It was the year 1940 and I was on seven days leave from my company of the Royal Engineers. The company had been building defences along the Cornish coast against the anticipated German invasion across the English Channel.
I was on my way to London to spend my leave with my sister, and as the train approached Plymouth, I had my first sight of what bombing could do. When the company had been entrained down to Cornwall, we could barely see the city because high buildings had blocked the view on either side of the track. Now I was able to see right across the city.
From our position in a Cornish village some forty miles from Plymouth we had watched the city being bombed night after night, but had no idea of the extent of the damage. Now, as the train slowly approached the main station through the suburbs, I saw first the broken windows of houses, then tiles blown off roofs, then steadily increasing damage.
The train pulled into the station – what was left of it. As it stood there, I could see right across a city centre that was one great mountain of rubble. Plymouth had almost ceased to exist.
London
The train steamed out of Plymouth and sped across the beautiful English countryside. Leaving behind the ruined city, I could hardly believe there was a war on as we passed by quiet villages and green fields. It was only as we drew near to London that signs of devastation once more appeared.
Perhaps for those who have no memory of those days, and there are fewer and fewer of us now who are alive to recall them, I should explain the situation.
The Germans, after the Battle for France, had occupied the whole French coastline facing Britain. At the nearest point, they were only twenty-two miles from the English coast, between Calais and Dover. The German strategy was to invade Britain, but to achieve this they had to gain control of the English Channel.
The British Army had lost most of its equipment in France, and was in disarray. The Royal Navy, still a powerful weapon, was capable of disrupting any attempt to bring an army across the Channel, provided that it had adequate air cover. This air cover depended upon the Royal Airforce.
The Germans knew that to successfully invade they must knock the Royal Airforce, or R.A.F., out of the sky. The R.A.F. had six hundred and fifty fighter planes to oppose two thousand six hundred German fighters and bombers.
For two months, an air battle raged over southern England. Eventually the German Air Force, or Luftwaffe, sustained such unacceptable losses that it withdrew from daylight attacks, and concentrated on night bombing. Had German strategists but known it, the R.A.F. was within one week of total collapse from lack of pilots.
As the train approached London one of the last daylight air battles raged overhead.
London is a vast city and the bomb damage was not so obvious as the train steamed into Paddington Station. In those days of relatively small bombs (500 pounds), it took a great deal of bombing to make a marked effect on such a large city. Never the less, as I left the station I could see damage, and also see the vapour trails of aircraft weaving overhead, and hear the chattering of their machine guns, as they locked in battle,
I took the underground train to the suburb where my sister lived. When I emerged from the underground station all was quiet. People were going about their business as usual, and if the fight was still going on, it was elsewhere.
As I walked to my sister's house, I saw a few bombed houses, but nothing like the damage to Plymouth or even inner London. I suppose it is relative. If a random bomb in a suburb kills you, it is just as definite as if you lived near an inner city prime target.
I arrived at my sister's house and knocked at the door. My sister, Rachel, came to the door looking apprehensive. In those days, a knock at the door might mean a telegram telling you that a loved one was dead or missing.
Seeing me, she flung open her arms and cried "Ralph, darling, what are you doing here?" I had not had time to inform her I was coming to invade her home. Such were the times.
0ur parents were both dead, and so the only close relatives we had were each other. Rachel was two years older than I, but we had always been very close. I think we had far fewer brother and sister fights than most.
I explained that I wanted to spend my leave with her and she made me very welcome, installing me in what she called "The spare bedroom." It had a single bed, wardrobe and small table, and after the Spartan furnishing provided for lieutenants in the army, I felt I was about to wallow in luxury.
Rachel's husband, George, was absent from home. He had volunteered for one of the most dangerous wartime jobs, namely, the "Merchant Navy." As the Battle of the Atlantic move towards its climax, the U-boat attacks on merchant shipping meant the loss of thousands of merchant seamen. So, Rachel lived in daily dread of receiving one of those ominous telegrams.
