The cold winter’s evening of the 14th November 1940 is one one would never forget. It was a full moon that night and, for a change, the sky was clear — there was no mist for miles around. If it hadn’t been for the bombing, it would have been a perfect night.
When our clock read 18:00, we could make out the gentle hum of the diesel-powered planes coming from the east. In reality, it was actually 19:00 but we had never got round to putting our clock forward and it looked like we never would. Anyway, I was in my fire-warden uniform, ready for any flares. Well, I was physically ready but inside I felt as timid as a new-born rabbit.
Minutes later, I was out there, on the streets I knew and loved. As a child, I had drawn, with chalk, all over them and once I had even scratched lopsided pictures into the pavement, some of which were still visible. Near tears, I reached for a hose — I would do everything in my power to prevent my home from obliterating into pieces…
This is a beautifully sensitive piece of writing. Well done.