The banging on the door awakened everyone. It was two in the morning. My father was on duty as night warden at the Orphanage, so my mother went downstairs, with me creeping behind her.

The door opened and there stood my Aunt Nell. Her hair was a mess; her face was covered with smoke stains. She carried an old brown leather suitcase in her right hand. Before Mum could say anything, she spoke in a tearful voice, "Can I come in Ivy? I've been bombed out."

She'd been living in a house a quarter of a mile away. A V1 rocket or flying bomb, we called them doodlebugs, had made a direct hit on two houses just across the road from Aunt Nell's. They were totally demolished. The side wall of Aunt Nell's house had been blown out. She was sleeping at the time. Lucky she was, her bed could be seen from the pavement. She managed to get out with just a few scratches and bruises.

People had been killed in the houses, but, I'm ashamed to say, that didn't stop us children from searching the rubble a few days later - looking for toys.

We used to go into Mr Halley's orchard at the bottom of our garden. From there, we'd get a good view of Spitfires and Messerschmitts dog fighting over London, but that stopped the day Mr Halley caught us and fired his shotgun.

I was eight years old at the time and thought war was an adventure - until the night that doodlebug dropped.

by Jack Alway