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I was ten years old when war broke out and my brother was seventeen. We lived in Hampshire close to Bordon army camp. My mother had been a nurse during World War I and took up her nursing again, while my father, who had been in the trenches during World War I, went back into the army and had a staff job in London for the duration of the war. He had a small rented house in London which was bombed three times during the war - each time, the front door ended up in the street. We often went to visit my father and I remember seeing people taking shelter in the Underground. My brother left school in the winter of 1939 and went to work as a labourer on the farm next door until he was old enough to join up. In 1941, he joined the Fleet Air Arm and became a pilot, having a whole year's training and coming home on leave. The last six month's training was spent in Canada and my brother did not return. He was killed in training and I was able to go to Canada fifty years later to see his grave and that of his best friend. Nobody in his training group survived the war.
Another vivid memory of the war involves the sudden appearance in our three-acre field of a young French pilot, who had escaped from France in a small aircraft. On seeing my mother, he exclaimed 'Madame la fermiere!', bowed low over her hand and kissed it. He had a meal with us and my mother was able to talk to him in French. He was later collected by officers from the nearby camp and was able to join the Free French. My mother also once saw a Doodlebug going by the window in broad daylight. I have never forgotten the sound they made and the sudden silence when they cut out.

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