Photo by Denise Jans on Unsplash

As we walked home from school that day, those of us who lived on Thorley Street stayed close together. The morning had been difficult, with air raid sirens screaming twice, planes growling in the distance. Thankfully none sounded very close, but frightened us in the classroom anyway.

Miss Smith read to us as we sat in the little chairs by the wall where our coats hung  but my attention wandered and as I looked down the row of my classmates, their faces said that they too were thinking of things other than Mr. Meddle that morning. We had tried arithmetic and spelling but no one paid much attention. Usually the story was a great favorite and being read to at Mid morning should have been a treat.

Finally the second all-clear sounded, and then it was time for lunch at the dinner hut. The warmth and smell of food was good, and Mrs Gilson smiled as she ushered us around the tables. Stew made with vegetables that the big boys grew in the school gardens were tasty and took my attention away from the sirens and planes. I knew that not all the kids felt the same way, so Mrs. Gilson walked slowly around, patting shoulders of those with plates still full of food.

As we passed the rectory, the sound of the growling engines came again, very far away. There was no siren, so I tried to take no notice. The sound grew closer and with no siren it was even more frightening. Cissy, one of the big girls in our school, ushered us quickly under the thick pine trees growing on Rectory Hill, and we grouped together. She told us to look down at our feet, not to look up. 

Now the planes were coming over the school, over the Rectory. They flew lower, and I tried not to cry because several of the smaller children were already in tears and I wanted to be a big kid. The planes flew over the pine trees and on their way.  Now it was over so quickly, but how? 

Then Colin said that he had looked up briefly, and saw that there were only two planes not a whole squadron. I didn’t care, it was so good to be free of the fear for that moment.

The war ended, I grew up and married an American soldier. Years later I joined a British brides club, and became friends with a woman who lived in the same area as me. and who also was a G.I. bride and who also became a member. The town where she grew up was just six miles from my village. We drove together to and from the club meetings. One evening as we drove we talked about our wartime experiences as children.  

She described being in the schoolyard, lined up with her classmates waiting to be dismissed.  How they heard planes approaching, how they saw two planes approaching, how the planes dipped their flight. She said her teachers screamed for them to run. but they were too  frightened to move. The planes strafed the line, and four children were killed. 

As she told this, my mind went from sorrow at that event, to sadness for my friend’s experience, to thankfulness that I had not lost friends during the war. And then my breath caught!  The afternoon of the planes coming over us with no siren wailing to warn us came back, I started to cry, and she stopped the car. I told my story and together we wondered if it happened on the same day.