In Good Company: War Years
...Most of us were compulsive queuers. A person would only have to lean against a wall for a second, immediately five others would join him. Often, such luxuries as oranges or bananas were suspected...
Enid Blackburn recalls stern days and strange times.
Looking back, it seems as if I spent most of the war years being frightened into nightmares by a gang of ruthless Gestapo, who terrorised me twice weekly, by courtesy of our local cinema.
There I sat, my legs embedded in the hairy plush, while members of the ‘underground’ had their nails torn out and their fingers broken by Conrad Veight in the name of freedom.
Going home on the bus I was convinced that I was surrounded by German agents, and willing to confess everything at all costs.
1940 was the year my auntie arrived on our doorstep with one large suitcase and two cousins declaring ‘We’ve come to stay until the war is over,’ A week later when it showed no sign of halting so she left.
I was six years old when war was declared and until my dad was called up two years later I ignored it. When he left I started paying attention to the daily bulletins concerning ‘our troops’ who had usually either ‘landed in’ or ‘retreated from’ places I had never heard of. But RAF general duties men were never mentioned in dispatches, I discovered.
At first it all seemed an exciting game – with cosy evenings in the air raid shelter – with grown ups in dressing gowns and us all sat around drinking cocoa, waiting for the all-clear to sound.
Then I came of picture-going age and saw the Pathe Gazette newsreels showing column after column of dusty British soldiers. The wounded and the weary being cheered on by the ecstatic liberated. Some wore smiles under their helmets, but although I was only eight – I recognised the fear. One newsreel, still painful to recall, showed Japanese soldiers catching babies on their bayonets – while hysterical mothers were forced to watch.
Every Monday and Friday we ogled this torment. Yet paradoxically our games were far removed from war. We always played Tarzan. The lads took it in turn being Johnny Weismuller while we girls went native. With rhododendrons clipped to our hair we made camps in the treetops for our chiefs.
Every Sunday night we listened to Harry Korris and Enoch ‘let me tell you’ in a radio favourite ‘Hippodrome.’ Then while Albert Sandler depressed us with his violin from ‘Palm Court’ we wrote our letters to dad.
Two other spirit-lowering features were sweet rationing and gas mask drill. I will never forget the day my friend and I, realising it was the first of the month, dashed in for our coupons. We planned to buy two ounce of sweets each, but unfortunately she returned empty handed. It appeared her mother had sold the entire family sweet ration to support the habit that finally killed her.
Most of us were compulsive queuers. A person would only have to lean against a wall for a second, immediately five others would join him. Often, such luxuries as oranges or bananas were suspected.
Everyone did something towards the ‘War effort.’ I impersonated Carmen Miranda. After all the spy films, my accent was more German than Brazilian, but it made other people laugh.
When victory was finally announced I went to Greenhead Park to watch the celebrations. I was surprised to see one of our neighbours in a sailor hat with her arms draped around its owner. Tears were running down her cheeks, yet I knew her husband was on his way home.
