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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: 10-6-40 The guns opened up immediately on the warning, and have not ceased all night. It was the worst evening we have ever had.

October 6, 1940
Seven fifty a.m. I open this book at this hour to cool my anger. We have just passed through a most awful night. The warning was given at seven thirty-five last night and the all clear did not come until six fifteen this morning. The guns opened up immediately on the warning, and have not ceased all night. It was the worst evening we have ever had. It was pretty bad Friday evening; so bad, that both Mr. and Mrs. Thomson came in here “for company.” But about one o’clock this morning the raiders were directly overhead and began dropping bombs. I don’t know yet where they fell, but one was so close that this house tottered. I began to cry. I couldn’t help myself, in fact, I weep now, recording it. Ted was undismayed. There is callousness and cold-bloodedness about Ted, which I abhor. Well, at ten to seven he started to dress. At seven, the first warning of this day was given, but Ted proceeded with his dressing, and went to church in his usual way. He left the house at seven twenty though mass doesn’t begin ’til eight, and he will not be back until nine twenty.
Ted is a fool out and out. He didn’t have to go to early church today. There is a mass at nine thirty and there is another mass at eleven a.m. Wouldn’t any sensible man have taken two or three hours sleep this morning and allowed his household to sleep? Of course he would. Not Ted. This compulsion on him to go to early mass is maniacal. He is a maniac. Isn’t it because of his craziness that we are here in England at all? That the twins are in the war? That Cuthie is a prisoner? Oh my God how I fret and fret for my children! In nights like this one, which we have just passed through, I fear I shall never see my children again. The bombs strike anywhere. They are just as likely to fall on this house as any other.
I think of Harold, of Eddie, of all of them, and my heart breaks with grief and longing. Ted? It is just as though he never had children at all. He moves along serene and blithe in his own world of dreams. He thinks of no one except the figures of this mythical world of Roman Catholicism. Like the old fool Petain, a Vichy, he is convinced that all the troubles of the world would be cured by the return of the people en mass to the church. That’s all that matters to Ted, the church. He has no affection for anybody. Human beings do not matter to Ted except himself and his will and his own soul. That is all he can “love”; his own soul. I say, curse him. He is an intolerable man, and I am impatient with this fool and so angry. Impatience and anger doesn’t help any. Well, let me dress. Here is another day to get through.
A warning is still in progress, and only fifteen minutes ago the big gun was firing. The warning was given at two twenty p.m. and the barrage has been constant ever since. A whistling bomb fell very near, about four o’clock. Ted has gone out to church all the same. This is already our sixth warning for the day. How many people will be at church? The night’s bombs fell in Slewins Lane.
October 7, 1940
It is eight forty a.m. and another early writing. Ted left ten minutes ago for his Monday’s round, and a warning is still on. It went at six forty-five a.m. and is the second one for today. After practically continuous raiding all yesterday, there was no warning given after the all clear at eight forty p.m., so we have had a quiet night, and the BBC says it has been the same all over England. This is the first raidless night since the intensive war on Great Britain began. It was a stormy night, wind and rain of the Equinox, but peace from the Germans.
Ted went upstairs to bed, and remained there ’til the warning at five fifty a.m., but I stayed down here on the couch and was at ease. Not to have Ted in the same room with me, that is a certain sort of bliss. I realized it when I lay down alone in the darkness that I was free from him, free from the constraint of his presence. For me to be with Ted is always to be under a sense of constraint. It has been that way from the beginning. He oppresses my spirit. From the very first weeks of our marriage it was like that. When he began to deride the things I cared about, when he began to maul at my inner woman, my personality, then I had to begin to protect myself, my secret self. It has always been like that; everything that is precious to me, and in me, I must hide, must protect. So it is a strain, a long strain. I do not hate him, but I long to be free of him, just to be free, forever free.
Now the war takes even more time away. It is impossible to do anything while the raids are on. All one can do is sit still in shelter, perhaps knit, perhaps pray, perhaps talk with someone who happens in, and drink tea or smoke a cigarette together. Most of the raids last at least an hour, and we get five or six a day. Last Wednesday we had nine. Then in-between raids we have to do our work. Then there are meals to fix, the everlasting meals. I am sick. My leg is really very bad. Often when the big guns go, often without warning, I feel a fissure in my leg crack. It seems as though this leg will never heal. The pain of it often makes me sick to my stomach. Sometimes I am even reduced to crying with the pain. I must go now and dress my leg, and this is a job, which takes me nearly an hour every day. Then I must bathe and dress, for I am still in my nightclothes. So Au-Revoir. Perhaps I can write again today. Writing, even the mere physical act, is my dope.
October 8, 1940
Ten fifteen a.m. and the first all clear of the day has just sounded. The first warning was given at eight forty. The all clear for the night did not come until seven this morning. Last night was the longest night of raids we have yet had. It began at seven forty p.m. I suppose as the longer nights increase we shall endure ever longer and longer hours of raiding. Sunday night was free of raids, but last night was worse than ever. Yesterday we were raided practically continuously. Saturday night’s bombs fell on Stanley Avenue, the second time on Lodge Avenue, which is very close to us, and on Gideon Park. On Sunday afternoon they fell on the railway line, at Brentwood, and at Gidea Park, completely demolishing Gidea Park Station.
Ten forty, second warning sounding, so Au-Revoir.
October 9, 1940
Chamberlain resigns; Churchill elected
Raids have been very bad all day; six on London, but only three here in Romford, though the afternoon one lasted a long time, from two forty-two p.m. until four twenty p.m.
October 10, 1940
Eleven ten a.m. Mrs. Thomson only recently left. We have had two bad raids already this morning. The first one, between nine and ten this morning, we had swarms of machines overhead, beyond counting. Our men took off towards the river, and the Germans, in droves, came sweeping in from behind. Flying right over these houses. No bombs dropped, the battle must have been elsewhere.
Last night was a terrible night. I don’t know how we can keep on enduring these nights. Bombs dropped on North Street and in the stadium on the London Road. No casualties! I’m beyond praying. I just lay and shake and cry. Churchill makes his famous speeches, but Hitler is winning the war anyhow, no matter what they say. If it lay with women, we should call for an armistice tomorrow. What sense is there in this stupid fighting? No! Men talk themselves into a war, and then they talk themselves into going on with it. Men’s talk, how I hate men’s talk, men’s minds! Though I’ll make an exception for the Archbishop of York! He talks on the air once a week now, and most of what he says makes sense. “He talks like a Catholic,” says Ted.
Eleven forty a.m. The Sainsbury boy has just been in with the groceries. He tells me that four bombs were dropped in the first raid this morning. One got “The Crown” and nearby houses on the London Road; one fell in a field in the Arterial Road; and two fell on Marlborough Road, destroying several houses and two cars that were on the road. The men in the cars were killed; one had his head blown off. One of the houses was the home of Sainsbury’s porter, who, the boy says, has been released to go home.
Two of Sainsbury’s men were killed on the street in that bad raid we had on a midday in August. Oh God! This fool war!

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