POLLY MCCAULEY - FOR FREEDOM AND APPLE PIE

Polly McCauley is a twenty year old writer from Australia with a passion for young adult literature. The daughter of two teachers, she has been immersed in the world of books since her earliest years and this has been furthered in her studies to become a primary school teacher. Polly’s story is based on the real life experiences of her great aunt during World War 2. She loves reading historical fiction herself as well as memoir and has attempted to combine the two genres along with a healthy dose of fiction in ‘For Freedom and Apple Pie’. Polly lives in the Blue Mountains, NSW with her family, dog, cat and guinea pig.

For Freedom and Apple Pie
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KEVIN
 
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“Next to a great forest there lived a poor woodcutter with his wife and his two children. The boy’s name was Hansel and the girl’s name was Gretel. He had but little to eat, and once, when a great famine came to the land, he could no longer provide even their daily bread.”
 
Hansel and Gretel.
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm.
 
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​I was born on the twenty-sixth day of the twelfth month, twelve years before the beginning of the Second World War. Testimony abounds that during the first year of my life, I was always smiling. Growing up, air raid shelters weren’t there just in case, but were the safe homes in which some of us preferred to spend our time. It was a time where sleepless nights weren’t the cause of a restless child, but of the ear piercing sirens warning of an imminent bomber hovering overhead.
 
The memories are fractured, the first two years pieced together by stories told by my mother and father, brother and sister. Those that were retained begin at the age of three. But the most memorable begin when I was eleven, only months after the beginning of the war and before my twelfth birthday.
 
Portsmouth, had its advantages. But as the biggest naval port, and with Gosport just across the harbour, in 1939 we were a big target for German bombers. A bullseye for the German bombers like a target on an archery range.
 
Gran shared many a sleepless night with us.
 
Bedtime stories, of Hansel and Gretel, and comforting lullabies, had once soothed me to sleep each night. But once the war had begun, there was no longer time for fairy tales, as they always seemed to be disrupted by the German bombers above, as if they were only waiting for the Grans of England to settle their grandchildren before they threatened to attack. Apart from this there was no time for the embarrassing thought of a twelve year old being lulled to sleep.
 
There was a time when the bus trips into town and a ferry across to Portsmouth were an adventure, rather than a trek. A day out, rather than a day at work.
 
These were my childhood years, but I was growing up.
 
It was the summer of 1940, after the fall of France when the air raids began. First they were in the daytime, but by that winter, the night raids had started.
 
The first few months of the war were relatively quiet, known as the ‘Phoney War’, with just a few German planes flying over Portsmouth Harbour and the chance dog fight in the sky, which my older brother, Les, and I would watch from the roof of the shed at the bottom of our garden. But the world became a maze. Entrenched in its dark and twisted roots, we were lost amidst the war, struggling to follow the breadcrumb trail back to safety. Consumed by the bombers above and the rubble below, life became a maze we had to navigate on our own, no longer able to walk straight towards a welcoming future.
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When the moon appeared they got up, but they could not find any crumbs, for the many thousands of birds that fly about in the woods and in the fields had pecked them up.
 
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The real war had begun.
 
Auntie Eve, my mother’s sister, and her husband, Uncle Sid, lived opposite us on Melville Road. By this time, their back garden was home to an air raid shelter called an Anderson Shelter. It was delivered in many pieces and made of very thick corrugated steel. The Council had offered to set up the shelters for us, but this meant waiting a long time. So Uncle Sid, Les, and I took charge. The first thing we had to do was dig a big hole, about a metre deep, big enough to put the shelter in once it was built. Then we had to assemble it. Not an easy job for a twelve year old, or anyone of any age. From then on, whenever the air raid sirens began to ring, piercing the bubbly dinnertime conversation or the laughter of children, we would rush across the road to share the shelter.
 
There was one particularly bad night raid about two years into the war, on the 10th January 1941, that I can remember so vividly, as though it was a picture playing out in front of me. It was a day spent in Jellicoe Avenue, only a couple of miles from where we lived.
 
By this time we had become used to gunfire, grey planes flying overhead and the occasional bomb being dropped. There was never real threat to our family. But on this night, walking the two miles from Jellicoe to Melville we did not struggle to see our feet or the bumps in the pavement. Instead, the sky was lit up with bright flares being dropped from the Germans hovering above, casting shadows across the footpath.. When we arrived home, the bombs began to fall. As it worsened to a shower my mother decided we had to leave.
 
“Go now,” she said calmly, “go to the shelter. I’ll get Gran. Let Auntie Eve and Uncle Sid know we’re coming.”
But my Grandmother would not come with us.
 
