We were really afraid of a hit and run air raid, such as had already occurred in daylight by low flying enemy aircraft at some nearby aircraft factories in the West Country. Being on the river and with the Abbey on a hill only a mile away, we were a sitting bird to any raider briefed by a spy. Moreover, we were surrounded by aerodromes at Hullavington (Empire Flying School), Kemble (bombers and transport command), South Cerney (bomber) and many others. In the event the only bombing we suffered was at Rodbourne where we lived, three miles away from the factory; we had heard bombers overhead for some hours.
Suddenly, we heard the whistle and thump of falling bombs, but only the impact, no explosions, but very very near. I was certain that unexploded bombs had fallen in the garden, and I felt a bit of an ass looking for bomb holes in the lawn with a hand torch dressed only in my pyjamas! But finding nothing, I went back to bed. We were awakened at about 7 am by one of the hostel staff informing us that the army bomb disposal squad had arrived and that the officer in charge had given us 30 minutes to collect our belongings and clear out!
This we did double quick so it transpired there were three deep bomb holes each about 50 yards from the house. We went to a hotel at Westonbirt, and after a delay of three days to allow for delayed fuses, I was allowed to visit the bomb site. Each hole was two to three feet in diameter and were thirty feet deep; the bomb disposal men dug down, removed the fuses and got them up onto a lorry for disposal.
Editors note: An account of this incident can be found in the book Whitsunday's Child - A country life in pictures by Vera Punter. ISBN 0-9519989-1-9. (First published by East Herts Publishing Company Limited 1993)
Link Rodbourne House Unexploded Bombs Link
The bombs had been made in Czechoslovakia, and all the fuses had been sabotaged – for which, on my first post war visit to that country, I duly gave thanks. I did manage to photograph the bombs as they were being driven away – which had a sequel. I sent one of our snaps to Professor Roofborow, a friend of ours at Harvard, but it was stopped by the censor and returned to me for an explanation.
It seems that the lorry was hired from a local mineral water manufacturer, bearing the name. "Dornats Mineral Water". The camera had cut off "ral" and the word "water" thus reading, "Dornats mine" - obviously a military secret, which caused great hilarity at security. The RAF told me later that the bomber in question had been circling over Hullavington RAF station for some time trying to find a break in the cloud, and failing to do so had unloaded at Rodbourne House, which, being above the mist on top of the hill was all the pilots could see. I am sure this episode helped us with the townsfolk as some simple-minded folk presumed that it was me they were after!
On our trips to London, my wife and I ran into a few bombings. Ministry meetings at Millbank were at about 10.30 am, so we drove up the 80 or so miles after breakfast, rather than stay over, and we felt it was better to be together! When we did stay over, we invariably had to endure what London had been suffering since 1940.
We were at Camberland when London Docks were bombed, and we made the acquaintance of hotel air raid shelters at the Grosvenor, when Victoria station was hit and other establishments. On a few occasions, we sneaked up for a weekend with friends and stayed at the Savoy, where you could get a double room for about £5, and very pleasant it was to have a real rest and be coddled, but on the last occasion we stayed there, Soho was bombed quite nearby, and it seemed perilously close, as did the V1 and V2 missiles which we heard coming. It was said that if you heard them, you were all right – the one with your name on it, you did not hear!
The most frightening experience was one night when we had foolishly stayed in town for dinner, and when the raids started, we set out from Czardas in Dean Street, and tried to find a petrol station open. The bombs seemed to rain down all around as we made our way to the Watford Bye Pass, where at last, a fire watcher on duty served us and we got safely to our room at Aston Clinton. My abiding memory of London bombing, however, is driving into town after dawn, the streets deserted except for firemen and A.F.S., and steering slowly over the snaky hoses stretched across the roads and avoiding the heaps of glass and debris, the air filled with the acid smell of smouldering timber, and here and there, a group of rescue workers delving into piles of rubble in the hope of finding someone alive.
Once we spent almost an entire night of heavy bombing, in the bombproof cellars of what was the forerunner of the Players Theatre, but before it moved to the vaults beneath Charring Cross Station. It was a cosy cheerful basement under a row of shops in Ablemarle Street, and provided, apart from the music hall, then presided over by either Leonard Sachs or his predecessor, hot snacks and upholstered benches where amid the noise and bustle, one could get an hour or two of sleep.
