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It all started on a Sunday — my parents, grandparents and myself, sitting listening for an important announcement on the radio… we were at war it seemed. The grownups grim faced and silent.

Memories come thick and fast — sewing blackout curtains, the cricket pavilion becoming the Fire Watchers domain, air raid shelters being built on the school yard and my closest school friend, who could play the piano being detailed to run onto the stage in the hall when sirens sounded, to bang out “British Grenadiers” because we couldn’t have the school bell ringing as that was a signal for a Gas warning.

At 17yrs old working in London several days a week, coming home as soon as my boss said so. Going down into the Tube Stations when a raid was in progress… the smells, the families grouped together, the singing and the varied scents of food. Friendliness, Doodlebugs…

Friends at home with American boyfriends… Trying to “glamorise” our dresses with sequins, bows etc. because we loved dancing but had no coupons to space for new ones.

Going to my boss’s home as instructed to help him teach young American soldiers the value of our coinage. He4 had “open house” once a week and his wife valiantly tried to provide “snacks” — not easy with rationing. One evening she provided scones… and was asked by one of the young Americans if he could have another STONE…

On one of my train journeys from London I only just caught the train and arrived in a carriage containing 5 English soldiers and a sergeant shouted “right you lot, light a fag so I’ll know where the hell you are with a young lady in the carriage”

A war, if nothing else, provides vivid memories.

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Jim Salveson from the CSV Action Desk on behalf of Doreen Green and has been added to the site with his / her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

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