In 1940 we lived in Kensington in the centre of London, and we had narrowly escaped a German bomb. So my mother, brother and sister abandoned our home for the relative peace of the Hertfordshire countryside. We were to share an old rather rambling farmhouse with some cousins whose father, like ours, had been called up.

One of the huge advantages was we were able to share two ponies and a horse between the six of us children as well as a pony-trap as our means of transport. There was also a roomy basement which was to serve as sleeping-quarters the nights when the sirens were particularly active. As well as lessons during daytime we were also able to enjoy punting and swimming in the river and oat which surrounded the farm. Although we did have use of a motor car for emergencies we mostly stayed at home using bicycles or riding to get from A to B.

The highlight of our week was our dancing lesson with my aunt, who had danced professionally in her youth and who also taught us how to play the piano. But one memorable day when we children were bouncing around the drawing-room we heard a huge screaming noise right overhead and then a tremendous crash. Annie, the maid, was shaking a duster out of the window upstairs and we heard her scream too as the sashcord of the window split with a mighty thud catching her head as it fell.

"Quickly, quickly get under the piano" shouted our aunt, pushing us in, fearing the chandelier above might crash down too. Happily it was a grand piano and we all squeezed in until we heard footsteps on the stairs and on out of the front door.

Rushing out after them we saw a large pillar of dirty smoke rising from the top of the park and, silhouetted against the flames, the small figure of the plane's pilot gesturing wildly. Then a van, followed by a car with passengers leaning out goggle-eyed, then more motors chuntering up the drive making for the smoke.

Handing me the first-aid box (made of tin with a slit in the top), my aunt said "Hurry, go and collect as much as you can from these goggling sightseers while I 'phone for help."

I ran up the hill as fast as I could avoiding bits of the Nazi plane which were strewn all about, most of it smouldering and keen to see the pilot who had survived the crash and must still be up there somewhere. We learned afterwards what had happened. A one-armed despatch rider had been following the trail on his motorbike until he got as far as the heavy park gates leading from the main road. Here he had been forced to get off, lean the bike against the gatepost and having manoeuvered the gate, produced a pistol which he pointed at the fugitive pilot who, however, was only too glad to give himself up - apparently...

I never made it that far (happily) so we kids had to content ourselves with role-play such as "Stick 'em up else I shoot" whilst preventing the motorbike - still with only one arm from falling as he engineered his prisoner through the gate and into hand-cuffs which fortunately someone had provided just in time.

Sybil B.
18th August 2021