Southwark, May 11th 1941 - first hand account

[Peph]

My father, now 88, has written down his experience of that night, when he was 20 years old and the family home in Nelson Square, Southwark, was among the thousands destroyed:

This was the night the newspaper headlines called “The night that nearly took the heart out of London.”

That night the Germans dropped 550 high explosive bombs and 100,000 incendiary bombs; casualty figures included 1,400 dead. The classic picture of St. Paul’s Cathedral, almost hidden in a pall of black smoke, has been featured in almost every documentary about the war shown on TV since TV has been in general use.

We were, as usual, in our basement; the bombing was virtually continuous. As each bomb dropped there would be a loud whistling sound, starting on a high note and becoming steadily lower as the bomb drew closer. Then, of course, came the “whump” of the explosion. This had been going on steadily since dusk. We were aware that it was heavier than usual but, needless to say, felt no inclination to go out to confirm that this was so.

It was quite late at night, perhaps in the early hours of the morning, when there came a knock at the door. I answered it, and I don’t know to this day who it was that had knocked; it may have been a neighbour, but more probably it was a member of the A.R.P. (Air Raid Precautions). The A.R.P. were civilians whose original responsibility had been to ensure that the blackout regulations were adhered to, but as the war progressed so did their duties – shepherding people to shelters and, ultimately, acting as rescue teams to help the victims of the bombing.

All I could register were the words he spoke: “Do you know your roof is alight?” I don’t think I even had the good grace to thank him for telling us.

I immediately went to the top floor and opened the bedroom door; a wall of flame hit me, although the only damage was the loss of my eyebrows and eyelashes, and fortunately I had the presence of mind to slam the door shut before running downstairs.

On my way down I went into my parents’ bedroom and took my mother’s fur coat out of the wardrobe: how silly to be concerned about her keeping warm when the entire borough seemed to be a fire! I also went into what we called the billiard room and grabbed a bottle of brandy from the sideboard. Don’t ask me why. To the best of my knowledge it was never opened.

I then went down to the basement and told my parents we had to get out. There was no water – the mains had been bombed hours ago, and in any event I knew there was no way of putting out this fire. So, telling my parents to gather together all ration cards, insurance policies, the deeds to the house and so forth, I proceeded to usher them out.


We carried our two parrots up to the hall and left them in their cages there temporarily, together with a typewriter I had borrowed, while we made our way to the public shelter in the middle of the gardens of the square. Once they were safely ensconced, I came back to the house to rescue the parrots and the borrowed typewriter.

On the last of many trips back that my father and I made in an attempt to salvage anything possible, we saw that the fire had come down the staircase from the top of the house and was now in the hall and setting the front door alight. The N.F.S. (National Fire Service) had arrived but, with no water in the mains, the most they had been able to do was to rescue the contents of the front ground floor room and the hall before the flames engulfed them. As my father and I stood outside on the pavement, a piece of the doorframe fell away, still burning. My father picked it up, knocked out the flames against the kerb and, throwing it down, said “Well, at least there’s one piece that won’t burn down.”

Having moved the furniture from the ground floor, the N.F.S. were unable to do any more to help; so there we were, somewhere around three o’clock in the morning, out in the street with bombs falling all round, and one of the N.F.S. men sat down and began playing our piano. The air raid, by this time, was at its height – I remember the almost constant whistle of the falling bombs, many of them landing close enough to feel the blast; the air was full of red hot ashes from the fires that were burning all around us, and the grey suit I was wearing had become polka dot – and the man from the N.F.S. played the piano! It gave a whole new meaning to the oft-repeated phrase “War is madness.”

The N.F.S. man was, by my standards then, elderly: he was probably in his forties. Every time a bomb whistled down I ducked instinctively, but our newly acquired pianist didn’t duck once; he didn’t even hesitate in his playing, and not a note was missed. I said, with something close to a note of irritation, “Don’t you ever duck?” He thought for a moment and then, half apologetically, replied “Well, boy, I reckon I’m just as likely to duck into it as out of it.”

[Colin Moretti]

Please thank your father for giving us that moving account

Colin

[Mutley]

I had family that lived all around the square, Loman Street, Orange Street, Ewer Street, Friar Street.

I found it very interesting. Especially the piano player, he might have been my Uncle George.

Would your dad mind if I copy it and send it to my family members or will he claim breach of copyright.

If he does not mind, tell him thanks a bunch, much appreciated.

[v.wells]

What a wonderful story Peph! Thank your father for allowing you to share it with all of us. I remember my mother telling us how they (my parents) sat on a hill-top watching the Blitz. They had been evacuated. There were more stories but nothing to any great detail. I eventually understood the enormity of it when I watched "The 1940's House" a documentary where modern family sequesters themselves in a 1940's house for 3 months and go thru the London bombing attacks. It was very interesting and heartrending, much like your father's story. How wise of him to put it pen to paper!

[pipsqueak]

Excellent story. How lucky you are to have a first hand account from your own father. I'm glad he and his parents got out safely. What happened next?

[BrendaE]

Wonderful Peph and, like my fellow BGers, thank you for sharing it. These incredible experiences the earlier generation went through must never be lost.

Bren

[Peph]

Mutley - copyright, indeed! Of COURSE it's there for anyone who's interested, so feel free to copy it. I shall now always wonder whether that piano player was your Uncle George.

[Peph]

Pipsqueak:

I love your "What happened next?"

This was just a segment from an 86,000 word memoir my father wrote a few years ago in long hand while he was in the process of going blind, so it was a labour of love to decipher and type it all up. He goes on to talk about the issue of compulsory War Damage Insurance and the derisory sums people were paid when they claimed. Suffice it to say that my grandparents lost a 5-storey Georgian house in a beautiful London square and received sufficient compensation to buy a tiny, 2 bedroom bungalow off the Uxbridge Road in Denham. And the government got to keep the land in London. Millions of people suffered all that terror, all that misery, and then got ripped off into the bargain. Fair makes me fume, it does.

[Procat]

That is really brilliant Peph. Thank you for sharing it with us all.

[BrendaE]

Pipsqueak:

Suffice it to say that my grandparents lost a 5-storey Georgian house in a beautiful London square and received sufficient compensation to buy a tiny, 2 bedroom bungalow off the Uxbridge Road in Denham. And the government got to keep the land in London. Millions of people suffered all that terror, all that misery, and then got ripped off into the bargain. Fair makes me fume, it does.

That would have been heartbreaking. Did they ever come to term with their loss? Dreadful, absolutely dreadful.

Bren