The sirens were blaring. Picking up blankets, Les and I rushed out the door. The harsh cold immediately consumed our beings. Tripping over the sandbags that bordered our house and dodging potholes and mounds from the tanks, we ducked across the street to Auntie Eve’s house. In all the commotion, I looked around to see my mother following, tripping the same way we had only seconds earlier. But my Gran was not with her. Searching the facade of the house, I spotted movement in the top bedroom window. She had stayed behind. Scared we were going to lose her, I panicked.
 
“Are you coming Gran?” She grumbled, her sharp voice cutting through the frosty air, “Bugger and sod old Hitler,” a scowl adorning her features.
 
Approaching the too familiar air raid shelter, sirens ringing in our ears, our noses were filled with the distinctive scent of damp and musty concrete mixed with the tendrils of smoke wafting from the unfinished dinners of those who couldn’t bear to leave them behind. Ducking to miss the rickety wooden sign hanging above the tiny door to the shelter, we squeezed inside, burrowing ourselves among the bodies of our family and friends who were already settled.
 
Comfort was hard to come by. Pressed against the wall and my mother, I knew that it would be another sleepless night.
 
With the shelters reinforced by concrete to protect us from the German bombers looming overhead, settling down for what could be hours, was not an easy task. Despite the struggle, we managed. Although the warmth from our pressed together bodies somewhat protected us from the winter weather, my mother and Auntie Eve brought blankets and a smattering of cushions, to try and provide some relief from the icy cold of the concrete, that always managed to seep through our thinning pyjama pants and freeze our bottoms.
 
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After they had sat there a long time, their eyes grew weary and closed, and they fell sound asleep.
 
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As my eyelids began to droop, succumbing to the weariness that had overcome them many hours ago, Gran’s absence filled the room, sending a rush of panic flowing through my veins.
 
She was standing in the garden, smoke above her, rubble beneath her, covered in scratches and caked in blood and dust. Even after squeezing my eyes shut, I could not erase the image from my mind, it only became more vivid, shaking my brain from its sleep to focus my thoughts on Gran.
 
We should have tried harder to. The ground shook, violently. Rocks and dirt fell through the roof. Wasn’t it supposed to be reinforced?
 
Was she all alone?
Or was she completely oblivious, tucked up in bed, falling soundly asleep?
 
My heart began to race faster and faster, as several more explosions reverberated around us.
 
Had she changed her mind? Had she tried to cross the road, navigating the rubble and potholes that littered it? I tried to answer these questions to reassure myself that everything was okay.
 
There were no answers, no clarity or closure, until we would face reality and leave the shelter. But that wasn’t to be for another few hours yet. Once again my eyes grew weary as the anxiety subsided, but thoughts of my Gran still clouded my thoughts, swirling around my mind, unable to settle. Eventually, after what seemed like many, many hours, I drifted into a restless and disturbed sleep. The memories came flowing back.
 
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Not long afterward there was once again great need everywhere.
But the woman would not listen to him, scolded him, and criticized him.
 
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The night passed, but by morning the shelter was suffocating. Before daybreak, my mother was shaking me awake, urging me to follow, whispering about finding Gran and getting breakfast. This was contrary to the aftermath of the other night raids. Following most raids, she had decided not to take me with her, instead allowing me to wake up to the sun warming my back through the open shelter door, left to wake when I was ready. This time she was not confident that I was safe and secure in the back garden of my own auntie and uncle.
 
The war had become more dangerous for us all.
 
 
 
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At daybreak, even before sunrise, the woman came and woke the two children. "Get up, you lazybones. We are going into the woods to fetch wood."
 
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I emerged from the shelter, shivering, unsure of what to expect when we were in view of the house across the road.
Our house.
Creeping through the garden, we were silent, making sure to not wake any of the others. As we reached the gate to the front garden, my hands went automatically to my eyes and I huddled close to my mother, a safe haven and a guide. It was only once I heard her sigh of relief, a sign of approval of what she saw in front of her, that I felt brave enough to remove my hands and see the damage for myself.
 
But the house was unscathed, no extra cracks or breaks, no more dips or ditches in the garden and the quiet rumble of snores coming from the open upstairs window.
 
She was safe.
She had survived.
Much to our happiness, her stubborn nature had not yet brought us grief, but instead unfathomable relief.
She had slept right through!
 
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Since I had started going to school, I had always been allowed to go out searching and exploring with the Melville Road children. Only weeks ago, when it had been announced that the newsreels were going to begin showing at the cinema, I was offered the opportunity to join Dad and Les. I was going to be able to watch real life war footage! But today, my mother would not allow it. As the air raids worsened my mother’s manner gradually began to grow strict, out of care and worry for my family. But this is not what I wanted. As my father and Les made their way to the cinema, I was left behind with my mother.
 
