Later War Years

The war was now approaching its climax. Hit and run raids were now few and far between, but not before one of stick of bombs scored a direct hit on the football pitch just outside the town, which distributed the grandstand in match-wood all over the surrounding meadows.

Then the flying bombs started to arrive. We used to grab our lad and scuttle under the stairs when we heard the ominous throbbing approaching, waiting for the engine to stop, followed by the shattering explosion which rocked the countryside. We did get one at work, thankfully at night, which landed near our workshops and we had several days repairing the damage.

Preparations for D-Day, although we didn't know at the time what it was all about, were going on apace. Troop and armour concentrations began to build up in our area. A lot of the troops were cosmopolitan collections of the various freedom fighters who had somehow made their way to the United Kingdom. They were ready now to hit back at Hitler in no uncertain manner.

We had a Belgian lad married to an English girl staying with us for a few days. He could speak good English, and I'm sure they enjoyed their last few days together with us. The night before the big move South he asked me to go with him to the nearby pub for a last drink together. Now I'm no particular drinker, but I went. God knows what he gave me, but after a couple of pints my head began to swim, my legs turned to rubber and I had to hang on to the bar counter like grim death to keep upright. I knew exactly what would happen if I let go, and managed to tell him whatever he did when we moved, to hold me up. He was as sober as a judge! I got an arm round his shoulder, and he got his arm round my back. You can imagine the shouts of laughter from the other occupants as we staggered across to the door, with my unwilling feet dragging across the floor, but we made it home safely.

The next day a procession of trucks, guns and armour began to move in seemingly endless numbers through the town, manned by cheering and laughing troops. We guessed D-Day must be getting near at last. As we watched - it was Sunday so I was at home - we knew Jan, the Belgian, was somewhere among the convoy. We wondered what fate had in store for him on his return to Europe, and hopeful to his homeland. We never heard any more from him, so we never knew what happened.

The last trial we had to bear were the V2 rocket bombs. At least these, unlike the V1s, were not heralded by noise, and the first things we knew were the almighty bangs when they landed. It was a curious thing that when the weather was clear and frosty, we could stand on the foreshore at Lowestoft and see the vapour trails made by the ascending rockets on the Dutch coast. The trails would go straight up until the wind broke them up. We stood and wondered where the wretched things would land. It all looked so impersonal, and it was difficult to imagine that some of them at least would be spreading death and destruction somewhere in the homeland.

As the launching sites were gradually obliterated by our bombers, or were captured by our land forces now rapidly making their way towards Germany, even these finished. As far as our bit of coastline was concerned, the war was over. We often used to think when the bombing was at its height, whatever it would feel like to go to bed without being awakened by the wretched sirens. Actually it all happened so gradually that we didn't fully appreciate it until the war in Europe was over, and peace was a wonderful reality.