I’ve spent the last six months of my life preparing for these last two days. Books, documentaries, and pictures on the internet are wonderful tools for research, but nothing can compare to sitting around a table listening to real people speak from their hearts. We were allowed to gaze into the past and see the war through the misty eyes of their childhood, as they carefully chose words to describe the events that shaped their lives.
A time to be born, and a time to die –
Every day there were bombs. You never knew when the Germans would attack, so each day they went about their normal lives until they heard the sound of the sirens warning of impending doom. Time froze and everyone ran for shelter as the familiar droning of the approaching planes grew louder. Many hid under stairwells or huddled under beds and Morrison shelters. Others ran for the caves along the shore. Sometimes they huddled together for hours while the adults made them sing songs. The louder the bombs, the louder they sang. After the all clear, they came blinking out into the destruction, to learn who had survived the day, and who had died. Mr. Griffith began weeping as he explained to me that his family was too poor to have a Morrison shelter (a steel table), and on one particular day their neighbor felt that the bombing would be particularly bad and made his family come over into her home, which was better protected. When the all clear sounded they emerged to find that a bomb had come through their home’s roof, through the bed in the main room, through the floor below, through the living room, down into the cellar, were it exploded and destroyed the house. Had they remained, they would all have been killed. On that particular day, it wasn’t their time to die.
A time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted –
Food was scarce, but they learned to make do. Flower gardens were dug up and vegetables were planted. Moms learned how to make all kinds of recipes using turnips and carrots. There were many American soldiers stationed in Plymouth during the war, and many of those young men were terribly homesick and looking into the face of death. The people of this town always invited them into their homes and shared their meager food supplies with the boys to help cheer them up. They’d also let them bring over their laundry; and the mothers fussed over them as if they were sons. One man shared with me how he was sick as a child, but they could not afford medication; so one of the soldiers came for a visit and told his mother to look down inside the laundry bundle. Deep in the folds of the shirts she found medicine.
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing –
Mothers had their children ripped from their bosoms and sent away to the countryside for safety. It seemed a good idea at the time, but it really broke their hearts. After many months away from home, the children began filtering back to the open arms of their mothers and the pounding of the bombs. The evacuees became “trekkers”. Every night, the mothers and children would pack up into lorries and ride out into the moors for safety from the raids. They would sleep in abandoned train cars, barns, or tents – every single night, rain or cold, for years. As they sat around campfires to keep warm, they could watch the orange glow on the dark horizon as their city burned again, wondering if their house would be there the next morning when they all trekked back into town to start another day. (Another long pause as Mr. Williams began to weep and wipe away his tears.)
A time of war and a time of peace –
War was hell for the people I met, who, as children suffered the wrath and hatred of the enemy. It has haunted them in subtle ways, but it has also made them stronger than we could ever understand. While it was truly difficult for them to tell me some parts of their stories, each one ended with remembrances of VE Day. Mr. Griffith described how his mother went to use the outdoor toilet, then ran back into the house to tell him she had just heard the war was over. He broke down and cried at the memory as he recalled the happy face of his mother as they joined the throngs dancing in the streets. I wondered aloud if his father returned home to them soon after that, and was relieved to hear that he had. Much had been taken away from this young lad, but his family survived the war and they were reunited in the end. A happy ending for him, but for some of the others….
I said in my heart , “God shall judge the righteous and the wicked, for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work”. Ecclesiastes 3:17
A time to be born, and a time to die –
Every day there were bombs. You never knew when the Germans would attack, so each day they went about their normal lives until they heard the sound of the sirens warning of impending doom. Time froze and everyone ran for shelter as the familiar droning of the approaching planes grew louder. Many hid under stairwells or huddled under beds and Morrison shelters. Others ran for the caves along the shore. Sometimes they huddled together for hours while the adults made them sing songs. The louder the bombs, the louder they sang. After the all clear, they came blinking out into the destruction, to learn who had survived the day, and who had died. Mr. Griffith began weeping as he explained to me that his family was too poor to have a Morrison shelter (a steel table), and on one particular day their neighbor felt that the bombing would be particularly bad and made his family come over into her home, which was better protected. When the all clear sounded they emerged to find that a bomb had come through their home’s roof, through the bed in the main room, through the floor below, through the living room, down into the cellar, were it exploded and destroyed the house. Had they remained, they would all have been killed. On that particular day, it wasn’t their time to die.
A time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted –
Food was scarce, but they learned to make do. Flower gardens were dug up and vegetables were planted. Moms learned how to make all kinds of recipes using turnips and carrots. There were many American soldiers stationed in Plymouth during the war, and many of those young men were terribly homesick and looking into the face of death. The people of this town always invited them into their homes and shared their meager food supplies with the boys to help cheer them up. They’d also let them bring over their laundry; and the mothers fussed over them as if they were sons. One man shared with me how he was sick as a child, but they could not afford medication; so one of the soldiers came for a visit and told his mother to look down inside the laundry bundle. Deep in the folds of the shirts she found medicine.
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing –
Mothers had their children ripped from their bosoms and sent away to the countryside for safety. It seemed a good idea at the time, but it really broke their hearts. After many months away from home, the children began filtering back to the open arms of their mothers and the pounding of the bombs. The evacuees became “trekkers”. Every night, the mothers and children would pack up into lorries and ride out into the moors for safety from the raids. They would sleep in abandoned train cars, barns, or tents – every single night, rain or cold, for years. As they sat around campfires to keep warm, they could watch the orange glow on the dark horizon as their city burned again, wondering if their house would be there the next morning when they all trekked back into town to start another day. (Another long pause as Mr. Williams began to weep and wipe away his tears.)
A time of war and a time of peace –
War was hell for the people I met, who, as children suffered the wrath and hatred of the enemy. It has haunted them in subtle ways, but it has also made them stronger than we could ever understand. While it was truly difficult for them to tell me some parts of their stories, each one ended with remembrances of VE Day. Mr. Griffith described how his mother went to use the outdoor toilet, then ran back into the house to tell him she had just heard the war was over. He broke down and cried at the memory as he recalled the happy face of his mother as they joined the throngs dancing in the streets. I wondered aloud if his father returned home to them soon after that, and was relieved to hear that he had. Much had been taken away from this young lad, but his family survived the war and they were reunited in the end. A happy ending for him, but for some of the others….
I said in my heart , “God shall judge the righteous and the wicked, for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work”. Ecclesiastes 3:17
1 comment:
Dear Tim & Lori,
I've just watched ALL your photo albums and just finished your Blog.
Thank you so much for all the effort you put into "taking" us to England with you.
What a wonderful job you two have done. The pictures are great and your comments, Lori, beyond description for me.
Looking forward to the book!!
Have a safe trip back to us.
much love,
mom
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