“Why waste your time cleaning Hilda?” my grandmother taunted. “The place is only going to get covered in dust again during the next raid anyway. And there’s no telling when that could be, the blasted planes are always circling and they’re not planning on stopping anytime soon.”
 
The temptation to sneak away from another day of cooking and cleaning with my mother was strong, but only until my grandmother marched downstairs and, enlisting my help, ordered we bake a cake.
 
My Gran was not known to spend copious amounts of time in the kitchen, sneaking away like a child when it came to cleaning up. But when she had an impulse to cook, she was like a storm ripping through the kitchen, which only subsided when the job was done.
 
“Where’s the bloody cake tin Kevin?” she called to me impatiently. Her head was buried in the larder, paper bags crumpling and jam jars clinking and jingling as she dug around for the tin. Emerging triumphant, she moved further into the kitchen, clutching the cake tin and swiping the minimal flour we had left over from the week’s rations as she went.
“Here we go,” she exclaimed proudly. “Come on you lot, get a move on! We have to get this made before the boys get home.”
 
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He had but little to eat, and once, when a great famine came to the land, he could no longer provide even their daily bread.
 
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With my Gran in possession of what flour we had and the presumption that there was enough, there were a number of things we had to conjure up before we could make the actual cake. First was the pseudo eggs and then the pseudo butter, imitations of what we were lacking. In a flurry she moved around the kitchen, eager to get the cake cooked so that she could fill her hungry tummy.
 
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"They will be a good mouthful," she mumbled to herself.
 
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Just as we were undertaking the ceremonious procedure of placing the cake in the oven, and preparing to wait the half an hour it would take to cook, a tremendous explosion shook the house, an explosion that could not be far away.
 
At the sound, my grandmother had taken us in her arms, her warmth surrounding me the same way it had in 1939, at the outbreak of the war. My mother began to cry, heavy sobs, shuddering her body. Seeing her crying was like making a cake out of rations. A rare occurrence. My Gran, recovering quickly, started getting everything ready for tea, boiling the kettle and laying the table.
 
We sat in complete silence for almost half an hour before turning on the radio. We discovered that a cinema had been bombed, the same cinema that my dad and Les had set out for today.
 
“Earlier today the Ritz Cinema in Gosport was hit by a stick of incendiary bombs. Authorities are warning urgently that residents of Gosport remain in their houses and blackout all windows. They do not know how long the raid will last and are urging all people to heed their warnings. Police are unsure of numbers but say that there have been some survivors but many fatalities. There are reports that there was a fault in the monitoring of the city’s airspace, leaving German planes undetected and air raid sirens silent. Police are once again warning that all residents stay inside…”
 
She crumbled, like the walls of the cinema. Heeding the warnings, I drew the curtains, adding an extra layer of protection to the arms that already cradled me. We sat watching the cake, bubbling in time with the heaving sobs of my mother and my own heavy breathing. The hope that Dad and Les would return tonight was fading quickly. Confident of their return, Gran had made her way up to bed scolding my mother, “Hilda, be sensible! They’ll be home in no time.”
 
 
 
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If help did not come soon, they would perish.
 
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After a long night spent in the kitchen comforting each other and listening to Gran’s rhythmic snores, there was a knock at the door. Standing up, my mother ensured I stayed in the kitchen, a place of safety where I would remain hidden. As the door opened, I listened for voices, waiting in much suspense. A suspense that could not be tamed. A suspense that was utterly destroyed as I heard my mother beginning to cry softly. Rounding the corner cautiously, I found my mother wrapped in the arms of my father and brother. To our great surprise and extreme happiness, Dad and Les had been inside the cinema at the time of the bombing but they had not been harmed. The safety had returned to our home, without threat and nerves, maybe just for one night.
 
As the floorboards above began to creak, Les stepped away from the huddled group of reunited family members, and looked around with a confused expression.
“Where’s Gran? Why isn’t she down here?” he questioned.
 
As if on cue, her slippered feet began to plod down the stairs and she appeared wrapped in a dressing gown, fresh from sleep.
“What on earth are you doing standing out in the cold?” she reprimanded. “See, I told you they’d be home tonight. Come on, come inside, we have cake to eat and tea too!”
 
We couldn’t contain our laughter as we moved into the house, Gran waiting behind to close the door after us. She had slept through the pain and the nervous wait. She hadn’t even been there for the reunion. And most surprisingly, not even the smell of freshly baked cake had woken her from her dreams.
 
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She took them by the hand and led them into her house. Then she served them a good meal: milk and pancakes with sugar, apples, and nuts. Afterward she made two nice beds for them, decked in white. Hansel and Gretel went to bed, thinking they were in heaven.
 
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We were covered in scratches and bruises, left shaking from the threat of death but we were safe.
The war was yet to touch our family.
 