Food and other items like clothing were strictly rationed, but Rachel, like so many women in those days, managed to produce a very passable meal. We sat and talked over our news. What I had been doing. How hard it was to get the few "off ration" food items. How Aunt Flo was coping with the air raids.
It was summer time and this meant long hours of daylight. It did not start to get dark until around 10 p.m. I think we went off to bed about 10-30, and I went to sleep almost instantly. At around 11 p.m. I was jerked awake by the rising and falling note of the air raid siren just at the bottom of the street. It was a night raid.
None of the places where I had been stationed had been subject to air raids, so I was curious to see what developed. I put on my dressing gown and went down stairs and opening the front door, stood in what was called "The Porch." This was part of the main structure of the house, and served as shelter for anyone who called when it was raining.
I was not sure what to expect. Rachel had said the bombers usually passed over without dropping any bombs, on their way to more industrial targets and the port facilities along the Thames. If bombs were dropped on their suburb, it was probably from an aircraft that had lost its way and was jettisoning its load.
All was quiet for about ten minutes, and then I heard the growl of approaching aircraft. Searchlights weaved across the sky in what seemed like a random hunt for the bombers. There was a battery of 3.7 anti-aircraft guns on the side of a low hill about a quarter of a mile away. As the bombers drew closer, I heard the shouted orders to the gun crews,and the responses, "On target." "On target."
At that time these heavy anti-aircraft guns were of little use when the target could not be seen. It was not until later in the war, and they were linked to radar, that they could be a real menace to raiding aircraft. In addition, Britain had no effective night fighter planes in 1940, so the bomber's targets were virtually at their mercy.
Suddenly one of the searchlights picked up a bomber in its beam. Within seconds, a dozen other searchlights had zeroed in on the victim. Another few seconds and all hell broke loose. Every ant-aircraft gun within range opened up on this target, producing what was called, "A box barrage."
I could see the aircraft diving and weaving like a small moth, desperately trying to escape from its light cone of entrapment. From the nearby gun battery I heard the order yelled, "Fire." There was a blinding flash of white light followed by an earsplitting roar that shook the ground, as the battery fired as one. Firing continued as each gun was reloaded, I believe at the rate of thirteen rounds a minute if hand loaded, or seventeen if automatic loading was installed.
The noise was deafening, and I could see the flash of shells as they exploded round the bomber. Although I knew the deadly purpose of the bomber, I recall thinking, "Poor devils, they haven't got a chance." Nor had they, because I saw one wing of the plane disintegrate and the aircraft began its downward plunge.
I learned a few days later that two of the bomber crew managed to bail out before it crashed. The plane finally smashed into a row of houses about a mile from where I stood, still with its full bomb load on board. The row of houses was demolished and serious damage was done to surrounding buildings. Thirty people were killed plus the crew that had not got out, and about one hundred injured.
So much for the sanity of war!
The guns went silent again and the drone of aircraft diminished into the distance. At first, and by contrast with what had just been happening, everything seemed deathly quiet. Then I heard pings and cracks and bangs. It was the shrapnel from the shells expended in the assault on the bomber returning to earth. For several minutes, it fell like rain, each metallic particle capable of killing or seriously injuring, if it struck flesh.
I decided that the excitement was over, at least for the time being, and so made my way upstairs to bed.
As I got to the top of the stairs I heard Rachel's voice calling out, "Ralph, Ralph." I went to her bedroom door, opened it and stuck my head round. "What is it, darling?" I asked. "Ralph, I'm so frightened, " she quavered. I entered the room a little and saw Rachel apparently huddled into a fetal position under the bedclothes.
"Its all right, darling," I said. "I think its over for a while." Resorting to that English cure for all aches, pains, tragedies and fears, I asked, "Shall I make a cup of tea?" "Yes please," she whispered.
I went to the kitchen and made the brew, then carried two steaming cups upstairs. I entered her room, handed her a cup, and sat on the edge of the bed.
