Child from Home (40 page)

On a clear night in mid-February Bomber Command, with more than 1,000 aircraft, laid waste the city of Dresden. Over the next few weeks the Allied ground troops advanced and spread out along the west bank of the River Rhine in preparation for a massed crossing into the heartland of Germany, and it was now only a matter of time before Germany would admit defeat. In April Gran was shocked to learn that the advancing troops had found further proof of the rumoured Nazi death camps and crematoria. Thousands of bodies had been burned, after being stripped of their clothes, hair and valuables, with the ashes being bagged up and used as fertiliser on the land. She was worried about the safety of Uncle John, who was, as far as she knew, still a prisoner of war in Poland into which the Russians were rapidly advancing. We stared in disbelief at the horrific scenes of the skeletal survivors at Belsen on the cinema newsreels and never forgot. The shocking evidence of these Nazi atrocities only served to deepen my already bitter and intense hatred of the Germans.

Meanwhile, as spring crept on, we played cricket and football a little further afield on the area of tarmac known as the Linthorpe Recreation Ground, or the Rec. Occasionally we walked to Albert Park, where there were wide paths and grassy areas to play on. Beside its ornate wrought-iron gates were long lists of names of the World War I dead inscribed on brass panels on the white Portland stone walls. It was an exciting place to be, as well as a haven of peace and tranquillity when we were in a quieter frame of mind, which wasn't often. On going to the larger lake at the far end of the park, we were envious of those who could afford to hire a rowing boat. We played hide and seek in a wooded, hilly area known as Bell Hill, on top of which was the base of the old wooden post that had supported the bell. It was spooky and Jimmy scared us even more by telling us the tale of young Mary Cooper who had been murdered here. I didn't like it up there on my own, even though the incident had happened many years back.

On the way to the park, opposite the large, impressive buildings of Forbes' Bakery, lay Linthorpe Old Cemetery. When you looked through the keyhole of the spooky old stone building in the centre, all you could see was blackness, but Jimmy put the wind up us by saying, ‘If you look hard enough you can see daggers floating about in the air.' Close to the road there was a very old grave with a broken stone slab, and Jimmy said, ‘If you walk round it three times and bend down and put your ear to it you can hear the spirits talking.' On doing so I received a swift boot up the backside.

The last of the deadly V2 rockets, which had killed and injured thousands, fell to earth in late March before the Allied troops overran the launch sites. In late April Gran was relieved and delighted when she received a telegram from Uncle John (prisoner number 220615 in Stalag 383 at Hohenfels at the foot of the Bavarian Alps near Munich). It stated that he had been liberated by the Americans and would be home on leave in mid-May. In it he wrote, ‘I wish you could have seen the boys when the American tanks arrived here. We heard them firing over the hill, and about half an hour later one of the boys rushed into the barracks shouting, “They're here!” The poor bloke nearly got killed in the rush to get outside and see them.'

Gran was to learn later that because he and his mate Jock had problems with their knees – which were swollen making them unable to walk far – they had been taken across Germany in cattle trucks. Thereby, they avoided the Death Marches of up to 900 miles that many of their unfortunate colleagues had to endure, including his pal Joe. Most felt guilty about being captured and imprisoned and did not want to talk about it when they got home (including Uncle John). Their suffering had been overshadowed by the horrors of Auschwitz, Belsen, Dachau and the other concentration camps with their obscene gas chambers and ovens, therefore their plight was overlooked. In May, Uncle John and the others were brought home in converted Lancasters and Anson aircraft and, on landing, he knelt down and kissed the ground. Later he was to tell Renee that, while he was a prisoner at Lamsdorf, there was often a sickly sweet smell carried on the air whenever the wind was from the north-west. It was not until later that he realised what had caused it. Auschwitz concentration camp was only sixty miles away in that direction.

Hitler committed suicide on 30 April 1945 in his bunker in Berlin, and the Germans fought on for another seven days before the war in Europe finally came to an end on 8 May, with Germany being split into Russian, American and British sectors. In the divided city of Berlin the Russians built a huge wall to stop people from coming in or out. John Wade, Eric Ward and the rest of the evacuees came home from Haxby and returned to Newport Junior School, and we excitedly celebrated victory with a street party at which there was enough food and drink to last well into the night.

Before long Gran had the remnants of her family around her again, except for Harry, who remained in Haxby until he was eighteen years old, when he was called up to do his two years of national service in the Royal Navy. John was demobbed from the army, coming home after three years in captivity to a hero's welcome, with tears, hugs, fluttering bunting and Union flags. He returned to his old job in the Britannia Bridgeyard. Archie did his national service in the RAF and Renee, having given up her job in the steelworks when the men came out of the services, started work as a ‘clippie' (conductress) on the hot and crowded local buses. Jimmy came to live with us at Granny Bradford's where we slept three to a bed and grew up as brothers before going our separate ways.

The following poem was inspired by a visit to my parents' grave:

The Family Tree

The elder stood above the grave

her roots deep in the earth:

believed to aid, in days of yore,

fertility and birth.

A sudden blast of wind sprang up

from out a leaden sky

to set the branches thrashing

and cavorting up on high.

A pair of hearty leaves

came spiralling to the ground,

to settle very gently on

the grass clad burial mound.

As I gazed on the earthen plot

that stormy autumn day,

I thought of my loving parents

violently torn away.

On a moonlit night, as sirens wailed in 1942,

they'd left their bed and quickly dressed,

planning to scurry to

the blacked-out street and the safety

of the shelters nearby;

as a single bomber (sounding close)

droned loudly in the sky.

Long, blanched beams of searchlights probed

the gleaming barrage wire.

There was bedlam from demented guns

and anti-aircraft fire.

Father, home on army leave, planned

to visit us next day.

Mother had the cases packed all

set for going away.

My brother, two, and me, aged four,

had long since gone to stay,

far away from the dangers

of such a fateful day.

They'd reached the door and turned the key

and quickly stepped outside.

A bomb came down; the walls collapsed:

in each other's arms they died!

The loving pair – still in their prime –

were buried in the rubble,

as rescue workers scrabbled near

with urgent pick and shovel.

Now they lie in their deep dark bed,

as in days gone by,

in cold embrace, with souls entwined, eternally to lie.

Ashes to ashes: dust to dust …

We shall remember them.

Age will not weary them;

nor the passing years condemn …

The essence of their mortal lives

exuded through the ground;

taken up by the elder roots

and in its leaves is found.

Tears welled up unbidden, as I

pictured the awful sight;

the flames; the screams; the horrors

of that dread-filled April night.

So many were left homeless –

bereft, forlorn, and sad.

Twenty-six others lost their lives

as well as Mam and Dad.

I recalled the sobbing boy as he

sat upon the stair

and his shouts of accusation

at a God who didn't care.

As I stooped to kiss the headstone –

grey, lichened, cold and bare –

the aching void within my heart

was, oh, so hard to bear.

The icy rain was channelled down

the names etched in the stone,

salty tears streamed down my cheeks

as I stood there – so alone.

At that time of pain and anguish,

the loss within me burned,

for in my heart I knew my love

could never be returned.

I picked up the leaves and turned

and slowly walked away:

heart sad at living far from there

and travelling home that day.

Now many years have passed

and time has eased the pain.

Love of a wife and children have

restored my soul again.

The leaves were placed in the Holy book

on the shelf above –

a source of poignant memories

of lost parental love:

treasured mementoes till I die

and return to welcoming arms,

problems finally at an end,

and rid of all my qualms.

Our essences then will mingle;

our spirits shall be free,

borne upwards, incorruptible,

within the family tree.