During the war, the shelters became a second home for many, but for some it was their home, safe and secure, no matter how scared or cold. There were families who lived along our street who no longer waited in anxiety for the sirens to sound, but instead rushed to the shelter straight after school or work. There was no more risk taking. A daily routine which had once provided comfort and safety, was no longer safe. It became a danger to linger in homes, with the Germans looming above. The shelters, for some, became a kitchen and bedroom, a bathroom and a living room. They were refuges with little privacy, but they became an alternate home, full of new families, with members, that three years ago, you wouldn’t have considered you would be talking to - let alone people you thought would become your great friends.
 
But this was not the case for Gran.
Gran was adamant in defying Hitler, staying defiantly in her room during each and every raid, refusing to allow the tyrant to enter her life and ruin what she treasured so dearly.
 
Whilst we shivered and cowered at the bottom of Auntie Eve and Uncle Sid’s garden, protected by the crowded shelter, Gran was across the road, unfazed by the world that was crumbling around her, but ultimately emerging unscathed at the first sign of safety, while we were all returning home.
 
The relationships we developed in the shelters, became a family of many adults and children.
And yet, there was only one who became my best friend under the most unusual of circumstances.
 
Fred lived no more than three houses down the road to the right, meaning that we were both placed under the cover of Auntie Eve and Uncle Sid’s air raid shelter. Seeing each other in the air raid shelters for the first time, was not our first encounter of each other. Fred and I attended the same primary school but in the beginning, primary school was not a place that necessarily created happy memories.
 
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The remains of a smattering of freckles shadowed his face, a faint cloud coming to rest lightly on his nose. Nestled comfortably among the fading flecks of orange and the cushion of his cheeks, were two chocolate brown eyes, full of menace. All was framed by a mop of matching hair. As his hand drew closer, I could feel warm air hitting me in short bursts as his nostrils flared in anger.
 
What I had done, I would never know but the sting rose quickly to my cheek and heat consumed my body.
That was payback enough.
 
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It took many tense conversations between Fred and I, stern looks from my grandmother and friendly catch ups between our mothers, before the stares and insults began to drift away. Gran could not stand the tension but marvelled in rekindling the spark of the relationship between my grandmother and Fred’s mother, my Gran was her godmother. After all, she had helped to raise Fred’s mother with my own, as they had too grown up on Melville Road. It was only a matter of weeks, with gentle encouragement and prompting from our mothers, before we discovered our shared interest in music and sport. Through the hardship of war our friendship grew stronger, lasting through senior school and beyond. There were so many memories made in the air raid shelter across the road. But it was the back garden in which the air raid shelter could be found that held so many memories. Memories that would be kept in slides for years ahead. Slides that could be shown to children and grandchildren, and the many generations to come.
 
But considering all the times Fred and I crept out on adventures of our own, there were many days that the FujiChrome Velvia 100F would never have been able to capture.
 
I can remember running down to Lee On Solent. Soldiers and military men swarmed the beach. Heavy military boots crunched on the pebbles as tired limbs were dragged towards the pubs and bars. One last serving of fish and chips before they were off again. I skidded down the pebbly beach, kicking up stones behind me, my eyes flicking between the slippery ground beneath me and Fred, as he ran alongside me. As the last tendrils of a warm meal faded away, my nose was filled with the salty air of the beach and the burning fuel from the landing craft. This seashore was the closest I ever got to the war. That’s if you don’t count the air raid shelters, of course. It was here that the landing craft were loaded with tanks for invasion. At this time, the ocean became a sea of grey, casting shadows and blocking out what we could see of the sun. Not the grey of a foggy, overcast English day but the grey of heavy war machines. The whirring of the motors grew louder as we approached the water, the steady rhythm vibrating through the pebbles to where we stood.
 
Inching closer to the looming warships we were filled with great curiosity. Sidestepping the constant flow of those who were qualified, our ears were overcome with the engines of the landing craft. Even when shouting at the tops of our voices we could still not hear each other. The heartbeats of the thrumming vehicles reverberated in our ears, our eardrums at the point of explosion. The thrill of being so close to such powerful machines became too much, even for the curiosity that had welled up deep within. Scrambling back up the beach we dodged the soldiers that were making their way back down to their posts - authority in their voices as they reprimanded us for sneaking down to the water.
Those days are the ones that could never be captured in slides.
 
Every weekend our families found time to get together, giving our mothers a reason to dust off the expensive china and prepare a delicious tea, Fred and I company during the long hours spent in the air raid shelters and our dads a reason to return safely from their duties with the home guard after each air raid.
 
Each day, we walked the extra mile to the crossroads which separated our schools, taking the extra time to navigate the foggy footpaths and rubble filled roads, away from the crowded buses and meaningless conversation.
 
