The Longest Night
by
William Wood
I look at the clock on the wall and see the hands just past 11 o'clock. The year is 1942. I ponder whether to go to bed upstairs, sleep on the kitchen floor, or try to sleep in the air raid shelter in the garden. Water seeps into the shelter and it never dries. Comfort becomes one thing I think about every night and usually I sleep in the shelter or on the kitchen floor, sacrificing the comfort of a warm bed to the needs of safety. There's a war on and bombing raids are something we live with daily.
I live in the city of Hull on the east coast of England, the third largest seaport in the country and a favourite target for enemy bombers. If the enemy bombs the city, they have a good chance of hitting the port installations and destroying essential food and war equipment. Because it's on the coast, enemy planes can sneak past the radar undetected. The barrage balloons and anti-aircraft guns cannot always keep the enemy away. People are injured and killed every night and it has become routine.
To decide where to sleep seems an easy task, but you never know. I might get blown out of the kitchen. The shelter could get hit by a bomb. Will they come tonight as they have done almost every night this week? I hope they don't, but I have a nagging feeling that tonight they will drop more bombs. I often have this feeling and though sometimes wrong, I never know for sure. If I sleep upstairs or on the kitchen floor, I might not hear the air raid sirens. The bombers often arrive first and those wailing sirens don't sound the alarm until after the bombs drop. I remember someone saying how much safer it is in the armed forces compared to being a civilian out of uniform. Why do I remember these words now?
Suddenly, and without any warning, I feel myself thrown upwards and I land on the kitchen floor, dazed and shaken. Something heavy lies across my legs trapping me and pinning me to the floor. I cannot move. When thrown upwards, it felt as though I floated in the air for a long time before coming down. I look up to see the sky through a hole where the roof used to be. Searchlights weave about the sky, the drone of bombers is clear and loud.
The sky sounds full of planes and I hear bombs screaming down and when they explode the ground shudders. I hear a fire burning and wood crackling. The smoke gets in my nose and throat. I cough and sputter for a long time. Every few seconds I hear the ping of shrapnel hitting the ground all around from anti-aircraft shells exploding. No need to make a decision on where to sleep now! I might stay trapped for a long time, and the fire nearby still burns and crackles. Try as I might I cannot get my legs free. I struggled but something I cannot see or feel holds my legs pinned to the floor.
I'll have to wait until someone comes to rescue me as I know they will. We have a Civil Defence organization, and despite much good humoured criticism, they do a great job. I hope they arrive before the fire reaches me. It smells too close for comfort and the crackling gets louder.
After what seems hours, I hear bells clanging and know help has arrived. I smile to myself because it amuses me to think that in an air raid, vehicles go through the streets to what they call an 'incident' with bells clanging. The streets are pitch black and no one is able to see what lies ahead. I realize the main reason the vehicles make so much noise is that it helps people to hang on until help arrives. Now I have the answer for the noise, it no longer amuses me; it just makes good sense.
I hear something nearby and see a figure above me wearing a tin hat with the letters "ARW" stencilled on the front. Thank heavens! It's an Air Raid Warden. His first words are, "You've got yourself in a bloody mess, mate." I care little about the words; I am found and help has arrived. I wonder why he wears a collar and tie with a helmet perched on top of his head and a gas mask strapped to his chest. It looks out of place in those circumstances. Perhaps one must keep up the requirements of civilian life even in an air raid.
I make no reply and he says, "We'll have you out in a few minutes." His words are confident and decisive and it helps. He sounds like a person who has gone through this routine before and probably has helped rescue many people trapped like I am. Other civil defence services arrive: firemen put out the flames, rescue squads get people free from debris, first aid is rendered to those needing it. Some people are taken to a hospital, a few to a first-aid post for treatment; some are taken to a mortuary. Amazingly, some people once freed from the debris, walk away, dusty and bruised with only a few minor scrapes. A bomb disposal team disarms a land mine as it swings from the end of a parachute caught in a bombed building's broken roof; they render it safe, then go to find others and repeat the process several times every night. If the enemy gets sneaky, he changes the wiring mechanism and bombs explode killing the bomb disposal squad, but a report made over the radio at least lets following squads know what happened. When the bombs kill, no one knows what goes wrong, or if it is due to a time fuse.
A rescue squad soon arrives and frees me. I have no broken bones. They work quickly and efficiently, each knowing what to do and how the other members work. A woman, a member of a first-aid team, tells me I have bruises and scratches, but I will be all right, and why hadn't I gone to the shelter as I should have, I am lucky and should know better and remember that the next time! All this in one long breath without a single pause. I don't argue. The women's volunteer services arrive and make some tea (the inevitable tea) over a fire. I get some tea and sit drinking it in the street with flames from nearby burning houses giving off an eerie glow. I think about Dante's "Inferno". A short rest, and I report for duty at a first-aid post for the remainder of the night. As a member of a first-aid team I report when needed. A long night lies ahead.
Bombers return through the night and everyone keeps busy. I go to some of the 'incidents' later to help and reflect how lucky I am to be able to do so on such a night.
When daylight finally arrives and bombers have gone, I return home to find that apart from the roof being missing and some damage inside, it is still intact. The house next door has gone, along with the family who had lived there. Going into the shelter hadn't helped them during the night; it took a direct hit. The mother, father and three children were killed. A simple decision on where to sleep one night killed them all and in the 'safest' place, the shelter.
Any decision on where to sleep could be a wrong one for me to make. I never made a decision on where to sleep that night because a bomb hitting the house stopped any decision-making on my part.
I remember seeing a clock on a wall at 11 o'clock when that night of action started. That night lasted a long time, but I never noticed time flying past.
Other nights I had to decide where to sleep and live with my decision, but never again did a bomb make the decision on my behalf. I did not get killed in the years following that long night - and it let me write this memory.