War Torn and Peace, Be Praised - Evelyn J. Steward (e ink epub reader txt) 📗

War Torn and Peace, be Praised.

I was one year old when war was declared. It was only when about three or four that the war held some meaning for me.
Air Raid warning! That droning sound that kept up for ages to let you know that the enemy bombers had crossed our shores. Down to the shelter in the garden (or Dug Outs as they were commonly called). Each house was supplied with the components for a shelter and you had to put them in together and dig the hole for them yourselves.
My dad was a builder by trade so he knew what to do. However, our houses were built on land previously used for brick works, so the soil tended to sink. And so it was that our dugout was lower at the back than at the front. Rain water collected and spiders and other creepy crawlies invaded. I made sure not to sit at the back.
So what to do when a Siren sounded? First place was under the kitchen table for me. Mother called my brother who was upstairs in bed. His reply, “If I’m gonna die, let me die in peace and in bed.” He was eleven years older than I (and ‘called up’ at the very end of the war, thank goodness).
I cannot remember if he ever joined mum and I down in the shelter. I do remember being walked from the back door the few steps to the dugout. Dad was Fire-Watching. But with a clear sky, bombers were coming over. However, I do remember those dark night skies. No street lights to help the German aircraft. Such a wealth of stars shone down clearly from a pitch black sky. So beautiful, all those twinkling stars. At that age I even registered that thought and it has stayed with me all these years.
Where I lived, we were lucky. Not so many bombs actually landed. Some pock-marked the way to school towards the end of the war. The odd one or two landed on factories further down the town, but not like the big cities where bombs decimated many areas setting raging fires and killing many people. Not just London either.
I remember at the top of our road was a Municipal underground shelter, but that was not until after war, when I was a bit older and curious, finding that also these let in water. Same ground!
I have not been able to convey the fear that I felt as a young child, growing up with the threat of death every night. Indeed, from this point in time, I barely remember just how scared I was. Wanting mum to let our dog into the shelter too. I don’t think she did though.
But, we, the British, withstood all Hitler threw at us. We came out victorious.

When I was about twelve to fourteen, my friend and I, or just myself, would walk up the road a little way after school and stand at the doorway of the local blacksmith. That is when we still had horse-drawn vehicles. The coalman, the milkman, the baker and so on. Mother used to stand by every morning waiting to see where the horses would drop their dung. Next door was ready with her brush and bucket, as was mum. This was good for the roses and the rhubarb. It was a race against time as to who got there first to claim the bounty.
The smithies was not large. A wooden shack more than likely. There atmosphere was full of the smell of horse hair burning, and the coke of the forge had its own heady aroma. It was hard to see into the inside of the forge. One small window where some light crept in past the looming bulk of the heavy horse standing placidly waiting for his shoes. Sounds of the hammer ringing of steel added drama. The horse, mickering as it took hay from a bag conveniently placed.
The blacksmith (they call them farriers now) would use his tongs to withdraw a shoe from the fire, grab the horse’s back leg and swing it into his leather-aproned lap and set the red hot metal shoe onto the cleaned horse’s hoof. Acrid smoke billowed out and up into the rafters where all manner of metal tools were hung.
Once the hot shoe had seared the hoof, it was dunked into a bucket of water to cool down. The horse, tired of standing on three legs, made to put its leg down, but the blacksmith only picked it up again and placed the cooled shoe onto the hoof, nailing it through the thick part where the horse feels no pain.
I loved to see the shiny coat of the Shire or Suffolk Punch. Tiny ripples where something bit the animal, would run along the length of its back and little motes of dust would fly into the air, caught in a sunbeam and dance in the smokey coils drifting upwards. Tails would flick at the flies and even more dust leapt into the air. You never forget the smell of burning hair, of horse at close range. Not unpleasant, but addictive. If I could find one today, I would be there again, drinking in that pungent perfume.
Mostly, like the war, they are long gone and live only in my memory.
Those who read this must remmeber that we are friends with Germany now, and have been for many years. The same as we are with Japan. But it was not so in the 1940s and times change all over the world.
Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. January, 2012.
Words 947

Text: My youth
Publication Date: 01-18-2012

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