On the 11th March 1943 the air was particularly smoky. There had been another night raid the previous night and we had left the shelter only hours before leaving for school. A mile and a half into our trip, the sirens began to shriek. The rumbling of engines began to intensify in the sky above, forcing us to find the nearest shelter. Fortunately, we made it to the shelter of the local church before they closed and bolted the doors. This raid was the first I could remember in a long time, where I had felt desperately frightened for my family.
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She pushed poor Gretel outside to the oven, from which fiery flames were leaping.
 
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After a restless night, I had finally forced myself to settle in the church’s shelter.
Concrete supporting me.
Blanket covering me.
Sleep consuming me.
Inevitably that sleep was not to last long.
 
Presently, a shudder ran through the crammed bodies, as the shelter shook. A nearby explosion, that could be no more than two miles away, consumed the minds of all within - an echo of the panicked footsteps that had previously been making their way down to the shelter door.
 
The Germans had caught us unaware, sneaking upon us and surprising us with a morning raid. This was a surprise that filled you with dread for all that may be destroyed by the wrath of the terror that loomed above. The shelter grew quiet, as we waited in silence for the local home guard soldier to knock on the door and signal the safety of the world outside.
A world that was truly in ruins.
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Then they fell asleep, and evening passed, but no one came to get the poor children.
 
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It was hours and many fractured conversations later when we finally heard the knock. It was a knock that brought relief to the eyes of all in the shelter, but dread to their hearts, as they were overcome by the anticipation of the aftermath - preparing for the worst but hoping for the best.
The shelter emptied,
    one
          by
             one.
 
Slowly, Fred and I moved closer to the door of the shelter, at the back of a line of small children latched onto the arms and legs of their mothers or cradled in the arms of their fathers - arms that held them safe and kept them secure from the fiery wrath of a war so brutal and horrifying. They were comforted and we were left to find our own way home. As fourteen year olds, Fred and I had the bravery of lions, but at a time when the roots of war had overcome us and we needed that bravery most, it was drained from our bodies. Edging towards the hazy daylight, my breath became short and my teeth started to chatter, as we were left without our families, we were dreading the worst. Our minds were flicking from scene to scene, playing out every possibility we could soon be expected to face. Question after question rushing through our heads.
 
What are we going to find?                             Are they ok?
 
Where are our families?
 
Leaving the shelter, we ditched the motorbike and started running, in search of the ones we loved, the ones we couldn’t bear to lose. The plumes of smoke up ahead were the first sign of danger. But the danger increased when I saw numerous beings crowding the road between Auntie Eve and Uncle Sid’s house and my own, forming a circle that was closing in. It was my family. Fred’s mother was in the arms of her husband, shaking and shivering, facing towards the middle of the huddle. I was still running, only stopping short when I saw my mother, folded over a singular body, with dad and Les right behind her. My chest heaved with every breath as I shuffled closer to where my mother stood, faces and features becoming frighteningly clear.
 
It was my Gran.
My Gran was lying on the road, at the feet of my father, lifeless and cold.
It was during that moment of realisation that my legs gave way, no longer supporting the extra weight that had just landed on my shoulders.
 
Scattered around her were yellowed pages ripped from the covers that once held them.
The page that remained attached was the first of Hansel and Gretel, her favourite fairytale. The Germans had made their mark, destroying something of their own in the process. Tearing apart the pages of a book and ruining the lives of many forever.
 
 
 
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She pushed poor Gretel outside to the oven, from which fiery flames were leaping.
But Gretel saw what she had in mind.
 
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Gran had only made it halfway across the road before she decided to run back and get the book of fairy tales, fairy tales that Les and I had grown up with and that held so much value in the life of my Gran. The war had worsened which only fueled her defiance of Hitler and she continued to refuse to let him win. Fred’s mother had tried to stop her, to save her life, attempting to drag her closer towards the shelter, but Gran had pulled free, stumbling back towards the house.
 
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And as soon as the adults had fallen asleep, he got up, pulled on his jacket, opened the lower door, and crept outside. Hansel bent over and filled his jacket pockets with them, as many as would fit.
 
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Clutching the fairytales she began to run, sensing the danger. She had been willing to take the risk, but it had cost Gran her life and it had taken Fred’s mother too.
 
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Oh, how the poor little sister sobbed as she was forced to carry the water, and how the tears streamed down her cheeks!
 
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We were shattered, just like the glass that had exploded from our windows on that fateful night, but we drew on the good memories and the happiness that had exuded from my Gran’s very being.
 
