Wartime memories, Longridge and Preston 1939

Our move from Longridge to Preston took place sometime between 1939 and 1940. I believe Dad was reluctant to do this because Preston was gearing up to manufacture military hardware of one kind or another. German planes were making regular bombing runs to Manchester and Liverpool and the bombing was indiscriminate, so the reason Dad felt he had to move was to make it quicker to travel to work repairing bomb damage to houses in Liverpool.

Before we left Longridge, Dad would sometimes call me outside at night to show me the light in the sky over Liverpool where fires where raging with the air raid attacks. Once or twice he pointed to a plane in the sky but I couldn’t see them too well, except for one on fire hit by anti-aircraft gunfire. I did learn to recognise the sound of the engines of German bombers which gave a deep throbbing sound when loaded with bombs, which changed to a much lighter sound on their return.

There wasn’t much in the way of military exercises in our area but twice we had bren-gun carriers on the main road heading up to Longridge township, and one lost a track as it made a slight turn at speed. Blackouts meant that all windows and doors had coverings to exclude light from showing outside during darkness, and all windows were taped criss-cross fashion to help prevent showers of glass flying through classrooms during bombing raids. Vehicle headlights were restricted to a thin beam of light, by fixing a metal device over each lamp; even bicycle lights had them, constant reminders that we were in a war. We also had to carry our gas mask in a cardboard box slung round our necks and had a practise at school from time to time in putting them on. Eventually the threat of gas attacks faded and it was a relief to leave the things at home.

Dad and my brother Fred joined the: Local Defence Volunteers, soon nicknamed: Look. Duck and Vanish. A short time later it was renamed: The Home Guard. By that time, huge ditches had been dug, zigzag fashion, across the country as tank traps, should the Germans get that far. Fred had the distinction of stepping onto a duckboard over one of them, only to find it was floating on the water beneath. He came home soaked and it took a while before he was allowed to forget it.

Despite all the unknowns of those times, it brought folks of all sorts together and helped improve morale. With the threat of bombing came the need for ‘Firewatchers’, bringing with it rosters and training. Each district had its members who would report whenever the siren went. If the bombers dropped a load of incendiary bombs, everyone was on the alert to see where they would land. Then it was out with a bucket of sand and a long-handled shovel. If a fire had already taken hold, a stirrup pump and a bucket of water came in handy and training nights gave members a chance to practise putting the things out.

I was called on duty twice aged about sixteen, when I spent the time drinking cups of cocoa or tea or listening to the talk around me before someone said it was time for me to take a nap. I never was called out to help put fires out. Only once do I recall going outside for a short period when the siren had sounded. An older chap and myself walked around a factory close by, both wearing steel helmets, checking that buckets of sand and water were ready where they should be. After that, it was back inside for a cuppa and a nap, which meant sleeping for a while before they said it was time for me to nip off home. Putting out incendiary bombs crops up again some time later though.

We didn’t have much in the way of furniture and goods when we moved from Longridge to Preston so Dad got the coalman to bring his truck round. Everything we had was loaded on the back, with ropes thrown over the lot to keep things in place. While the truck set off, the rest of us caught a bus and were waiting at our new address to help unload. At that time, brick and concrete bomb shelters stood in place on our streets, with the corner of one almost opposite our front door. I watched as the coalman backed his truck closer and closer to the door but he didn’t stop before a corner of the shelter caught Dad’s rocking chair, snapping off one of the legs. Of course, all the kids and neighbours in the street were taking everything in to see what kind of stuff we had. They needn’t have worried; we couldn’t compete with any of them, but we never missed a meal and we were a family,  and that has always meant a great deal to me.

It wasn’t long before we were absorbed into the life around us and on my last visit to UK, I went and copied the names of all the folk who lived there at that time from the Register of Electors. Folks such as Enoch, next door down the street; Mrs Kenny, opposite and down at the end, who took a real liking to me I found out from Hilda, who said Mrs Kenny enjoyed my visits and chats with her. Just looking at those names brings back all kinds of scenes, smells, sounds and emotions to remind me, that during the war folk lived their ordinary lives, getting on with each other and what they had to do to face each new day.

Dennis Crompton © 2013

Tags: bomb damage, childhood, early years, family, firewatchers, gas mask, Home Guard, Lancashire, Local Defence Volunteers, Longridge, Preston, Word War Two, WW2