Here are two first-hand accounts by children living in London during the war:
‘When war broke out, I was five years old and living in Edgware in North London. I
lived with my mum, near to my aunties, uncles and cousins. As soon as war started,
my mum and I and my auntie, pushing my cousin in his pram across a big field at
Canons Park, went to collect our gas masks. We all went into a church hall and the
people there gave me a red Mickey Mouse mask but it was so scary, I screamed! Then
they gave me a black one like my mum and auntie’s, which was still terrifying and
everyone looked menacing when they put them on. The masks had jutting-out bits in
the front with holes in and a rubber hood to stretch over your face, secured at the back
with a thick rubber strap. When you put your mask on, it was hot inside and difficult
to breathe. The strong smell of the rubber made me feel sick and I cried every time
my mum tried to get me to practice wearing it. Just as frightening was the ‘mask’ they
covered my little cousin Michael’s pram with. It covered nearly the whole pram.
Michael didn’t like it, so it made me cry even more. Every time I left the house, my
mum or auntie would say “Have you got your gas mask?” We were not allowed to go
anywhere without them slung across our shoulders in their bulky cardboard boxes.
Cinemas wouldn’t allow us in without our gas masks and if we were playing in the
street, we even had to carry them then.
At about the same time, a field near to us was filled with barrage balloons
which were sent up into the sky to deter any German pilots if they tried to fly over
London. In the sky, the barrage balloons looked small and harmless, but on the
ground, they were enormous and terrifying. So in all, just being at home was quite
frightening for a young child in the war!’
Jean, born 1934
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‘In 1939, I was 11 and living in Hackney, London. One day in September, my
Headmaster told us we were going to be evacuated. The next day, my mum took me
to Liverpool Street station where everyone from my school was gathering with their
mothers. All the mothers were crying, which was upsetting as we didn’t know where
we were going or when we’d see our families again. We had our gas masks over our
shoulders, a small bag of belongings and a label tied to our coats. My label had my
name and school written on it. The train took us to a place called Upwell near
Wisbech in Cambridgeshire and we were all ushered into a hall, where we stood while
several local ladies chose who they wanted to take home. Once they had gone with the
other children, the children who were left were rounded up by other ladies who took
them off in their cars. After the whole school had gone, my friend and I were left on
our own as no one had chosen us, probably because we were tall for our age, so the
ladies probably thought we’d eat more than the others. Eventually, one lady came
back and drove us to a chicken farm. The house was smelly and dilapidated and the
woman who opened the door scowled when she saw us. “I don’t want boys!” She
shouted. “I said I wanted girls!” But the woman who had driven us told us she had no
choice and left us there. We had to share a bed and were bitten by fleas. In the
morning, the woman asked us if we ate crab paste sandwiches. Not wanting to be
difficult, we both nodded. From then on, for every meal, she gave us crab paste
sandwiches. During the day, we went to school in a local hall, where all our old
teachers were, but I was dreadfully homesick. I wrote to my mother to come and get
me. Before the war, I had begged her for a bike for my birthday, so I wrote and said if
she came for me, I didn’t want a bike. That made her realise how unhappy I was and
turned up the next day, but my Headmaster said that if I went back home with her, I
would never be allowed back to that school. I never saw him again.’ Stan, born 1928