Huddled in the air raid shelter, down the back of Auntie Eve and Uncle Sid’s garden, we farewelled Gran and Fred’s mother. Not as grand as they deserved, but all we could in the rain of bombs. Fred, his father and sister, Auntie Eve and Uncle Sid, Les and I, my mother and my father and Eileen and Jack, my sister and her husband, listened carefully to the village minister, who had kindly volunteered to quietly conduct the service out of sight from the German bombers.
 
The shelter was silent apart from the rising cries of Eileen, as she sobbed and sobbed. The loss had become too much. Only months ago, Eileen and Jack had lost Rupert, the Australian fighter pilot who had been billetted with them.
 
Later, we shared memories and Eileen’s much-loved apple pie, recalling fairy tales from the beloved book that Gran had run back to save.
 
 
RUPERT
 
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“Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.”
 
Winston Churchill
 
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It was like a swarm of bees flying overhead. The buzzing grew louder as the planes neared the ground.
 
Hearing the assembly bell ringing, I stumbled out of bed and scrambled into my uniform, quickly joining the rest of the group as they marched down to the hall. The fumes of fuel mixed with smoke and gunpowder filled my nose, making me choke as they opened the door onto the tarmac area.
 
We had disembarked in Gosport three days ago; the bitter wind infused with the smell of freshly caught fish, blew onto our faces when we were onshore. Unlike my hometown of Newcastle, Gosport had two airfields, so when we were travelling through the village, it was bustling with military men who had sailed there earlier than me.
 
The captain barked orders for us to move. Once in the hall, we shuffled into a line that led to a bank of tables. By the end of the process, we all had a slip of paper with the names of the family that we would be staying with, and attached to the back of the paper was our train ticket.
 
 
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Stepping out of the train, I felt a rush of excitement flow through my body. My eyes darted from group to group as I scanned the crowd for my hosts. Eventually, I found them. The man, Jack, took my bags and reaching out to shake his hand, I said “G’day mate”. Moments later, he was gathering us into the car, a shiny, black Ford Anglia, and a little anxiously I was on the way to my new home.
 
My room contained a small writing desk with a chair, a bed covered in a patchwork quilt, a stool to prop my shoes on and a cupboard to put my clothes in. There was a bookshelf attached to the top of the desk. Scanning the many novels on the shelf, I caught sight of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. I wondered if my expectations would be great too.
 
The patchwork quilt made me realise that I was already feeling homesick, its vivid blue of the Australian sky splashed with the yellow of the shining sun reminded me of my childhood beach.
 
Before bed I decided to write to my mother:
 
To my dearest Mother,
 
I have arrived in Gosport and much to my delight the billeters are very nice. I am safe and very glad to be here, although I am missing you greatly.
 
In a couple of weeks I will be going off to meet my crew and start training. I am looking forward to it very much. I can’t wait to be the pilot of one of those planes.
 
I hope everything is well with everybody back at home. I love you all so much and I hope to hear from you soon.
 
Lots of love, Your son, Rupert xxx
 
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I was scheduled to leave each morning at seven o’clock but after my first day at the airfield, I thought that I would not be able to go back again. I thought working on the farm at home was tough but this was even harder and I was so tired that once I had finished my tea, one of Eileen’s delicious meals, I struggled back to my room where I found a newspaper lying on my bed. Earlier in the day, we had had our photos taken to commemorate our entering into the crew. The paper had the photo sprawled all over it. I carefully cut the picture out and placed it on the writing desk ready to send it to my mother in my next letter home.
 
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On the way to Fort Rowner for the last of my training, I knew I was missing Jack and Eileen already. I felt like they belonged to me. Did they feel the same way? When I opened my case, I found a slice of Eileen’s signature apple pie slipped into a brown paper bag. It was labelled, ‘For you, Rupert, my dear. Love Eileen and Jack xxx’. My question was answered.
 
An ear-piercing siren disturbed the evening chatter as we arrived at the cabins. Men dashed to safety. I felt someone grab me and I was shoved into the shelter. The moment the bunker door was closed, I started asking questions.
 
“What’s happening? Why are we here?”
 
“It’s ok, calm down. There have been German planes spotted above us. We’ll be ok in the Anderson Shelter.”
 
“Are you sure?”
 
“If the Germans try to drop a bomb on us we should be safe, unlike the people over at Fort Grange who have been allocated with Lawrence Shelters. Do you know how lucky we are?” Lucky that Germans are bombing us? I don’t call that luck!
 
“If we were over at Fort Grange and a bomb was dropped on us, we would have been ripped to pieces before we knew it. The head of the crew has updated the shelters here but they have not yet had a chance to improve the shelters at Fort Grange,” explained a man calmly.
 
“Are you used to this? How often does this happen?” I pestered. I tried not to make the poor man annoyed. It would not be good to get into an argument while we were huddled into an area as small as this one.
 
