91热爆

The time was june/july 1940 and I was 10 years old. Wonderful things were happening...they'd just finished painting the roof of Courtauld's factory, down by the river Colne. If you climbed up and out of the valley it didn't look like innocent fields, as it was supposed to. It looked like a factory that had just been painted with shiny reflective paint.I was just telling my parents about it when the sky filled with a droning throb and my brother and I began to count and shout.More aeroplanes than we had ever seen were flying in tight packed formation towards us.
We'd learned to identify them from cigarette cards and the like.
"Heinkel 111" we shouted.
"Twelve. Twentyfour..."
"Messerschmitts!"
The old man next door came out to see what the ruckus was about.
His Essex accent was thick enough to break any ladle you tried to stir it with.
"They're Ours!" he said.
Then the whistling began.
My parents took one look at each other and grabbed their protesting offspring. I found myself under the kitchen table with my father laying on top of me. I felt as though I was going to suffocate.
The whistling got louder and louder and then the Earth shook under iron boots as an Ogre strode past.We were sure he was going to step on our house. The windows blew in, scattering glass everywhere and soot belched into the room as the fireplace and chimney gave up their contents, but the thunderous stride went on and past us.
Perhaps the shiny paint did some good. Not one bomb landed on the factory.

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