Now closed: Win one of 10 copies of Voices from the Second World War

Wow, thank you so much for the wonderful book! I shall treasure it. I have really enjoyed reading all the posts on this thread

My dad used to show me his war wound… A burn scar on his hand!
He was in a protected occupation but was a volunteer fire watcher in the evenings
His team were just sitting down to a very hot cup of cocoa when a stray bomber beat the air raid siren and started machine gunning the area. Everyone flung themselves into the nearest ditch and hot cocoa went everywhere. He always turned this into a funny story for us kids!

I am submitting this on behalf of grandfather, Mr John Victor Wattley, who is 82. It's an extract from his unpublished biography entitled "You Couldn't Make It Up". It's part of Chapter 2, Life as an Evacuee, which tells some of what happened to him on evacuation day and goes on to tell of how he was moved from pillar to post, of all the various billets he was moved to, mostly on his own for the 5 years he was an evacuee, including when he was bombed out on a rare weekend visit back to London.
Chapter 2 - Life as an Evacuee

And so it was that on 1st September 1939, my brother Roy and I were packed off to the country. We thought it would be for a couple of weeks - in the end it was 5 years! We were very young - but like many London kids in the 30's, we were already very streetwise for our age. Nevertheless, we'd do a lot more ‘growing up' in those 5 years and we'd learn a lot of new skills in an environment which was completely alien to us. Looking back, they were certainly character-building years.

I was 5 and quite small for my age with a mass of blonde curly hair like a blonde gollywog! I should have been a girl really - but grown ups thought I was cute and I dare say I made the most of that. Our Roy was 8 and with straight dark hair - at least he looked like a boy.

I don't remember anyone telling us why we were being evacuated or where to or for how long, but I suppose mum must have said something. Maybe she just told our Roy - because he was bigger. I do remember evacuation day though. Mum made sure we were dressed smartly in our grey flannel shorts and blue blazers with a hanky in the jacket breast pocket before taking us down to Tennison Street School. That was the ‘big' school at the end of our street (where the juniors went). It was actually in Thackery Street which ran across the bottom of Montefiore and Tennison Streets which ran parallel to one-another. We were assembled in the school hall and lined up to be examined in turn by ‘Nitty Nora' as us kids called her. She was looking for head lice, which were quite rife in those days. Those with lice were sent to one side for special treatment. Fortunately she didn't find any on Roy or me - in fact I was lucky and I never caught them.

From the school it was only about a 10-minute walk down to Battersea Park Railway Station, but parents weren't allowed to go. You can imagine the long snaking lines of kids marching two by two a bit like animals into the ark! Although I remember our Roy saying, "Don't worry Willie - I'll look after you", none of us kids had got a clue that we wouldn't be seeing our parents again for a very long time.

Once at the station we were assembled together in groups waiting for one of the Special Evacuee Trains to come for us. Lots had been laid on. It seemed like the whole of London was being evacuated that day. I didn't really know what an ‘evacuee' was, but I knew I was one. At least we had a good day for it ‘cos it was a beautiful, bright, sunny day. Funny how everything always seems better when the sun is shining.

You may be surprised to learn that it was an electric train - the Brighton line operated by Southern Electric. The carriages had side corridors with compartments off with space for about 10 kids in each sitting opposite one another in rows of 5. Although I was one of the youngest kids on the train, compared to many I was a seasoned traveller because I'd been on a train before - to the seaside at Eastbourne with Olga and Gracie. What's more, I'd seen cows in fields before, but to many of the kids this was a whole new world so you can imagine the atmosphere of excitement and apprehension which ran through the train. For some of the kids it all became a bit too much and there were a few tears. I think that's why Miss Jones came and sat in our carriage for the latter part of the journey. Prior to that we'd just been kids on our own as there weren't enough teachers for every compartment. This was my first meeting with her and I remember thinking she was a bit strange and a rather ugly woman. Much later, when I moved up to the juniors, she was to teach me and I came to like and rather admire her, which just goes to show you should never judge a book by its cover. For now she just seemed a bit strange - not least because she kept her hat on. In fact, I never ever saw her without that hat -she wore the same one all the time she was teaching.