As Rachel drank the tea, she seemed to relax, and began to talk. "I do get so scared at all that noise. I think its partly because I'm alone so much. It is much worse when there's no one sharing it with you. If I could just hold on to George I'm sure I would not be so frightened."
I understood what she meant. The world of film and story may depict the lone hero soldier mowing down the foe with an array of weaponry never yet seen in reality. In the real world of soldiering, it is companionship, the ability to stand together that counts. Among other things, it is the presence of others in the situation that helps inspire courage.
As we spoke the sound of aircraft engines approached. "Another wave coming in," I said. "Yes," she whispered hoarsely. I could see the tension growing in her. "Hold my hand," she pleaded. I took her hand and felt it shaking in my grasp.
Anti-Aircraft fire began again, but in a desultory manner. It seemed they had no visible target this time. The local battery opened up, and Rachel almost flung herself against me, burying her face against my chest. I put my arms round her and held her tight.
The noise of aircraft and gunfire faded into the distance. They had passed over without dropping bombs, heading for fatter marks. I went to rise in order to leave Rachel, but she clung on to me pleading, "Stay with me tonight, Ralph, please, please stay with me."
I was not sure how to respond to this plea. I hesitated, knowing I should go, but Rachel moved the edge of the bed covers aside as if to admit me, and said again, "Please." I got in beside her.
She lay facing me, holding my hand. I had turned the light on when we drank our tea, and it had remained on when I got into the bed. Rachel lay with eyes closed, and I thought she was asleep. I heard the sound of more bombers approaching and they seemed to be coming in much lower. Guns opened up again, and this time the wump, wump of Bofors guns was added.
For those not familiar with this weapon, it is a rapid-fire gun of 1.57 ins. calibre, used against low level aircraft (up to 8000 ft.). They are often on a mobile mounting and are pulled by a unit resembling that used by a semi-trailer.
I heard a heavy vehicle roaring along the street and pull up almost outside our house. It was a mobile Bofors that was much in use at the time because of the shortage of guns. The idea was to try to race the gun to an appropriate position for firing.
It wump wumped for a few minutes, and then took off again for another location.
Whether the bombers had mistaken their target, or had been deliberately misled by the defences (many tricks were used to lure the enemy aircraft to the wrong place), I don't know, but bombs started to fall. I heard one "stick" of bombs begin exploding some distance away and as each successive bomb reached the ground, they got nearer.
The last bomb exploded in the next street with an enormous roar followed by the sound of descending debris a few seconds later. I waited for the next bomb to hit, but it was the end of the stick.
Rachel had dug herself into me tighter and tighter as this cacophony of guns and bombs reached its climax. The whole house was shaking, and I must admit I was trying to bury myself in Rachel.
Then it was tailing off, the bombers droning into the distance followed by firing from new guns coming into range as our battery fell silent. I heard the sound of fire engines and the calls of the Civil Defence people as they began a search of the ruins for anyone still alive, or to retrieve bodies.
Rachel began to relax, but instead of moving away from me, she remained almost glued to me. Her lower abdomen was pressed against mine, and she began to rotate her hips, stirring up my manhood. "Make love with me," she whispered. "It might be my last time."
It is a strange thing, but many people have reported that in times of life threatening danger, they have wanted to make love. I would have thought that the opposite reaction would have prevailed and perhaps it often does, but not for everyone.
Thinking about it, I suspect it might be associated with the creative act, that sexual intercourse essentially is. With death threatening, we want to perpetuate life. We may put up contraceptive barriers to prevent pregnancy, but the essential drive for fertilisation is still there. As I have written elsewhere, at the time of ejaculation the man seeks to drive himself as deep as possible into the woman, and many women cry out, "Deeper, deeper." Surely, the reason is to give all those little sperms the best chance of fulfilling their function?
Rachel and I had never had any sexual contact, fond as we were of each other. I knew that such contact was and is far more frequent than is generally admitted, and such cases as are exposed tend to be only those where violence has been involved. The many loving sexual relationships between brother and sister obviously don't make interesting news, and in any case, officialdom would not want them out in the open.