“Australian, are you? Is this your first air raid?” I nodded with a nervous smile.
 
“This happens every now and again. Sometimes it will happen a couple of times in one night. Once, we had two or three every night for a week. It was terrible,” he replied. “Don’t worry, you get used to it.” “Oh,” I sighed, hoping that it wouldn’t ever happen continuously while I was there. I didn’t want to get used to it.
 
I was a bit shaken when I finally returned to my cabin. Sleep did not come easily that night, my hands were sweating and the warning was continuously ringing in my ears. From then on, I didn’t dawdle when training had finished. I didn’t want to be too far away if the siren went off because there was only enough room in each shelter for seven men.
 
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On the train home, I couldn’t even think of going to sleep even though I was exhausted. Pressing my forehead against the window, I saw the naked trees shivering as a blanket of cool air wrapped around them. The sun had been shining that day but it was dimmed by the dark clouds that packed the icy sky as the night neared.
 
The first few weeks of winter brought many hot cocoas before bed. The sticky heat of a humid Australian summer was a distant memory. One December morning, I woke and saw snow for the first time. It was soft and fluffy like the white marshmallows in my cocoa. Eileen stood at the kitchen window, laughing as I ran down the garden path and rolled around like a puppy in the snow. At first I felt a bit childish but then I acknowledged that you had to make a snowman once in your life.
 
The telegram arrived just after Christmas. Boxing Day had been spent visiting Eileen’s younger brother, Kevin, for his birthday. But as we wandered down the front path, there was a postman waiting with a telegram. Jack reached out, took it and handed it to me saying, “It is addressed to you. I hope it isn’t what I think it is.”
 
I dragged my heavy limbs up the stairs to my room, flopped onto my bed and stared at the telegram. I was half hoping it would be a reply from my mother but when I gathered up the courage to turn it over, I saw it was sealed with the RAF emblem. My courage deserted me at that moment.
 
It was at dinner that night that I broke the news to Eilen and Jack. Before I had even begun, Eileen’s face went pale. I felt sick myself. I could not bear to think of what lay ahead and that I may not return.
 
“Is it true? Is that what it really said?” Eileen whispered in a shaky voice.
 
“Yes. Please don’t cry, I promise I will return,” I begged. “Eileen may I ask one favour of you?”
 
“Anything for you, my dear.”
 
“Are you able to send my mother a letter? I cannot bring myself to tell her. She never even wanted me to join the airforce. But it is my duty and once you commit to something you have to stick with it otherwise you let the team down. I have learnt this over the years. I have to look after my mates. It’s the Australian way.”
 
“It would be our pleasure,” Jack reassured me as he patted my back and Eileen huddled into the side of the armchair, stifling her tears.
 
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Despite my past fear, this is what I was trained for and the adrenalin bubbled inside me. The clouds were drawing closer as my plane took off. I was fulfilling my dream at last. The spitfires were only big enough for one person. The tips of my hair skimmed the glass bubble encircling my head and the seat was tightly secured around my body. From the ground, the sky looked like it was dotted with clouds but to me, up in the sky, they were like mountains growing higher and higher.
 
As I flew over Germany, I could hear the static of the radio crackling in the background saying that I had to fire the bullets. The red button was waiting for me. Fulfilling my duty was not as easy as I thought. I reminded myself we had to stop the German bombers before they reached the English shore. I forced my hand over the dreaded word, FIRE; it was hovering there until I finally pulled myself together and pushed the button. The plane shuddered as the weight of the bullets was relieved from the guns on the wings. My heart was heavy; I couldn’t believe what I had just done.
 
My duty completed, I turned the plane around and started flying back to England. The airfield was in sight when I heard the plane’s engine splutter as the fuel tank burst into flames.
 
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Jack’s eulogy completed, they, together with a few of his crew, watched as the coffin was lowered carefully into the grave. On top, a brass plaque was engraved with a small prayer:
 
‘Fighting for freedom, fall of a valiant soldier, Resting in the Lord.’
Rupert Atkins 1919-1942
 
There were silent tears running down Eileen’s face as the ceremony ended and the mourners slowly departed.
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To dear Mrs. Atkins,
 
My name is Eileen. My husband Jack and I have been your son’s billeters while he has been staying here in Gosport. Rupert was a delightful young man and you should be very proud of him.
 
When we heard that Rupert’s plane had crashed, Jack and I rushed to the hospital.
 
I visited him everyday, sometimes with Jack and other times alone because I knew you couldn’t be with your son. One day I took with me a freshly made Rupert-sized apple pie. When I gave it to him his eyes brightened but not the way they used to.
 
