Old Comrades
On Thursday afternoon, 3rd May, we were flown from Brussels through dirty weather to England. At last after 3 years came that longed-for moment when I could see the "white cliffs of Dover" over the Channel. All noses were glued to the windows. We landed at Dunsfold in Surrey and were met by motherly W.V.S. (Women's Voluntary Service) women and nurses and conducted to a beautifully decorated hangar where we had tea, sandwiches and biscuits. Flash left me here, en route for Brighton with the South African contingent. I was sent to London with a Corporal as escort "in case I was scared by the traffic". We went to the residential Endleigh Hotel near Euston and I was taken in charge by a dear old Squadron Leader who fixed me up with tea - poached eggs on toast - a hot bath and a room.
My bad news started from then. After attempting to 'phone home I was unsuccessful, being informed that the number was on a "spare line", a piece of information that puzzled me and could not be explained by the telephone operator. Next morning, still being impatient to speak to my Mum or Dad, I telephoned the Lebus furniture factory (my father's work) and was told that my Dad hadn't been to work for 3 months, but the operator said she would try to get me Dad's new address. A nasty sinking feeling overcame me, and I asked if everything was all right. The operator was rather upset. She told me that "Dad and your sister are O.K. but I don't want to tell you any more”
Further enquiry by telephone to Chingford Police Station confirmed the grim news that my mother had been killed by a V2 rocket. It happened on 1st February, a Thursday, at 2.30p.m. If the damned thing had fallen on any other weekday, my mother would have been working at her job in the shop. How I wished that I could go back then and there to settle accounts with one or two of my German acquaintances.