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Vicki Washuk World War ll Blitz  Buy On Smashwords    Also   Buy Diary's Here:
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 Diary: 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 19, 1940
I called the doctor this evening to look at my leg, which has begun watering. It has been getting worse and worse lately, but today got to where it is unendurable. I called Dr. Keighly, as she is only a few doors away. I was frightened, and wanted a doctor quickly. She said I ought to be in bed. Of course, I know that but bed is impossible at this time, with workmen coming and going, and all this long drawn out mess of the move still around me. It seems to me this place will never get straightened out, but I suppose it will, someday.
July 22, 1940
Dr. Keighley in this evening. She has drawn up a diet sheet for me. She declares she can reduce my weight, and without drugs, if only I will follow her instructions. Well, I’ll follow them all right. If I could lose weight it would certainly be a darned good thing. My leg is still weeping, though not so profusely.
July 24, 1940
Mother came to see me today. She looks remarkably well, very stylish and handsome. She had on a dark blue wool-crepe suit, and blue hat in the latest style. She looked very elegant.
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 have been reading a book over the weekend, which pleased me, much, Let The Band Play Dixie, by Ursula Branston. It is an account of an English girl’s trip, by autobus, through the southern states of America. She had a job with the BBC but she resigned it, because of her longing, after reading a life of Stonewall Jackson, to see all the southern states. She landed in Baltimore, in June nineteen thirty-eight, and she stayed in America until the September crisis at Munich, when her own patriotism hurried her back to London in October. This girl appreciates America, and although her book doesn’t make me homesick because I know a return to America is at present as impossible as a trip to the moon, still, it makes me realize how essentially and fundamentally I am American. The tangible result was to make me sit down today and send in an order to Bumpus for half a dozen American books in their latest catalogue. Chief among these is a first edition second volume, History of the Rise of American civilization, by the Beards. I hope I get it. This was a new book when I was in New York in nineteen thirty-three. I didn’t see it then, not since. It was published in England so didn’t reach the libraries.
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 word for today is forlorn. When Dr. Keighley came in to see me on Monday, she ordered me to bed and I have been there until today. Definitely I have got phlebitis. What is worse, I have got melancholia. To be in this house alone, ill, is more than I can stand. Ted has been looking after me, nobody else. He has done his best, of course, but his competency about everything practical, and his damned silly talk, has got me down. He asks me directions about things, and then when I begin to tell him, he starts cross-questioning me on my answers. It’s most exasperating.
Yesterday I fell into the weeps, and began weeping again first thing this morning. After he had gone through the routine rigmarole about my breakfast tray, I asked him, please to bring me up my bottle of haliveroil capsules. Where were they? They were on the kitchen cabinet. Which room? I exploded. The kitchen cabinet is in the kitchen, of course! I felt furious and sick to death of his silly questions. So I made up my mind not to ask him for anything else, but to get up and attend to myself. I felt crosser and crosser. He should have got a nurse or a woman in to attend to me, anyhow! Not Ted; that costs money. So this morning I finally felt desperate, and as soon as he had left the house, I got up and dressed. I ought not to have done so. I am really ill. My leg is very bad, and Dr. Keighley told him so. That makes no impression on Ted.
Well, when I got downstairs I had a fit of wild weeping. He had re-arranged the kitchen and the dining room. He had turned out my tea wagon and shoved it under the sink; and my little kitchen table he had placed upside down and filled it with crockery. He had been having a clearance. I was enraged, and I burst out crying. However, I pulled myself together and set to work to put everything back in its proper place. I washed up all the dirty crockery about, threw out stale and bad food which had accumulated, cooked some fresh vegetables and made soup. When he came in at one o’clock he was surprised to find me downstairs, and started to order me back to bed. However, I’d had enough of bed and that was that. Then when he went out at two o’clock, I went upstairs, and cleaned and turned out my room. Whilst lying in bed, I had thought out a better way of arranging our room than the way we had it. So this afternoon I simply set to work and re-arranged it. I wanted to clean the room anyhow, as it was filthy dirty, and I moved the furniture myself. It took me three solid hours, but I did it. I was determined I wouldn’t ask him anything about it, or to do anything for me.
As a practical man, Ted is simply useless. This house is on my nerves. We have been here two months now, and it is still not to rights. Every job Ted does is badly done. When he lays linoleum, he laps it! I’ve said nothing about it. I’m just waiting for Artie to come home, and do the job properly. Every job Ted does is like that. Incompetency is his middle name. He thinks he’s so smart too! About five weeks ago he threw the garden hose into the little alleyway that leads to the outside toilet, and it lays there, one messy tangle. Several times I have asked him to roll it up on its wheel, and put it away, but no, it’s still there, in the way, and has to be walked on by everybody who uses the toilet. All the workmen have been going over it; the carpenter, the plasterer, the bricklayers who have built us a large coal shed, and I twist my ankle on it every time I go round that corner. It might take five minutes to roll it up, but no, it isn’t rolled. Then he points out to me a scrubbing brush left in the drain! It isn’t my scrubbing brush, anyhow, but belongs to one of the workmen. My God, I’m out of patience.
Well, he’s with his beloved brother tonight. I might have remained in bed and he’ll still be at Herbert’s tonight. Oh, is this a lonesome life! Oh, if I’d only got a daughter, a woman child around! I haven’t, so I must look after myself. It is nine o’clock now, and getting dark, so I will go and re-bandage my leg for the night before it’s time for the blackout. 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 4,1940
Twenty-six years ago today Great Britain entered the last war. Six-thirty p.m. and it is a warm sunny evening. Ted is out at church. I have been downstairs all day today and feel much better for it. I am apparently no worse for my furniture shifting yesterday, though I have two big purple bruises on my arm. I must have hurt myself without realizing it. My ankle is drying up considerable, but the phlebitis patch is swollen and inflamed as ever. However, in my spirits I feel fine. Bed was getting me down. I am now going to fix up my bed and listen to the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Sir Henry Wood, playing the “Pathetique” at seven fifty.
Here is what I purchased at Bumpus: Beard: Rise of American Civilization, Wright: Hawkers and Walkers in Early America, Emerson: Works: Complete in 4 volumes, Melina Rorke: Memoirs of the 90’s in South Africa, Landor: Classical Conversations, Undset: Stages on the Road. I am delighted with this lot.
August 5, 1940
It should be a bank holiday, but it isn’t. I wrote to Cuthie and keep choking with laughter at something I consider very funny. When I shuffled my room around on Saturday, of course I had to shift and re-hang the pictures. Because I couldn’t quite make up my mind to where to hang it, I did not re-hang the crucifix, but left it on Ted’s bureau. Well, he has hung it plumb over the middle of the head of the bed. This, I know, is the traditional position for it in Catholic families. I have always kept ours away from that spot. I have put it in obscure places: behind the door, or in a recess, or beside Ted’s mirror. When one considers what goes on in the connubial bed, the wall behind and above it seems to me the most inappropriate place possible ever to hang a crucifix. Such a position for such an article just strikes me as funny. Hope I don’t giggle some night soon when Ted wants to be a loving husband.
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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