A few days later, I was reading to him from Great Expectations, a novel he had started reading upon his return from training. He reached out to hold my hand but within minutes, it fell limp and I looked up to see that his eyes were closed and he was no longer struggling to breathe.
 
Packing Rupert’s belongings to send home to you was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do. As I was cleaning up his desk, I found a picture from the newspaper that had been cut out very carefully. It was of him and his crew on their first day of training. I have enclosed it along with the novel and my apple pie recipe. Perhaps one day you will be able to cook it and eating a slice will give you some comfort during this difficult time and make you smile as much as it did Rupert.
 
With love, Eileen Abraham.
 
KEVIN
 
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“I speak to you for the first time as Prime Minister in a solemn hour for the life of our country, of our empire, of our allies, and, above all, of the cause of Freedom.”
                                                           
Winston Churchill: Be Ye Men of Valour, May 19, 1940
 
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8th May 1945, a day filled with celebration and happiness, scattered among the haze of sad memories, was a day that would forever remain present in our ageing minds.
 
Among parades and processions, dinners and dances, were the memorable street parties.
The 1945 Street Peace Parties.
 
The street was packed with families cheering and dancing and singing. There was an excitement and spontaneity to it all. We were running up and down Melville Road, waving flags, whooping and laughing. Sitting down later to make party hats with our mothers. Little did we know that there would be parties and more celebrations to follow.
 
Waves of red and blue, yellow and green covered the houses of Melville Road with flags and streamers hanging from every corner and crevice. Lining the road were tables and tables set with the mismatched cutlery and crockery of each household and piled high with tins of corned beef, kegs of butter, tinned fruit and cakes and bread that had been donated by the baker.
 
The twinkling sound of children’s laughter filled the streets. It was a laughter we hadn’t heard for years, but it brightened the day in a way our laughter had never done before. Suddenly, as quickly as the celebrations had begun, our mothers were hurriedly sitting us down and shushing us. Huddled around the radio were the families of Melville Road. Families that had been brought together by the troubles of the war, eagerly awaiting the formalities of a victory speech from Winston Churchill. A giant victory that brought with it the happiest party of all.
 
But with all the celebration, there was much sadness.
 
I was overcome with guilt asking so many questions which were virtually impossible to answer.
Why did I survive?
Why did it have to be them?
Why couldn’t it have been me?
 
To know that the last time I had embraced my grandmother and the last time my next door neighbour, my best friend, had embraced his mother was before we left for school that fateful morning, was heart wrenching.
 
It would never happen again.
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“God bless you all. This is your victory! It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land. In all our long history we have never seen a greater day than this. Everyone, man or woman, has done their best. Everyone has tried. Neither the long years, nor the dangers, nor the fierce attacks of the enemy, have in any way weakened the independent resolve of the British nation. God bless you all.”
                                                           
Winston Churchill: This is Your Victory, May 8, 1945
 
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This was the beginning of a giant victory that brought with it the happiest party of all.
 
And the celebrations continued…
Not only were we finally able to return home without the threat of having to race across the road to the air raid shelter in Auntie Eve and Uncle Sid’s backyard but we celebrated with a massive dinner. With rations no longer needed to feed our family the choice to use everything we had on a celebration of a victory that once seemed so far away tasted so good.
 
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They knocked on the door, and when the woman opened it and saw that it was Hansel and Gretel, she said, "You wicked children, why did you sleep so long in the woods? We thought that you did not want to come back."
 
But the father was overjoyed when he saw his children once more, for he had not wanted to leave them alone..
 
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The cinema was not rebuilt until 1952. At this time I was earning my own money doing the paper rounds. A tedious job for a growing boy, but a job that provided the money I needed to buy tickets for both Fred and I, to the opening movie played in that first week. Standing at the entrance to the cinema, looking up at the big red letters in the noticeboard above us, “V E R T I G O”.
 
The final credits rolled across the screen…
 
VERTIGO
Starring
James Stewart as John Ferguson
Kim Novak as Judy Barton and Madeleine Elster
 
We had survived.
 
My mother’s biggest fear of the day was that we would not return home. She dreaded the thought that she would have to endure the fright and terror that we had experienced on the night Dad and Les had been at the cinema once more.
 
Arriving home to my mother’s arm, her warmth surrounding me, was a moment in my life I would forever treasure. The amount of youth my age, all around the world, that would never have the chance to experience this again, saddened me. It seemed unfair that so many people had lost their lives but I had survived.
 
In sixteen short years, I had grown up and lived through a war.
A war finally over.
 
We had made so many memories that we would never forget. We had family that we never thought we would have associated with. Times were tough but we had been brought so much closer together. A war that tore apart the lives of so many created a life experience for those who survived.
 

Over the course of five years during World War 2, the world saw the loss of 60,000 British civilians.
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