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World War 2 MEMoiR

Today I’m 82 years old. The nurse has just put my tepid cup of tea by my side. Now my daughter and her children come bouncing into my room at the nursing home, at which I am a resident. I tell them about my evacuation on the 19^th of September 1940.

It all started with a screech filling my ears. Initially it was not my mum, but the bombs quickly descending to the Earth’s heart, making it skip a beat. Thankfully it hit two streets away. My mother, tears streaming down her cheeks, clutched me and my sister, Sarah, to her cold body. Then my mother decided to evacuate us to our Grandma’s and Grandad’s, in the middle of the countryside. Hearing that was the hardest thing I ever heard. That night we had to pack. All I could hear was my mother, sobbing into her pillow.

As we got to the train station, all my mother could do was give us, me and Sarah, a kiss on the head; give Sarah her doll and wish us both good luck for the future. I helped Sarah clamber onto the carriage and then it was my turn, I had one last look around and eventually climbed aboard the humble train. After six hours on a train, Sarah got really agitated. As soon as we got there Sarah went really quiet. I noticed what she was looking at. It was some kind of spotty animal like a big Dalmatian. We wandered lonely as a cloud, on the platform looking for grandma and Grandad. The pain of leaving mum was unbearable, even Sarah started to feel it. Finally, Grandad arrived in his Rolls Royce; he was the only one who I knew who had one.

When we got the farm, it was a living nightmare. Getting lost in the field all the time. Most of the time I was concerned for my mother. Is she still alive? Where is she? All of a sudden, there was a loud blast, I fell to the ground. What on Earth was it? I hauled myself to my feet and ran; the wind blew fiercely into my face. Grandad came dashing out of the house with Sarah on his side; Grandma came with her first aid kit.  Then, for a moment, we all came to a standstill.

Someone crawled uneasily out of the wreckage. Luckily it was an English man from the R.A.F. Grandad threw Sarah towards me, picked up the injured man and took him into the house.  Grandma fixed his motionless leg, his wounded arm and the nasty scratch on his forehead. He said his name was James and he was only seventeen. He was only here a week before the R.A.F came for him.

Grandad switched on the wireless and the news came on. “Hitler has committed suicide. He has left us with shattered cities, destroyed harbours and no factories left to speak of, but he will never break the strength, courage, or the dignity of the British men and women.” Then, “It is safe for evacuated children to return to the cities.”

I clambered aboard the 901 express train. I looked back at the five years of my life on a farm, with my Grandma and Grandad; the ones who Sarah called mum and dad.

Now I look back to the place where I was born and realise that wasn’t really my home, my home was at the farm with Grandma, Grandad and Sarah. Now my tepid tea has gone cold and my Grandchildren are gaping in amazement. Well I am living in this world, I live to tell the tale. 

By Jayme-Leigh (Yr6)