Being a special train, we went straight through to Haywards Heath without stopping at Clapham Junction, Streatham, East Croydon, Purley, Gatwick, Three Bridges or Balcombe. I guess the journey took about 45 minutes. Once off the train, we were marched across the road and assembled on the forecourt of Griffins Garage. There were quite a lot of tables set out and some sort of documentation was going on. Each child was given a paper carrier bag containing emergency rations. It had paper handles which weren't very strong. We thought it was for us, but it wasn't. We were to hand it over to the lady at our billet to help keep us in the first few days. Evacuee? Billet? - that was another new concept for us to get acquainted with. I don't remember being given anything to eat or drink. I just remember having to stand around on the forecourt waiting. We didn't know what we were waiting for, but eventually a number of green and cream South Down buses arrived - there were 4 or 5 - I can't be sure. Anyway, Roy and I were put on the last one to leave. The journey to our destination in Ardingly - was about 5 miles and took about 15 minutes. We pulled up on the forecourt of the village hall - Hapstead Hall - except there wasn't enough room for all the coaches so ours was sticking out a bit. I remember poking my head out of the window to get a better look at the clock tower and a voice from the front said clearly and firmly, "Would that little boy with the curly hair please put his head back inside the window". He was nice about it really - but I remember thinking, "We've only just got here and I'm in trouble already".

All the kids from all the buses were filed into the village hall and told to sit cross-legged on the floor. It was now around 1pm. We each had our little case or bag of belongings and our paper bag of ‘emergency rations' - which we weren't allowed to eat! Talking of eating - I remember we were given a drink of milk but I don't recall getting anything to eat. Soon people came to choose children and take them away to their various ‘billets'. Not very nice really, a bit like choosing slaves, except we weren't slaves, we were ‘evacuees' waiting to be ‘billetted'. It was a beautiful, warm sunny day. We could see the sun was blazing and we kids didn't want to be stuck inside. After a while, some of us got restless, not least ‘cos after sitting cross-legged for an hour or more, the buckle on your sandals starts to dig in. But we got no sympathy - just told to stop fidgeting and sit still. If you've ever been the last ones to be picked for a team at school because no-one really wants you, then you'll have some idea of how Roy and I felt because in the end there was just the two of us sitting cross-legged on that floor.

Eventually a Mrs Honeybun came, but there was rather a commotion because she'd come for two girls. She had two daughters of her own and felt girls would fit in better. But there were no girls left - only Roy and me - a rather girly-looking boy. In the end she was persuaded to take us just for the weekend and the billeting officers would sort out alternative accommodation on Monday. It was now almost 4pm and Roy and I had been sitting cross-legged on that floor for nearly 3 hours.

My granddad always used to point out where the prisoner of war camp was on the edge of our village.

My uncle, Peter McGovern, did not survive the war. My mother didn't know where he was buried until a long time after the war had ended.
In October 1944, members of the Special Air Service, captured by the Germans during a deep-penetration raid into Occupied France named Operation Loyton, were stripped naked, lined up along a ditch and shot. Since being parachuted into enemy territory, they had fought in uniform against military targets and so should have been accorded the protection of the Geneva Convention when taken as prisoners of war. But Adolf Hitler had decided otherwise. Under his Kommandobefehl – Commando Order – captured special forces troops were to be executed following the extraction of useful intelligence. For the men of the SAS fanning out across France after D-Day to prepare the way for the Allied advance, surrender was – had they only known it – not an option.
My Uncle Peter was one of the men who was shot.

I was in the ATS in the Signals, my late husband in the Merchant Navy and my brother was in the Royal Navy. My father was an acetylane welder and cranesman on the docks at Edinburgh, he used to work sometimes for 48 hours on the trot.

Do you remember the * The Forces' Sweetheart * Vera Lynn with her beautiful song * When the lights go on again *. If yes than you can listen to it on youtube.

My dad was a sweet man, my mum ruled the roost, he never spoke much about the war, he was in the Royal Artillery, he joined up at a very young age, I have all his documents, some a bit tatty now, one of the comments on his release was " This soldier has performed the duties of a signaller with a good record of service, he is clean, honest and trustworthy, and can be expected to do his duties in an efficient manner. That was signed in January 1946, two years before I was born. What a lovely man my dad was , miss him so much, we have a photo of him in his uniform in Alexandria, strange my daughter called her daughter Andrea and my brother called his daughter Alex !,

