People
Real lives
The Day War Broke Out
We asked you what you were doing on that momentous day 70 years ago, September 3rd 1939, the outbreak of World War II. Your letters show us that you remember it as though it were yesterday:
A month earlier, I had joined an RAF squadron of Lysanders at Hawkinge, Kent. When Chamberlain announced that "this country is at war with Germany", there came the strangest reaction from the massed groups of airmen around the station. I’d heard nothing like it before and haven’t since.
After the subdued attention paid to the broadcast there came a spontaneous surge of swelling sound, similar to a cheer yet not a cheer. It started low-pitched, rose gradually through the scale, becoming almost like a roar, and finished on a high crescendo.
It was, I believe, the involuntary expression of several human emotions by all of us airmen – amazement knowing at last that the die was cast, anticipation, apprehension, excitement even, but most of all realisation that we were at a very significant moment in history.
– LV Getgood, North Yorks
On Sunday September 3rd I was living with my family in York Street, Dover (a town soon to be known as 'Hellfire Corner'). Just before 11am we gathered together in our dining room where we had a large Bakelite wireless - no such thing as a radio in those days. We were about to hear the now famous speech by the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. I shall never forget his immortal words "We are now at war with Germany". My parents looked very serious, especially my father who must have been remembering the horrors of his four and a half years fighting in the trenches in France during the Great War of 1914-18, only 20 years before.
I remember one of my aunts sitting listening with us, her eyes filling with tears as she said "my poor Denis" - her only son and my cousin, who was 19 at the time, as she realised he would be conscripted into the armed forces. Within a few minutes a terrific noise broke the silence of that little room; it was an Air Raid siren, a sound we would become only too familiar with during the next six years. We were startled and very frightened, as we thought a bombing attack was imminent, then after a while we were informed that the sirens were being tested to make certain they were working OK.
Being a young girl and not fully realising the dreadful consequences of what "now at war with Germany" implied, I remember my main concern was whether my friends would still be able to come to my birthday party my mother had arranged for that momentous Sunday afternoon, as I was going to be nine years of age the following day. Happily, six or seven little girls duly arrived at tea-time, all carrying their gas masks in cardboard boxes on their shoulders. The entire population had been issued with them during the previous months after the Munich crisis in 1938, which we now know was just the lull before the storm.
The following year, in June 1940 at the time of the Dunkirk evacuation, I was, like thousands of other children evacuated to South Wales. But that's another story.
– Josie Stevens, Kent
I was seven years old and had been staying with my grandparents (Taid and Nain) and my Aunt in Portmadoc, N. Wales. I was born in the Penny Lane district of Liverpool, part of a large Welsh community, and spoke very little English until I was five years old. Staying with my family in Wales preserved my Welsh language and I learnt a lot about local history and culture.
The broadcast by Neville Chamberlain changed and affected my whole life. Afterwards we’d listened to his speech, I was allowed to cross the road to the park to play on the swings. This was so that the family could discuss the future. When I returned, my father was brushing away tears, which, in later life, I realised were because of his dread at being called up into the Army. He had "volunteered" in WWI to go from the mountains of Snowdonia to the Somme and suffered all his life from what would now be called post-traumatic stress.
After tea, cases packed, I thought we were to return to Liverpool, but instead we crossed the mountain to the village of Coedpoeth, where my other grandmother lived. Our arrival was a shock to as there were no telephones for poor people in those days. We stayed overnight and to my delight, although in her late sixties, she had adopted a boy of my own age called David and we had fun together while plans were laid for my future.
I returned to Liverpool four years later, the war still on but not so much in the North West. I struggled at school to concentrate on being taught in English but I survived, and my experiences as a child are still clear in my 77-year old brain, and I was a stronger person for all that.
- Glenys Randall, Nottinghamshire
September 3rd 1939 was my sister’s wedding day and, as my husband and I were preparing for the wedding, we heard Neville Chamberlain make his announcement: "this country is at war with Germany".
What to do? We decided to go to the wedding as arranged. We lived in Mitcham, Surrey, and the wedding was in Wandsworth, so it was not far on the bus. As we arrived at my parents’ house in Daphne Street, the first air raid warning siren sounded. We had our 14-month old son with us, so it was a very scary moment and we had to decide whether we should take shelter as we were told, or carry on. We carried on and went to the church, just hoping the bombs would not drop on us. None did, but it spoilt the atmosphere of a happy wedding day. After a simple reception we returned home, where we all stayed for the duration of the war. I had two more children and we often moved into our brick-built shelter in the garden during the air raids, sometimes staying for weeks on end.
