Open Writing

As I climbed back into our attic window, I stood for a moment on the window ledge and, holding on to the edge of the flat attic roof, I gazed in awe at the view. Looking about me, the whole of our district seemed to be on fire; I was in the centre of a complete circle of flames, in all directions.

I was appalled! In front, behind the houses over to the left, I could see tongues of flame from the Green Line Coach Station. Their garage seemed to be ablaze from end to end. Directly opposite, there was an ominous red glow inside the top-floor window of a house, while another roof was on fire.

To my left, the fire watchers on the roof of Oppenheimer's offices were
shouting and rushing about extinguishing fires. To my right, there were a number of men on the roof of Hayward's Pickle factory, pulling out a large hose to fight flames leaping upwards, while from the floor below large clouds of smoke were billowing from the windows and covering our houses.

Behind me, in Handforth Road, fire bombs were burning themselves out on the ground while two roofs were burning fiercely. Across the roof tops I could see flames from houses in neighbouring streets. The whole area was so bright from the fires that it was like daylight and, pervading everywhere was the acrid smell of burning as smoke clouds rolled over the buildings and the streets.

"We can take it!" said the Londoners — and they did, with stoical courage.

Then I remembered the bucket and, like a fool, clambered back over the roofs to retrieve it. I picked it up and let out a yell of pain; it was searing hot and my right hand was badly burnt. Unable to put my right hand on the roof for support as I made the return journey, it took me quite a while to return to the attic window, moving slowly on one arm and knees.

Mother gave me immediate first aid but it was some time before Dad came home, covered in dust, and treated my burn.

"How did this happen, Shun?" was the inevitable question, so I related the events.

'You ran over the roofs?" He paused to look me in the eye. "Well done, Shun, good boy." And those few words of praise were precious to me.

During breakfast, it came out that Mother had extinguished three incendiary bombs in the back garden at various times during the night (very calmly and efficiently too, I wager) with well aimed shovelfuls of soot-covered London soil.

Taking practical advantage of my newfound knowledge, obtained from the ARP man at the Coach Station, I gently chastised Mother, with concern.

"Why in heaven's name didn't you let the damned things just bum themselves out? They were in the open. Besides, they could have been explosive incendiaries."

"No! I'll be hanged for a tale," she exclaimed, "Not likely. Why, they would have ruined my vegetable garden." Then she added, "Oh, I do think they are beastly things."

I thought for a moment: 'beastly things', surely the prize understatement of the war.

After breakfast I went to see how our neighbourhood had survived. The air was filled with the grey tinge of smoke. The Clapham Road was littered with debris. Burnt out incendiaries were everywhere in black heaps. Bits of bricks and other rubble were strewn in all directions, and my very own trail of sand from the rotted sandbag.

The traffic was slowly threading its way through the obstacles, but already the wonderful ARP workers and civilians were clearing the roads.

In a nearby street, several houses had been flattened and I spoke to Mr Baker, the Warden.

"Hullo, young John," he greeted me, "Come to see where your Dad was last night?"

"No, why? Where was he last night?"

Mr Baker pointed to a tunnel that the rescue workers had dug into the debris and rubble, that was once a house; above it there was still a part of a wall leaning over very dangerously.

"Well, a man was buried under the rubble; we made a tunnel to him but he was trapped by the legs, which were crushed. We had to come out as the wall looked as though it would fall at any moment.

It didn't stop your Dad, though. He crawled in, cheered the man up a bit and gave him a painkilling injection, before crawling out. It took some guts. Half the wall fell shortly afterwards, but we managed to dig the man out in the end. Your Dad looked after him until the ambulance arrived. He patched up a few others as well."

So, that was why he came home covered in dust. I returned home. In the distance, outside the Oval Station, the rubble and ruins from the direct hit on the houses were being cleared from the road. The corner house had been the surgery of Dr Klein. He, his wife and two daughters had all been killed. Yet another Jewish family wiped out.

I went up to our attic and, looking out of the window, I marvelled. Ropes, chains and tackle, would not have induced me to slide down the roof and along the gutters. I realised that I had been spurred on by fear - fear that our row of houses would be destroyed by fire, fear that I would twist an ankle and be trapped by the flames, fear that I would trip over the parapet and crash to my death, fear that I would be hit by a piece of jagged shrapnel, banging and clunking on the roofs around me, like a shower.

Then I realised that there is no shame in being afraid. The shame comes if you allow it to degenerate into funk and leave somebody else to do your job. I also realised that I might have to do the same thing all over again tonight. So I had better get used to it.

Downstairs in the Dugout, I said to Dad, "I was speaking to Mr Baker, the ARP Warden, this morning."

From behind The Times, Dad turned his head and winked. I understood. Mother was present. I continued, "He asked me to give you his regards; he's a nice bloke."

Sandy dropped his ball in front of me. "Oh, dammit, Sandy," I complained, "Don't you know there's a war on?"

He turned his back on me and sat down to keep all the warmth of the fire from my legs. His ploy did not work. I'd had enough of fires for one day.

Returning to Tonbridge after the holidays, a boy asked me, "Where did you spend your holidays?"

"London."

"Gee, really? I'd love to take a trip there, just a very quick one, you know, to see the bomb damage. Did you see any at all?"

"Bloody idiot!" I muttered.

He stared at me uncomprehendingly.