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Memories of WW2

Di.Poppitt

master brummie
The next week will bring back memories to may of us , the fear of the bombs - my mother was terrified - running for the shelter when the sirens went off. The camerarderie. The parties on VE Day, the makedo and mend. Digging for victory - my father planted spuds in an elderly neighbours garden.
Dad was an air raid warden, and when he was on duty I always slept with mom. I went to bed when she did, often she must have carried me up asleep in her arms. Once I was tucked up the ritual started, she checked that the blackout curtain was as it should be, not a chink of light showing through, dragged the tallboy across to the door put the linen basket in front of it and a widker chair on top of that. 'There' she would say 'let them get in past that lot if they can.' Thank god they didn't get too close with the bombs, we would have been entombed in that bedroom.
Once the sirens went, she would drag the furniture away from the door, wrap a blanket round me, put on Dads dressing gown - she didn't have one of her own - and head off down stairs at a trot. We were heading for a neighbours Anderson shelter, she couldn't face ours on her own, but first she had to wake the couple next door who always slept throught the sirens. She did this by taking the line prop from under the lean to shed by our back door, poking it over the boards and rattling it against the fanlight over their kitchen door. It always woke them and they would shout to her through the bedroom window. Until one fateful night when she rapped and rapped and couldn't wake them, she gave it one rap too many and the glass shattered. There was an altercation as to who was to blame, and who was going to repair it. My father traipsed round Witton trying to buy a bit of glass, my mother said that as far as she was concerned 'Jerry' could do what he liked, but she would never wake them again. She never did.

The nearest bomb blast to us was in Witton. Kynocks was of course the target, but throughout the war it went unscathed. The bomb that fell was in Amberley Grove near to Witton Cemetary, it took the corner of the bathroom off. The houses were their owners pride and joy, newly built in the 30's. The little boy who lived in the house later became my husband.

I would like to remember all those from Birminghan who served, some of whom came home and some who lie in distant graves. But there is one man who I can never forget. He used to sit at the bottom of Witton Road near to Browns the Pork Butchers, he had no legs and sat on a board with wheels, so that he could propel himself wtih his hands. He was very poorly dressed, quite ragged, and was a veteran of the first world war, left to beg for his living. May he rest in peace.
 

Di.Poppitt

master brummie
Diana.Poppitt said:
Dad was an air raid warden, and when he was on duty I always slept with mom. I went to bed when she did, often she must have carried me up asleep in her arms. Once I was tucked up the ritual started, she checked that the blackout curtain was as it should be, not a chink of light showing through, dragged the tallboy across to the door put the linen basket in front of it and a whicker chair on top of that. 'There' she would say 'let them get in past that lot if they can.' Thank god they didn't get too close with the bombs, we would have been entombed in that bedroom.
Once the sirens went, she would drag the furniture away from the door, wrap a blanket round me, put on Dads dressing gown - she didn't have one of her own - and head off down stairs at a trot. We were heading for a neighbours Anderson shelter, she couldn't face ours on her own, but first she had to wake the couple next door who always slept throught the sirens. She did this by taking the line prop from under the lean to shed by our back door, poking it over the boards and rattling it against the fanlight over their kitchen door. It always woke them and they would shout to her through the bedroom window. Until one fateful night when she rapped and rapped and couldn't wake them, she gave it one rap too many and the glass shattered. There was an altercation as to who was to blame, and who was going to repair it. My father traipsed round Witton trying to buy a bit of glass, my mother said that as far as she was concerned 'Jerry' could do what he liked, but she would never wake them again. She never did.

The nearest bomb blast to us was in Witton. Kynocks was of course the target, but throughout the war it went unscathed. The bomb that fell was in Amberley Grove near to Witton Cemetery, it took the corner of the bathroom off. The houses were their owners pride and joy, newly built in the 30's. The little boy who lived in the house later became my husband.
I have edited this piece which I wrote last year Rod.
 
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