The heroine of our family’s war was, in my opinion, Dad’s cousin Doris who, as a qualified experienced nurse, chose to join the Territorial Army Nursing Service (TANS) in 1939. Shortly after, in January 1940, a matron and 3 sisters from various hospitals proceeded to France as an advance party for the 16th General Hospital. The main body, including Doris, left Oxford in early February and landed in France on February 8th 1940. They took a train to Boulogne where they were billeted at L’Hotel du Cygne in the Market Square. From there the nurses commuted by van to a surgical unit located in the seminaire of acollege outside the town.
At first the hospital received mainly accident victims as there was little action but the blitzkrieg attack on 10th May changed all that and battle casualties began to arrive. The unexpected success of the German attack and its advance on the channel ports resulted in Panzer forces reading south Boulogne on 22nd May.
The situation was chaotic what with refugees and remnants of French and Belgian units streaming in. The threat to the port had been realised only 48 hours earlier and now there were conflicting demands from evacuating base troops, arriving fighting troops and the organisation of defence of the city.
Nurses were given priority evacuation where possible and Doris and her seriously wounded patients were taken off by one of the hospital ships that serviced the port daily.
Doris arrived in Dover with only the clothes she was wearing. She and five other nursing sisters were sent to a large mental hospital at Great Barr, Birmingham, which had been evacuated to receive casualties from Dunkirk. She had no English money but a taxi driver at Birmingham station gave her a free ride to the hospital as he said he was proud to help a Dunkirk survivor.
Later Doris was based at a tented hospital at Agordat in the Sudan, receiving British casualties from the Battle of Karne. She went on to nurse New Zealand casualties in Cyprus, following the assault and capture of Tunis before she left nursing to marry and have her daughters.
I regard Doris as a wonderful role model for the women in our family – and we have proved to be a strong, resilient group!

My Mothers family, lived in the East End Stepney, in the height of the blitz, her house in White Horse Road, received a direct hit, freed from the cellar unharmed, but covered in soot, with no clothes, except what they were wearing,Did the only thing they could do, headed to a relative in Surrey, i remember Mum saying as the train left Waterloo, they looked back and saw London burning
Bought a house, in Godalming, took in lodgers, to help pay, the bills, one was my Dad, one year later, at the age of 40, married, and along came me, so in a round about way, fate brought me into the world.

I was a 1950's baby and sadly my lovely dad died when I was just three, in 1955. An operation to resect his bowel due to chronic ulcerative colitis, caused peritonitis and in a moment, quite unexpectedly, he was dead. In those days, children weren't told much about death, or at least, not in my family. He was just there one day and then gone. I have a brass button from his Royal Artillery unifom, a few photos and his pewter cigarette box, which I have always treasured. Over the years not much was said about him, to me, at least, my mother was of the stiff upper lip brigade and clearly thought that she was protecting me (and maybe herself too, bless her) from pain through keeping silent. I did, however, discover that whilst serving in the Royal Artillery, he rose to the rank of Major and through 'gallant conduct' was mentioned in Despatches. I never knew exactly why and so often wished that I had something tangible which I could show my children and grandchildren. Anyway, imagine my delight, when I recently unearthed a large box of ancient photographs and mementos, boxed up and not sorted after my mothers death some years ago, to find carefuly stored in an old yellowing envelope, a letter from the King, thanking my father, a medal...and a special decoration which he was told that he could wear on his uniform on Coronation Day 1953. The decoration still has thread in it, where my mother must have sewn it on for him. In the envelope were his discharge papers and various other items relating to his military service. In 'civvy street', he was an architect and a musician...a gentle man. His obituary notice read ' Tony was the sort of man who never destroyed anything, through glance, word or deed'. He must have found the brutal reality of warfare very difficult and yet on a mission in Belgium, serving with a bomb detection unit, he did something extraordinary. I don't know what it was, but I'm proud of him. I wish that I could have known him.

My grandad was a gunner in the war. He very rarely spoke of it, but he was a hero. His ship had taken a direct hit, and many lives were lost. He saw 2 of his ship mates I tbe water and ju ped in to rescue them. At considerable danger to himself. Unfortunately both men were lost,to my grandads dismay. He was decorated with a beautiful medal for his courage. He was and always be a hero God Bless Him and all the service personnel who actively gave their lives and continue to do so now. Im proud to say my eldest daughter is an army officer who has risen in rank and is very proud to serve her Queen and country.And has done since she was 16 years old she is now 32 years old has a son who wants to be a soldier like his mummmy

My father played in the Royal Engineers military band during the war. I would love to hear some of the stories from the soldiers

my grandma who was born in 1900, used to tell us stories of how she worked in the mill and on the railways during the war, she used to unload and load cargo onto the trains and when she wasn't on that shift she was in the cotton mills working.. in between times she was raising her two daughters and looking after her mother and father, my mom was only 5 at the time and so she had to grow up very quickly, like all children of that era, lucky for them they had neighbours who would look out for them and as the key was always on the latch.... everyone was in and out of each others houses, caring for each others family ( and their garden plots, chickens etc!!) i wish that community spirit was as good now...