- Sue Vine, Dorset
September 3rd 1939 was the date of my grandparents' golden wedding. It was to be a grand family event. They had a large drawing-room on the first floor over their shop in Watford. Trestle tables had been borrowed from the church, there was room for almost 50 guests and the top table looked beautiful with a three-tier golden wedding cake. The front rows of the nearby church had been reserved for Grandpa and Grandma and all the family who, after the service, would return for a delicious meal.
How differently it turned out. My father, who had a removal business, and his van were commandeered. An aunt, who was a teacher in London, had been evacuated with schoolchildren, while many relations, who lived the other side of London, dared not travel.
The church was memorable for other reasons. A deacon had been deputed to sit in the vestry and listen to Neville Chamberlain’s radio speech. I remember him coming in, walking up the pulpit steps and saying, "We are at war." A few minutes later, the air raid sirens sounded. Afterwards, we walked home, but the party fell rather flat. I felt so sad for my grandparents and their son and daughters, who had worked so hard to make it such a special event.
- Margaret Jarritt, Suffolk
September 3rd 1939 was my 11th birthday, spent at one of the New Territory beaches on the mainland opposite Lantau Island in Hong Kong. In our party was 'Uncle Tommy', who was the Gunnery Officer of HMS Dorchester, then in Hong Kong harbour. In those days telephones were few and we were quite isolated until we returned to Kowloon, where we lived, that evening. It was only then, when Uncle Tommy, went to rejoin his ship, that he discovered she had sailed that day without him. He rejoined another vessel and, very sadly, we never heard from him again, presuming he subsequently lost his life. We were evacuated to Australia in 1940 - one of the very, very lucky ones - prior to the Japanese invasion.
- NC Sclater, Hampshire
On the evening of September 2nd 1939, I was one of 25 young Royal Navy Sick Berth staff bound for Hospital Ship No. 1 – destination unknown. We were on one of the liners pressed into service as troop ships and forming part of a convoy assembling at the mouth of the Clyde.
Early on the morning of the 3rd, a quick look outside revealed a heavy, penetrating mist. At 11am we were due a tea break and took it on deck. The sea mist had cleared and we were fascinated to see many large ocean-going liners in their varied livery, with Royal Navy vessels mustering them for a convoy.
Just before 11.15am the ship’s Tannoy announced that an important message was expected from the Prime Minister. We heard his speech loud and clear. The ensuing silence was deafening.
Two hours later we sailed – the first convoy of the war. U Boats were in evidence within hours and our escorts were kept busy.
- Geoffrey R Davies, Highlands
I was nearing my 15th birthday and on duty as a messenger at the BBC Television Station at Alexandra Palace. It had been a glorious summer and September was no different, sunny and warm. The setting was idyllic, but the radio and newspapers were full of the thoughts of war.
We listened to Neville Chamberlain, while standing on the steps outside ‘Ally Pally’ under the magnificent television mast, looking across the panoramic view of London. Then the air raid siren started to wail and the barrage balloons that had been stationed around London began to rise into the air. It was an amazing sight. About 45 minutes later the ‘All Clear’ sounded and the barrage balloons were brought down. It was a false alarm.
In 1939 there was only evening transmission of television and this was stopped. The BBC did not know what to do with all the staff so we were sent home. I was recalled to Broadcasting House in December, 1939. It was all very quiet, just preparation for enemy action. It was called the ‘phoney war’ as there appeared to be no action in the air or on land. In the spring of 1940 a group of us were sent to BBC Maida Vale to fill sandbags for use around BBC buildings. It was hard work!
- Alan Temple, London
When my father returned from church and my mother told him war had been declared, he said: "Oh well, we're one hour nearer the end." He was upset because he’d been badly wounded at Passchendaele in 1917. That night the air raid wardens came round checking on our darkened windows. It was horrible.
– Audrey Goodburn, Cheshire
I was 17 and due to have a month’s teaching trial at Park School in Grays, Essex, prior to going to college to train as a teacher. I was given charge of ten small children under the supervision of one of the staff. That Sunday morning I reported to the school with my gas mask and a small case of clothes and we were loaded onto buses to be evacuated. The buses took us to Tilbury Dock, where we were put on board an Eagle paddle steamer, which plied regularly on the Thames, taking holidaymakers from London to Ramsgate and Margate. On the Crested Eagle were hundreds of school children, mothers with babies, pregnant women and one district nurse. As I had been on the Eagle steamers several times and knew the Thames quite well, I was able to point out places on the way to my young charges and keep them interested until we got to Southend Pier. Instead of turning south on the usual route however, we turned north in the Thames Estuary and this was where the problems started.
