This article was one of a series of short articles about people’s memories of the war printed in the Souvenir Programme produced for events in Radley organised to commemorate the 50th Anniversary of VE Day on 8 May 1995.

I was busy being trained as a radio mechanic – by the elite of the services. Out of a class of thirty there were six of us who joined the Wrens and stuck together during our war service and after, but that is another tale.

This little highlight begins in London during the buzz bomb [V1 flying bombs] attacks. We were stationed at Hampstead and were bussed to Walthamstow for our training. So, we were bombed by day and night. All the other girls had no experience of air raids and bombs as they came from strange places like Glasgow, the countryside round Bolton, Cheshire and strange rural bits of England that I, as a Thames valley, near London, girl, knew nothing of. I had, all through the war been bombed, machine gunned, had shrapnel dropping from the sky and mundane other happenings and was used to ducking under tables, stairs and anything else handy.

But, back to the tale of the striped winceyette ‘jarmers’! The siren went again with the high-pitched wail – waaara – waaara – waaara. Mainly it was little men standing on a platform with a tin hat on, turning the handle like starting up a car, when cars had starting handles.

“Oh bother, not again. Shall we go to the shelter?”

“No I’m nice and warm here and if we hear the puttt-puttt-puttt getting nearer we can dive for cover when the engine cuts out.”

Unfortunately this wasn’t a puttt-puttt-puttt but a stray bomber, which had followed the Thames in from somewhere, got lost, and came in under barrage balloons – they were grey silk and located in the sky like big friendly piggies.

On the bomber came, suddenly there was a whishh-crump-crump-crump as it let go its load. This was followed by crash, bang and screams – at which point I sat up in my bottom bunk space shouting, “Everybody out”. I moved, nobody else did. The glass came in, in long thin slivers like knives; the building shook, dust rose, and all was followed by a dreadful silence apart from a little body clad in striped winceyette pyjamas sliding gracefully face down on to the highly polished linoleum floor and yells and screams from the next street.

Silence, then, “Oh dear, that was near”, came from the room behind me as I picked myself off the floor running lightly over broken glass like some Indian religious gent.

Sufficient to say not a foot not a head chopped off from my friends. A quick sweep of the broom and we all went back to bed. The next street was wiped out.