My Mum was a teenager during the second war. I remember her telling me as a child a family friend called Mr Tangy went off to war and never came back. I have always remembered the name Tangy.

My mum was in Yorkshire as a child during the second World War. She remembers being put into lodgings with two elderly ladies who told her and her mum off for using the radio as it was using up precious electricity .. they did not understand it was battery operated! They also bought out home made jam as a treat on Sundays but my mum's mum wouldn't let her eat it as it had a film of mould on the top! As it was rationing, my mum was really hungry and found it so difficult to turn food away!

I can remember as a child asking my Dad about the scar on his shoulder at the top of his arm at the front. It was an angry uneven scar.
He was wounded at El Alamein in Egypt. He never told me the full story and now its too late. He was extremely proud of his medals and that he had seen the pyramids and climbed to the top of 'the big one'. As he was joiner he was in the engineers. His nickname was 'snowy' as he had blond hair which was bleached in the sun. He was named in a book about the war.
Problems did last after the war, he was a smoker for many years as cigarettes were given out as rations !!!!!!!! and in his 60's he got facial skin cancer.
Rations did not include sun tan lotion !!!!!!
Mum was in the WAAF towards the end of the war and seemed to enjoy the uniform.
We were fortunate our memories were not horrific.

My Mum was at Bletchley Park - which not even my Dad knew until they were in their 80s, and she told him.

She was a Wren and her job involved serving tea to Alan Turing, the genius who was in charge of cracking the Enigma Code.

There's a lake at Bletchley Park, which Turing would circle, deep in thought.

As he walked he would drink tea... and when he finished , he would throw the cup and saucer over his shoulder to the Wren... my Mum... running behind him.

She would then scamper off to make him another cup, which he would collect next time round !

My Mum was born in 1940. She had an older brother and sister and they all lived with my Nan in Dagenham, Essex. Because of the docks, Dagenham was hit on a regular basis so the time came for my Aunt and Uncle to be relocated to the country. My Mum remembers going to the train station and waiting patiently while Nan said her goodbyes to my Aunt and Uncle. As she waived goodbye from the platform, my Mum, who was too young to be relocated, said to my Nan, "Why are you crying Mummy? I thought you wanted them to be evaporated?"

My grandparents wouldn't say much about their experiences in France in the first world war but they all came back as pacifists. Same with my parents who were in the forces during the second world war - all they would say was that too many people died and it must never happen again. We never learn do we?

I was born in 1943, the tail end of the war, so I don't remember any of it. I had two older brothers, 2 and 4 years old. We lived in the country side I'm told that when the warning sirens went off, my father had to go into town. He was a miner, so exempt from military service, and was in the St Johns ambulance. My mother used to get all three children and herself under the stairs, which was supposed to be a safe place. I used to sleep in the clothes basket! When you think how difficult it is to get children to sleep, this must have been very unsettling. We lived by a railway, and my mother did not like the way the engines ignored the blackout , presumably because of the heat from the fire. She thought it would attract attention from planes flying to bomb nearby Coventry. Only one bomb dropped nearby, probably jettisoning a spare bomb before flying back to Germany - unless it saw the light from a train!

Mum remembers sleeping on London tube station platforms during the Blitz. She married during the war - the whole community pulled together and pooled their coupons and made lots of it themselves including the dress and the lunch.

I always liked hearing the one about their neighbour, whose husband was in the Air Force. Apparently when he came back after being away fighting, his wife was waiting for him, looking out of the upstairs window, and the first thing she said to him was to shout out of the window: "you look a right mess!"

Oh how I wish I had asked my parents about what it was like for them in the world wars but I didn’t and so that information is, for me, sadly lost forever. They were both born during the first war and so would have been young kids of twenty three (mother) and twenty two (father) when the second started. I know my father was in the RAF and very proud of it too, though I never got to know why he was so proud. So I know he did his bit and so I can be happy only with that.

The fact that this book has been published in conjunction with the children’s newspaper First News tells me that it is going to be an amazing, down-to-earth read, which everyone will enjoy. Fingers crossed I’m lucky.