On leaving the quieter waters of the Thames the paddle steamer started to rock. The district nurse was one of the first to be sea-sick and we did not see her again for some hours. Children and mothers were also seasick and I helped teachers administer cups of water and distribute bags, buckets and any containers we could find. Then while along the Essex coast we heard the radio broadcast in which Prime Minister Chamberlain announced that we were at war with Germany. At this point the crew started throwing things overboard - rubbish, sacks of what looked like flour, furniture and anything they could find to lighten our load. The engines were turned up to their fullest power and the paddle steamer rocked even more with the inevitable effect upon more of the young passengers. Late in the afternoon we turned into the River Waveney at Lowestoft where we tied up alongside fishing boats at the quayside.
We were taken to an old cinema, where local ladies gave us sandwiches and tea and we were told we would be spending the night there. Two lorries arrived loaded with bales of straw, which we spread over the cinema floor. Tired after all that had happened, the children slept soundly until morning.
- Jack Bohannan, Essex
I was 23 years old and my son was 13 months, when I heard Neville Chamberlain's speech. Luckily my son could walk, because I was seven months pregnant and had to carry my luggage on my back. I held my son’s hand tightly in one hand and my gas mask in the other. The bus came down our street in Fulham and the neighbours waved us off with laughter and tears.
Eventually we arrived at Cambridge, where we were informed that there were no more billets. We camped for the night in an empty cottage, I with my son Jimmy on my lap. I hadn’t noticed there was hardly any roof until during the night there was the most terrifying storm, which I thought to be an unlucky omen. Next day I walked to see the chief billeting officer, but we were directed into a field, where we waited for over three hours in the boiling hot sun. My son is in his 71st year and I am 93 but I still have an excellent memory.
- Charlotte Green, Essex
I was in France in 1939, just before war was declared, on a second exchange visit to my French correspondent, Denise. She lived just outside Paris and we knew war was imminent as the Tour Eiffel was closed to the public. Denise’s father, whom I called Papa, had been badly wounded in the Great War and was permanently disabled, so he had no illusions about the possible horrors to come. However the Maginot Line was seen as impregnable and everyone thought the war would not last long. I was the great worry and on September 1st we received a telegram from my father asking for my immediate return.
Papa decided to take me to Calais himself the next day and, after tearful promises to come back very soon and many kisses in the French fashion, we set off for Paris not realising that it would be many years before we could meet again. At the Gare du Nord it was difficult to get on a train at all but Papa's Legion d’Honneur button worked wonders and we joined a carriage full of French Officers bound for the Maginot Line. I spent the journey sitting on the knees of several officers in turn and acting as interpreter between them and some Australians who were trying to get to London. When we got to Calais there was no ferry available so we went on to Boulogne where we boarded a ship. Papa put me under the protection of two Indian solicitors who worked in London and promised to assure my safety. He then left to return home and send a telegram to my parents saying I was on my way.
It was getting dark at Folkestone and the blackout seemed almost complete. When we got to London it was difficult to see anything at all and this was quite frightening. I had assured my "guardians" that I would be all right on my own as I would go to the Wilton Hotel, near Victoria station, where we had stayed before. As I was only 16 they decided to find a policeman who escorted me to the hotel where the night porter took charge. He put me through to my home and my mother said I was a brave girl and Daddy was on his way to London to collect me. It was only then that my legs began to wobble and I realised how hungry and tired I felt. The porter got me a snack and a bedroom and I slept until, at 3am, there was a knock on the door and there was my father. I had never been more delighted to see him.
We set off for Euston as soon as possible and just as we were boarding the Liverpool train the announcement came over the tannoy that "The British Empire was at war with Germany". The whole station seemed to fall silent for a few moments before anxious discussions began in the carriage about possible air raids which could be imminent.
When we did arrive home safely I was told that my school had been evacuated. My mother had already heard worrying stories so decided that my sisters and I were not going. My father was having an air raid shelter made underneath the back yard. The terrible raids on Liverpool had not yet started and we found it hard to imagine what life was going to be like during the next six years.
- Marion Byers, Cheshire
I lived in Uckfield, East Sussex, and we had formed an office for Civil Defence, which was already up and running. I was manning the telephone the day war was declared. I was told the news over the telephone and had to ring round to all the important people in the town to tell them the news.
Some men marked out an area of grass in a field opposite and it seemed all the men in the town turned up to dig trenches. They were not in a straight line, but what I think you would call key pattern, so it was easy for sections to be dug without getting in each other's way. My brother was involved, all dressed up in his 'Oxford bags' which got ruined and he finished up with broken blisters and bloody hands. I was presented with piles of sand bags, so all the ladies and girls were marshalled to use the soil to fill the bags which were passed to me and I put them against the walls and windows of our office. The whole town had turned out to get involved.
