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A Young British Schoolboy’s Story of WWII by Doug Hopkins
558th Bomb Squadron Newsletter- AUGUST 2001
“A Young British Schoolboy’s Story of WWII” by Doug Hopkins
I lived right through the war as a youngster. At that time, like most boys of school age, 1 was absolutely fascinated by the wartime aeroplanes on both sides, and had many books of pictures, silhouettes and technical write-ups about the various planes.
It was always especially exciting to see them “in the flesh” and I still have very vivid memories of watching in horror as Messerachmidt 109’s, Heinkel Ill’s and Junkers 87’s (Stuken) flew low over our house in Southampton, where I lived with my parents during the war. My mother would become very agitated as she tried to hustle me into the air-raid shelter buried in the garden, whereas I wanted to stand and gawk at these wonderful planes! I think my greatest thrill was seeing a Junkers 52, the antiquated, corrugated three-engine plane that Hitler used to travel in!
I also, of course, saw a large number of British and American planes, ranging from the antediluvian Fairey Swordfish biplane, with its torpedo carried under the fuselage, to the much more sophisticated designs toward, the end of the war. I certainly remember seeing the B26 Martin Marauder in flight.
For a schoolboy (I was 5 when it all started) the war was both a frightening and yet exciting experience. At school, we had to parade around the playground wearing gas masks! Barrage balloons were installed in the school playing field and large air-raid shelter was built in the school grounds. We spend many hours during the school day inside these shelters while dog fights screamed overhead, bombs dropped all around and teachers struggled to keep 30 or more rowdy children in order. Those teachers really deserved a medal for their valiant efforts.
Certain experiences stick in my mind. This was the occasion when I stood in our back garden watching a Fairey Swordfish take off from Southampton Airport, which was a mile or so from our house. As it rose slowly over the rooftops, its wing clipped the cable of the school barrage balloon and it plunged with a deafening explosion and a mass of flames on to a housing estate a mere 400 yards from us. I remember with horror, too. The midsummer night when the Pirelli Ammunition Factory, also near us, was set on fire by hundreds of incendiary bombs. The whole area was lit up like daylight and one could hear the cracking noises, see the flames and feel the heat right into the following day. I recall, too, returning home from school one afternoon, when a German Fighter appeared at roof top level, and followed the road I was in, letting forth a volley of machine gun bullets. My friend and 1 threw ourselves in the gutter, while the bullets missed us literally by inches. On another occasion, a German flare landed on an air raid shelter, making the most horrendous noises and lighting up the whole area although it was the middle of the night.
During the early years of the war, we used to spend every night in the air-raid shelter. How we ever got any sleep I do not know. It was cold and damp, the bunk beds were very small, there was scarcely any light and there was invariably the external noise of planes, bombs, guns etc. Mobile guns used to tow the streets, so that the German Pilots could not pinpoint their position. This was all very line, but when they appeared silently outside one’s house and suddenly let rip, believe you me it was a terrifying experience.
Occasionally, the searchlights would pick out a German Bomber in the darkness, and all hell would be let loose as all the ack-ack guns in the area tried to shoot down this silver dot in the night sky. Occasionally they were successful, and the silver dot plunged to the earth with screaming engines and flames pouring from its fuselage.
As you can gather, I could write or talk for hours about my experiences of living during the war! There were horrendous memories, amusing recollections (our neighbor was sitting on the outside toilet during a German raid when the toilet door was ripped off by a bomb blast!), plenty of communal spirit, rationing of food and of course, some happy situations. I recall with great pleasure my visits to my grandmother’s house in a small village, by the sea, in North Devon. My mother and I used to go there regularly to escape from the bombing, while my father, who was an engine driver, stayed in the hellhole of Southampton. In Broyde (the Devon village) there was an American Army Camp in a building which, in peacetime, had been a holiday camp. We children got to know the American soldiers really well. They were really generous towards the local community, especially the children and were always giving us sweets, chocolate, chewing gum and-------handful of money! In addition, they would hold parties for the children, with ice cream, jellies and other unheard of delights (because of the rationing) provided. They were also very popular with the local women, and there was more than one fatherless baby left behind after the war! One very likable American soldier had lodgings in my auntie’s house. He had his own personal Jeep, and used to take me for rides in it. You can imagine the exhilaration this brought to a schoolboy.
As this letter is getting rather long, I must bring it to a close. Let me say once again how much Joyce and I enjoyed meeting you and Evelyn (please give her our best wishes). It was a lovely evening and I hope that it will not be the only one. We are glad to hear that you and she may well return to England. We really look forward to entertaining you if or when that happens. Also, if you feel able to, we should like to receive further copies of your newsletters. I think that it is marvelous that, after all these years, you still maintain close contact with your colleagues from the war years. Incidentally, did you manage to track down all the places you are looking for in Normandy? We wondered especially if you succeeded in finding the farmhouse and if there were still members of the family there. Do let us know all about your nostalgia discoveries!
Doug Hopkins Dover, England © 2001