Many young people of to-day do not seem to know that during the blitz in Cardiff and elsewhere in Britain during the Second World War absolutely everybody was involved one way or another, not just those serving in the Forces.
For example, the disabled, arthritic 88-year old who with a stirrup pump and buckets of water put out the fire caused by an explosive incendiary, which crashed through her roof onto the landing, the 13-year old girl next door who scrambled over the iron railings (not yet taken for the war effort) of a nearby park and gardens, and extinguished incendiaries by frantically shovelling earth with seaside wooden spade, knowing that if she did not succeed the fires would guide the German bombers to the surrounding residential area in Cardiff.
I was that girl and still bear the scar on my thigh where I was grazed by shrapnel. It does not show after all these years except as a white mark when my legs get tanned. Ordinary people did not have telephones in those days and could not summon the fire brigade for each and every incendiary bomb that started a fire as the emergency services had enough to deal with when large buildings were on fire and people had to be rescued after bombing. Civilians put out the incendiaries and many purchased their own bucket and stirrup pump. Others used buckets of water or sand, whatever was available.
One had to be careful of anti-personnel bombs such as explosive incendiaries or phosphorous incendiaries that contained a thick, gummy substance which blew out and stuck to the skin and clothes. This substance burned anything it touched. Sometimes there were difficulties because the water and gas mains were damaged by bombing. Either the services would be cut off or sometimes the broken pipes meant that the gas and water mixed together and when one turned on the tap an unusable white liquid would run out.
Around the same period explosive incendiaries destroyed my school (Canton High which used to be in Market Road - now Chapter Arts Centre). When wading through the water in wellies to carry out salvage work I remember we were told not to touch the remaining walls in case they collapsed on us!
Two of my friends at school had already perished in a ship evacuating them to Canada or USA which was torpedoed by the Germans.
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Writing paper was in short supply so teacher ripped pages from their books and gave us a few pages each. I did not realise that until I saw they had written their names at the top of a couple of pages.
I had been thrilled at the prospect of being evacuated overseas which offer was read out to us at school, but when my parents refused to give permission for me to go I felt furious with them, although in those days we did not dare show such feelings openly to one's parents. Being a child it did not strike me afterwards what would have happened to me if they had agreed to my wishes.
In our home in Cardiff we were lucky because we had a cellar to go to when the bombing started. Our doors, windows etc. were blown out and a tarpaulin had to be installed where our roof used to be.
A boy and his sister lived the other side of us. I remember the same morning as my school was destroyed that they told me our friends we used to play 'cricket' with in Sophia Gardens with a tennis ball and makeshift bat - had all been killed. That same night my youth club (Rawden Place) was flattened by bomb blast, as was my Sunday school.
Mum and dad never knew about the incendiaries incident as I was afraid to tell them in case they got annoyed that I had damaged my only pair of lisle stockings. I had to hide the pieces of rag I used as bandage; no sticking plasters or proper bandages available then.
My dad was a little eccentric and a fatalist. He had been invalided out of the Royal Navy at the end of WW1. He had joined in 1914 at the age of just 16. When we were in a downtown cinema one night, the bombs startedd ropping. A large number of city centre buildings - offices, shops, restaurants etc - were destroyed.
People huddled together under the balcony of the cinema for shelter, but when someone decided to lift his small daughter onto his shoulders to sing merry songs to bolster everyone up, Dad and I did not feel in the mood. We preferred to leave to walk home, and pick our way over the rubble, firemen's hosepipes, etc. with shrapnel falling all around, merchandise from bombed shops all over the street. I remember the scattering of shoes on the pavement in front of the wrecked Dolcis shoe shop in Queen Street. Dad always thought if your time was up that was it. Walking with him I had no fear.
The New Yorkers, on 9/11, reminded me of those days, where everyone carried on as usual afterwards. It was the only thing to do. After our home was so weakened by the land mines, we walked over a city bridge each night to sleep either in the concrete basement of some still-to-be-built flats, or within the thick walls of Cardiff Castle. We each took a blanket or eiderdown with us. There were so many families bombed-out that we all learned to sleep, fully clothed, sitting-up on the bunks provided. People took their alarm clocks to wake them us as usual for work or school. I remember how cold it was in the winter because there was snow on the ground and no heating available in the shelters or at home. We could not light a fire at home because the chimney had caved in through the bombing.
The school teacher instructed us how to run for the nearest shelter or fall flat to the ground when an enemy plane flew over, but I remember how we would forget. We would stand outside our front door (Despenser Street) to watch German planes machine-gunning the barrage balloons.
Other days and nights most of us carried paperback aircraft recognition books and would point to the sky. "It's all right; it's one of ours" or "Look that's a Heinkel" or "Oh,that's a Messerschmitt!" I remember during the day standing outside our front door watching German fighter planes machine-gunning the anti-aircraft barrage balloons.
Barbara MacArthur - Cardiff - June 2005
More memories were prompted by Barbara's visit to a bookshop in November 2006:I am not one for nostalgia - certainly not for World War Two - always I shoved those memories away because all that comes to my mind when I am reminded is of grey days, grey people, grey clothes, grey thoughts, grey food in very short supply.
But something happened today when I walked through a local bookstore. I was suddenly taken back to my childhood. A small, paper-back Penguin-book caught my eye.
I could not believe it - reprinted 'Aircraft Recognition' - last printed during the war, illustrated with official silhouettes and photos of aeroplanes, enemy and friendly, seen over British skies during the Second World War.
That did bring back some happy memories I had forgotten. I must have been about 13 - all we children had a copy of that book - it was just a few pence then. We were ordered at school that when we saw a plane to rush for a shelter or fall to the ground.
None of us did - we always had that little dog-eared book with us - we thought we were all experts and we would get so excited and call out 'Look! That's a Messerschmitt' or 'It's OK - it's one of ours!'
We could identify them all, even at night when we could see only the silhouettes shadowed in the sky. When standing in our front door during the day in Riverside, fascinated we would watch the German fighter planes machine-gunning the barrage balloons above in the sky.
I do not think we ever saw a Stuka (Junkers 87B) though, because they came only at night and then we would be in our cellar of air-raid shelter - because they were notorious dive-bombers. Their horrible screaming noise when they dived was enough to send shivers down one's spine, even before they dropped their bombs.
Just in case anyone wondered - yes, I bought a new copy of the book.
Barbara MacArthur - November 2006
