on it? That way we won't need the fire engines then, will we?"

From the pent-up fear I was enduring, I could easily have complied. Instead, I apologised for my stupidity.

I turned to return home and there near me - ignoring the very mad machinations of mankind, oblivious of the burning incendiaries all around, contemptuous of the shouting, the whistles, the bells of the fire engines and the general mayhem - was old Sandy, calmly lifting one leg against a lamppost. He had followed me out of the open front door.

Once again there was the loud drone of engines; CRACK... BAAANG!... CRACK... BANG! deafeningly, directly above us.

Sandy and I started the two hundred yards sprint for home before the shrapnel came showering down. We started together but he beat me there by one hundred and ninety yards; he shot through the front door with his tail between his legs and his rump in front of his muzzle, as Mother jumped aside to allow him free passage.

No doubt he was saying to himself, 'Jumping cats! These damned humans don't even give a decent dog enough time to have a quick sniff and piddle.' We both reached the Dugout with relief.

There were more short blasts on the whistles. Once more I raced up the stairs, checking everywhere, then onto the roof: all clear and safe. Looking round I saw the familiar bright silver light of an incendiary coming from a hole in the Smiths' roof next door. Worse, the Moores' roof, beyond them, had flames starting to leap upwards; it was well alight.

Dropping down into our attic and grabbing a bucket of sand, I climbed out of the window and, sliding down the sloping roof, came to rest with my feet against the small parapet, about one foot high, that stopped me sliding over the edge with a forty foot drop to the glass roof of the scullery below.

Holding the bucket in my right hand and supporting my weight on the sloping roof with my left, I shuffled along the gutter towards the fire, stepping over the small dividing wall onto the Smiths' roof.

As I passed, their attic window opened and Jack Smith looked out.
"Hey, John, can you take the spout of the stirrup pump?" he shouted.

"Hang on, Jack, I'll be back soon. The Moores are in real trouble. I'd better help them first."

That part of the Moores' roof which was ablaze differed from ours a little as it was flat. Approaching the flames I tried to throw the sand at them; the sand, like that in the sandbag, was solid from dampness and remained in the bucket. So I threw the whole bucket, sand and ail, at the flames.

At that moment a trap door opened,"Hullo, Mr Moore, John here to help. Have you got a pump?"

"Oh, good boy, John. Here, take the spout and I'll pump from below." I lay on my stomach and inched my way as near as t could to the flames, playing the hose on them. A little later, his head appeared at the trap door as he shouted, "How are we....?"

CRACK...BAAANG!...CRACK...BAAANG!... The guns fired their salvos again.

"What's that?" I yelled.

"How are we going?"

"Won't be...."

CRACK...BAAANG!...CRACK...BAAANG!

"What's that?" he yelled back.

"Won't be long now; we're winning; pump away."

There, on my stomach, I felt sure that every Bomb Aimer in the Luftwaffe was setting his sights on me, which scared me half to death. And then the shrapnel let me know that it was around, as I heard it hitting the roofs with a 'clunking' noise, which scared me completely to death.

'Oh, God! What a hell of a night. When will the All Clear sound?'

But then it was out and I returned to our attic window, checking with Jack whether he needed any help, but he and his sister had put out their fire bomb.

"All OK, thanks, John. I got Marie to do the pumping, did her a world of good to lose a bit of weight. Everything over at the Moores'?"

"Yes, it's out. What a bastard of a night."

"Yes, it's our turn tonight all right. Sing out if you need any help, anytime."

'Yes, sure will. You too."