Dicing with death by putting the kettle on

LaTe afternoon on saturday, september 7, 1940 — and London was about to experience its first bombing raid. my mother ethel was in Woolwich visiting her sister-inlaw, who had just given birth. The air raid sirens sounded, but, assuming it was just another test, my mother went into the kitchen to make some tea. at that moment a bomb landed nearby, critically injuring her, leaving her with only 50 per cent vision and seriously disfigured for life. The midwife who was upstairs threw herself across the new mother and baby — she would later receive an award for her bravery. on hearing the news, my father, who was stationed at an army base in cardiff, knew he would be refused permission to leave the camp to visit his injured wife. he and a friend broke out of camp, ‘borrowed’ a car, drove to

Bristol and jumped on a train to London. With no travel documents, they had to evade the authorities as they made their way to the hospital. The story does not end there. some time later, my mother, accompanied by my father and her brother, was transferred to moorfields eye hospital. The ambulance was a single decker bus with a red cross on its roof. as it was crossing London, it was strafed by a german plane, at which point the nurse accompanying my mother became hysterical, forcing mum’s brother and my father to knock her out. on arriving at moorfields, they carried mother in on one stretcher and her nurse on another. on his return to camp, somewhat unfairly, my father was sentenced to spend time in the glass house for going aWoL. my mother was 24 and pregnant at the time of the explosion, but mercifully my sister Barbara was safely delivered some months later. happily, my mother lived into her 70s, and in the eighties was approached by a woman in the reception of Butlins in margate, who turned out to be one of the nurses who had cared for her during the Blitz.

David Woollard, Folksworth, Cambs.