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World War ll London Blitz:  Buy On Smashwords
I am the great-granddaughter of Ruby Side Thompson. 
Recently I started re-reading the World War ll journals and felt that they were such an important part of a history that will soon be forgotten if not published and shared with the world. These diary excerpts are not the entirety of what is published in print and kindle.
Ruby grew up during a time when education was just beginning to be encouraged for both upper and middle class women. During the late 1890's Ruby explored many radical political ideas of London, England. She met many famous people including the writers George Bernard Shaw and William Butler Yeats. 
5.0 out of 5 stars A choice pick, not to be overlooked, November 6, 2011 By Midwest Book Review (Oregon, WI USA)

World War ll London Blitz: 7-15-40 At five fifty p.m. we received a telegram from Ruislip, saying: “Inform you your son Sgt. Thompson; R.A.F. is a prisoner of war. Letter follows.”

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July 15, 1940
At five fifty p.m. we received a telegram from Ruislip, saying: “Inform you your son Sgt. Thompson; R.A.F. is a prisoner of war. Letter follows.”
Thank God!
July 17, 1940
Letter confirming news about Cuthie received today. No details. Simply says that they have been informed through the Red Cross at Geneva, that he is a prisoner, at Dulag Luft.
Also, several sheets of type received from the Red Cross, telling how to get in touch with prisoners, etc. This is Ted’s birthday, so the good news is the best gift in the world for him. To celebrate we went to the movies tonight. It is our first jaunt in months.
July 24, 1940
We have had a continuous stream of callers since the news of Cuthie came out. I did not know he had so many friends; so many people who are deeply glad to hear of his safety. Yes, thank God, thank God, Cuthie is safe! Thank God.
July 29, 1940
I ordered a few others, about America, or by Americans. I haven’t bought any books for a long time, and when we had to make a grand clearance for our move, and give away literally hundreds, I said I wouldn’t ever buy any more books. There you are; I’m an addict! Anyhow, what I figure is this; and not only about books, but about all other desirable things: better get them whilst we can, and whilst we know we are still alive to enjoy them. We might be dead tomorrow. We might be dead today. Every day the German bombs are taking toll of British lives; life for everybody in these islands is dreadfully precarious. Last Friday night this neighborhood was bombed again. Bombs fell and we heard them falling in Worley, Dagenham, and Laughton. In Laughton they destroyed two houses and killed people; in Dagenham they destroyed thirty houses, and killed one woman and three children; in Worley they fell in an open space, but killed a fireman who was entering a shelter. So they are just as likely to fall in Western Road, or South Street, or Park End Road, or anywhere.
There is now seldom a warning. Messerschmidt’s fly six miles high, and drop their bombs at random. So, as we’re only young once, only live once—I think we feel, I know I do—let us make sure of today, whilst we know we have it. All the exhortations on the radio to save, leave me cold. Save for what? Annihilation? The politicians decreed the war; let them pay for it. They tax us excessively, anyhow, and ration us without warrant. Why should they consume our savings and our pleasure money too? I don’t see it. So, since death has camped on the doorstep, I intend to suck every drop out of my orange, before he crosses the threshold and grabs my rind. I’ll buy books, clothes, anything I really want and have the price for. Tomorrow can take care of itself. The chances are that tomorrow I may not be alive to do anything about it. Nevertheless, I hold onto my inner determination to live to be one hundred if I can. I pray and pray. I pray at night until I fall asleep. I pray every time I wake in the night, and I pray every morning after a night in bed, to find one is still alive in this world. I say, thank God for another day. I will live if I can. The Germans may kill me but I won’t allow them to depress my soul. The British government may ration us drastically but I don’t intend to ration myself on any of the things I care for, so long as they are in the market, and I have the price to pay for them.
I loathe people who talk about self-sacrifice. We are all sacrificed, willy-nilly. All our young men turned into soldiers, for what? There is death and destruction everywhere, and everywhere the will to death. It’s crazy. I have a will to life, and with help of God, I will live, I won’t be miserable. I’ll live happily. I’ve made our lives as pleasant as possible, with all the means at my disposal. I will have books and music and flowers and good clothes and good food. I believe in God, and I praise him. I place my dear ones, in God’s hands now and myself, so do I place our futures in his hands too, in this world and the next. God will take care of tomorrow. I’m not going to worry about it.
August 3, 1940
The Germans continue raiding us nightly. They dropped incendiary bombs in Harold Wood two nights ago. Oh this damned war; that gets us down too. Au-revoir.
August 6, 1940
Dr. Keighley says I may now put a new viscopaste on my bad leg, and she will see it again in a week’s time. I am still to rest as much as possible. I am not to put on my shoes, nor walk about the house more than is absolutely necessary. So I’m still to play Madame Recamier on the sofa. I had a cheery leaflet put in the letterbox this morning: our orders what to do in case of invasion. The authorities seem certain the Germans will attempt invasion during the next week or fortnight. My God! When is this crazy war going to end!
There is a rumor today, via Reuter, that Julius Streicher is dead. Supposedly executed by Goring’s order. Streicher was the notorious Nazi Jew baiter. I am sure the world hopes he is dead; hopes all the Nazi’s meet violent death, at the hands of their “friends.” Pray God they do taste in themselves their own brutalities and betrayals.








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