My sister Gladys and I were sitting in the front room of 24 Glenpark Avenue, at 8.30 on the evening of 20th.March 1941, when the undulating sound of the sirens indicated an air raid and, a few minutes later, bombs began to fall. Mother was working as a barmaid at the Prince of Wales, near the city centre. We had arrived in Plymouth a year previously and, having upgraded our accommodation twice, were now living in a comfortable terrace house close to North Road station. It had a small backyard opening on to a narrow lane, with railings on the far side, separating us from the railway lines. Taking up most of the yard was a brick shelter, roofed with a solid slab of reinforced concrete. Being equipped with nothing but a wooden bench, it was dark, cold and comfortless and, having previously had no type of refuge, we were accustomed to remaining indoors during raids which, with gradual increasing intensity, inured us to the danger of such a practice.
The scale of the raid increased. There were high explosive whistle bombs, activated by air rushing through them, which made a loud screaming noise intended to strike fear into the population. However, rumour had it that a falling bomb reached a speed faster than sound so that if you heard it, then it had already landed and your name was not on it. I never questioned the truth of the matter; it was better to believe. There were one ton blockbusters which would explode with such a tremendous blast one would think they had landed next door. And land mines, also monstrous, which fell by parachute and were fitted with delayed fuses and might explode minutes or hours later. Another weapon was the silent incendiary. They were 18ins. long, weighed only a couple of pounds and filled with highly combustible matter such as magnesium or phosphorous. On impact, a mechanism would ignite the chemical and, in a few seconds, the tube would burst into a shower of flames. In dealing with them, speed was essential. We all knew the drill:- hold a sandbag to protect your face, go quickly to the bomb and drop the sandbag on it before it burst. All able civilians were obliged to do a turn of fire watching duty at night time to combat these. The Luftwaffe dropped breadbaskets, each containing an average of 72 incendiaries, to saturate an area and overwhelm the firefighters.
The raid went on and on and we realized that this was no ordinary one; not a case of one wave of planes, bombs away and off home, but very serious and it would be prudent to retire to the shelter. We left the comfort of the warm sitting room and made our way down the passage to the kitchen which led to the back door. As we entered, a blockbuster exploded. I was looking at the big sash window, felt the house shudder and saw the window frame part company with the brick wall. Debris and shrapnel were falling like rain and we felt it was not safe to venture out, even the short distance to the shelter, without a steel helmet. We made our way back to the front room, sat on the floor and pulled the two armchairs round us to give a semblance of protection. At some stage, the electricity was lost. This had happened in an earlier raid and, once again, would cause me to do homework by the light of an oil lamp for a few weeks.
Close to midnight, the droning of the planes and the screaming of the bombs ceased and we were relieved to hear the sirens sounding the continuous note of the all clear. We could hear the noise of running and shouting in the street. Someone came banging at the door calling, "Fill your bath, the water is going off". Another came by, "The gas is being turned off". This had also happened in an earlier raid. Gas mains took far longer to repair than electricity lines and we knew that mother would again be cooking on a spirit stove and the open fire for months.
We wondered whether she would make it home that night and were very relieved to eventually see her come through the front door. After hearing the account of her difficult walk back we retired to bed. I slept in the far back bedroom, Glad in the middle back and mother in the front. As I entered my room, I could see a burning train, all the carriages were ablaze and no-one was in attendance. The glow showed that the window panes were shattered and broken glass covered the floor and bed. I returned to the landing and met Glad, her room was in the same condition. We went to mother's room and found her windows were intact; the front of the house was safe. We all stretched out on the bed and, as I lay down, I said to my mother, "I can smell something burning." She snapped back, "Of course you can, the whole city is on fire."
I was the first to awake and, opening my eyes, saw a huge hole had been burnt in the ceiling, revealing the slate roof above which showed another hole of about 3inches in diameter. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I almost landed on an incendiary bomb which, apart from some black scorch marks on the tip, was in pristine condition. The mat was badly burnt and it was obvious that the bomb mechanism had activated but, for some mysterious reason, had not set the combustible alight. It was lying directly over the spot where Glad and I had sat during the raid. I roused the others and we all marveled at our lucky escape.
The walk to school that morning was an obstacle course and, passing through Drake's Circus into to Regent Street, the scale of destruction convinced me that my school would be a ruin and we would all be sent home for an unscheduled holiday. At the far end, the fire brigade was battling with a long terrace of burning houses but, directly opposite, the four storied Victorian stone edifice of Sutton High School was completely unscathed. At assembly Doctor Jones, the headmaster, explained that our caretaker, a man with a wooden leg, had been on fire watch duty up on the roof and, as they fell, had kicked the incendiaries into the playground where they could burn out on the hard surface without causing damage. I was within touching distance of the hero as he leaned against the wall, his leg, like the end of a walking stick, protruding from the bottom of his overalls. How could he be so agile? I am ashamed to admit that my admiration for Sutton's saviour was slightly affected by the thought that, but for him, I would be on holiday. Room 2a was situated on the road side of the school and, during our first lesson, the firemen lost control of a hose which snaked across our building, sending a jet of water through an open fanlight. A rush to close up and a quick mop up and it was back to the lesson.
Meanwhile, my mother reported for duty at the Prince of Wales, carrying the bomb in a basket and, entering through the back door into the kitchen, she showed it to the landlady who was amazed at our lucky escape. Continuing on to the bar, where the landlord was chatting to a friend, she repeated the story and asked if they thought it was safe for her to keep the incendiary. They assured her it would be alright as long as she kept it away from heat. "Oh", screamed my mother, rushing back to the kitchen, "I left it on top of the stove!"
The shelter was made more comfortable and we used it during the remainder of the blitz. The house suffered little more damage until the following winter when two more incendiaries fell on Number 24. My brother Jim, a regular Royal Marine who was in almost constant action and fought in every theatre of war, was having a spell in Plymouth and at home that night. By this time, the house was on full alert and equipped with sand buckets, which enabled him to quickly deal with both bombs. I was not at home, for by then the City Fathers had decided the schoolchildren of Plymouth should be taken away from their war ravaged surroundings and sent to a safe and quiet place in the country. On 14th May, I carried a suitcase, packed according to the issued list, and joined my mates and thousands of other children at North Road station to face the trials and tribulations of an evacuee. Sutton High went to St.Austell in Cornwall and our rivals, Devonport High, to Penzance. In future, our rugby and cricket contests would involve a train journey.
As for the bomb, my mother placed it in the hands of the authorities and deprived me of a souvenir which would have made me the envy of my contemporaries. Furthermore, I came home from St.Austell to find that my precious collection of shrapnel, bits of HE bombs, spent cartridge cases and remnants of green silk parachutes had all been thrown away. Adults have no sense of value.
Denis Mason