I was in my early twenties and worked in the Home and Colonial Stores. I was training to take over as manager when the man in charge was called up. When his papers came, he trotted out an old injury he had sustained when hanging up a side of bacon. He slipped off some steps, chipped a piece of bone out of his spine, it travelled through his body, came out of his big toe, and he had a scar to prove it!
So I had to go, and went into the WRVS.
- Joan Woodward, Sussex
When war broke out, I was eight years old and in Hinckley Isolation Hospital with scarlet fever. I heard the nurses on the ward saying that the Matron had forbidden them to read newspapers in case they panicked. Hospitals were being emptied, because the powers-that-be were expecting a mass of wounded, so I was only kept in for four weeks instead of the usual six. When I got home my room had been fumigated, which had made a bit of a mess of the decorating. Dad had been going to redecorate it for me while I was in hospital, but had been too busy making blackout shutters for the downstairs windows.
- Audrey Brown, Leicestershire
I was serving as a midshipman in the Blue Funnel cargo ship Medon, which was torpedoed later in the war. We were at anchor off the west coast of Kamchatka loading canned salmon for the UK from barges, there being no shore-based facilities. Kamchatka is at the back of beyond, being a Russian Far East province.
One advantage of the declaration was that the midshipmen had to paint the brass compass on the bridge with matt black paint so that it did not sparkle in the sun and perhaps give away our position, thus saving us the job of frequent polishing.
Ironically our next port of call was a dockyard in Japan where our future enemies painted Medon in camouflage colours and patterns.
- JOC Wilson, Hertfordshire
I was a 23-year-old reservist with the Royal Monmouth Engineers and was called up on September 1st. When war was declared two days later, I told the sergeant major I was engaged and wouldn’t mind getting married.
He offered me a lift that afternoon to my home, where I discussed it with my girlfriend and saw the registrar. On September 6th, I got married, had 48 hours' leave and was then parted for six years – with the BEF in France and Belgium, among the last out of Dunkirk, off to Cairo and the desert, and finally to Palestine. I got my demob suit for Christmas 1945.
– Noel Jones, Gwent
I awoke on that Sunday morning with my feet in something wet. Two days earlier, I and my two sisters had been among evacuees who had been sent from our home in Shoreditch, London, to Northampton for the duration of the war. We had been placed in an assembly hall where possible foster parents chose the children they would be prepared to look after.
My sisters were chosen fairly quickly but, possibly because I was a small, bespectacled, scruffy six-year-old, I had to wait overnight before I was picked.
I ended up with another boy and a girl in the home of an old lady, where we were given one single bed, with two at the top and me at the bottom. I was so tired that I slept well - but awoke on the Sunday morning with my feet very damp. The youngest evacuee had wet the bed.
I walked out into brilliant sunshine that morning and it should have cheered me up, but I began to cry, feeling very lonely and homesick.
– John Hoffman, Surrey
I was 16 and in Switzerland taking a French course at Lausanne University when war was declared. The last message from my father had been: "Stay where you are; you’re safer there." The British Consul, however, insisted that I return to England in a special train laid on for the purpose.
The train, a terrifically long one, had started in Eastern Europe and was picking up hundreds of British families, many of whom had been settled abroad for years.
Because of delays caused by mobilisation, it took two days to cross France. By the time we reached the Channel coast at night, every bunk, seat and floor space of our waiting ferry was taken and I lay out on the deck for the crossing.
My parents were not a bit pleased to see me when I got back home to Twickenham, saying that I had been told not to return. But I was quickly recruited by them to hang blackout curtains and to stick strips of paper on all the windows to stop them shattering in a bombing raid.
– Pamela Bousfield, Cornwall
I was five on that fateful day when I was called from the garden to listen to the radio. My 11-year-old brother gave an excited 'whoop' and began jumping about, when suddenly we both glanced up and, to our horror, for the first time in our lives we saw our beloved Mum weeping. We had no idea why.
Little did I realise my world would be turned upside down. I was sent into the country as an evacuee and did not return to my home in Rotherham until I was 11.
– Desiree Blease, Clwyd
When Chamberlain stopped speaking, I looked up. Mam had stopped ironing and was standing with the ironing held vertically.
"What's it mean Mam?"
"Something terrible. Something very terrible. It will be far worse than last time. Far worse."
Tears ran down her face, so she turned quickly away from me and attacked the ironing.
– Derek Morland, Leicestershire
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