Bombers’ Moon

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I might die tonight. The thought came to me as I was sitting under the table in our house waiting for a bomb to fall on me. The Germans had missed me in last night’s raid though a house down the road had vanished into the night in a big pile of rubble, all the people inside killed, crushed or burned. I saw that bit of news in the local paper; the date on the paper was February 1941, and even though I tore it into shreds and screwed the paper up for the fire, I couldn’t get the picture of the poor family, who had died so horribly, out of my mind. I cried for them even though I didn’t know any of them very well.

I used to see Mrs Griffiths in Taylor’s greengrocer’s shop, which always smelt of damp earth and potatoes; she always had a shawl wrapped round her, Welsh fashion, with a bald-headed baby hidden in its folds. She had a few other little ones hanging on her skirts, all girls I think. Their dad, like mine, was away fighting the war. He would come home on leave with his kitbag on his shoulder and find his house gone and his family all dead.

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