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It's June, 1944, wrote Allan Huntingdon. I am living in Battersea, London. I am 12 Years old and have come from Lancashire to live in London to be near my father, who is in the army, stationed at Woolwich Arsenal, as a sergeant driving instructor. I am living with a friend of my father and I go to school here.
The Air Raids are on about twice a day and all night long . We are getting a lot of 'Buzz Bombs.' These are robot planes with no pilot and guided by remote control. They have a very loud engine noise and as long as you hear the engine, there is no danger, but as soon as the engine cuts out the machine comes down and converts to a very large bomb.
The Germans have just launched a new device which is called the V2, which is a rocket-powered bomb, totally silent and giving no warning at all. These are the ones that really scare us.
After school each day, we go home for tea and then we collect blankets and go to the nearest underground station where we sleep the night. We usually get there about 6 o'clock and at about 7.00 pm a Catholic Priest comes and all the children follow him round the platforms singing Hymns. We all love it as it takes our minds off all the troubles going on outside.
The stations are lined with 3-tier bunks, filled every night with people who don't have their own Air Raid Shelters.
When morning comes, we pack up our belongings and trek back home to see if our house is still standing, and, if so, have some breakfast and get ready for school once more, assuming that the school has not been damaged during the night. Sometimes we find the windows broken and then we have to take our lessons in the Church Hall.
I have been feeling unwell for a few days and am taken to the doctor who, after further consultations, recommends that I be taken to hospital for further observation. They suspect that I have something called 'St. Vitus Dance' which makes you shake all the time.
Well, that is not what I want at all. The Air Raids don't consider where they drop their bombs and most of the hospitals have already suffered damage.
So I contact my mother who lives in Darwen, Lancashire and she immediately comes down to London to take me back to Darwen where I am admitted to hospital and diagnosed as suffering from Shell Shock.
I remain there for several months until the beds are needed for the wounded soldiers. I feel safe at last. The shakes have gone.
I am 70 years old now but the memories are still crystal clear.
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