Rachel had lifted her night -dress up to her waist, and now she sought to undo the cord of my pajamas. My penis was fully erect, and once she had undone me she placed one leg over me as we lay face to face and pulled herself onto my erection and I sank into her.
She was soft and warm inside and I could feel her female fluids over my penis. She murmured words of love and desire constantly, and for the first time I learned that she had wanted me for years, but had not dared to make a move.
When we had climaxed Rachel fell into a peaceful sleep and I must soon have followed. If any more raiders approached our area that night, I heard nothing.
Towards dawn, the steady note of the siren sounding the all clear woke me. Rachel still had her arms round me and she too was awakened. Without a word she took my penis and began to stimulate me. Once I was erect she sat across me and inserted my manhood into her, and moving up and down on me she cried out and wept. Afterwards we slept for another hour or so.
Once you have started this sort of relationship, especially with someone you love, it is extremely difficult and usually very painful, to stop. For the rest of my leave, Rachel and I came together sexually night after night and often during the day. Looking back, and despite the constant air raids, I account it the happiest, most satisfying time of my life.
When the time came for me to rejoin my unit, we promised each other that my next leave would be with her, and if George were at sea, we would continue our lovemaking. It did not work out as we hoped.
North Africa and Italy.
On returning to my unit, I was told that we were to undergo a special training programme. We entrained for London and there we were transferred to another train going north. Arriving at our destination, we finally found out what this training involved. We were to learn how to lay and defuse land mines.
I shall not bore you with details of the training, but at the end of the course, we were told we were on the move and were issued with tropical kit. No word was said about our destination, but it was easy to guess. It had to be North Africa.
Before we left I had a letter from Rachel saying that George had come home briefly about three weeks after I had finished my leave, and that she was pregnant. She added nothing further, leaving me to draw my own conclusions. As all our outward mail was censored, I could not ask any obvious questions, not wanting the censor to see such intimate things.
For those not familiar with the course of the 2nd World War, a few words on the situation in 1941 and beyond is in order.
Britain, having no foothold on the European continent, had only very limited options when it came to fighting a land war. One such option was North Africa, and in particular, Libya. Germany's Italian allies occupied this, and the Italians launched an attack against Egypt that was being occupied by the British.
The Italians apparently expected and easy victory, but being poorly armed, and the Italian troops not having particularly high morale, they were driven back by a force about a quarter the size of the Italian army.
At first, it looked as if the British forces would overrun most of North Africa, but Germany sent a small force to the aid of the Italians, and they were led by one of their most effective generals, Erwin Rommel.
The British army was flung back right to the border of Egypt. A defensive battle was fought, and the German/Italian advance held, but the situation was precarious. The enemy was within and hour or two travelling time from Cairo and the vital Suez Canal.
The British forces were reinforced and re-equipped with weapons that could match the excellent German equipment.
The outcome was a battle fought at El Alamein between the British 8th Army and the German/Italian forces that gave the victory to the 8th Army. The pursuit of the vanquished across North Africa began with the final outcome being the taking of the whole of that region by British and American forces.
From North Africa, an invasion of Sicily was launched followed by a landing on mainland Italy. The battle for Italy began well, but was soon brought to a stalemate by fierce German resistance and mountainous terrain. At the end of the war in 1945, the whole of Italy had still not been taken.
Rachel had written to me about the birth of her baby, a boy, announcing that he was to be called, Ralph. He had arrived two or three weeks prematurely, but all was well. Again, I was left to draw my own conclusions.
It was while I was with the 8th Army in Italy that I was called one day in 1944 to my Commanders office. He asked me to sit down. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, " he began. "I've just had message from HQ. I have to tell you that your sister and nephew are both dead. Their house was hit by a flying bomb and both were killed instantly."
So, it was that a mindless weapon, launched from the French coast, had found my sister and "nephew." George who had passed the war in the most dangerous of occupations, and I who had been with the 8th Army since 1941, both survived the war.