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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: 12-27-40 The war began again this morning. Gerry was overhead during dinnertime, and the one o’clock news reported a heavy dueling this morning with the long-range guns across the channel.

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December 27, 1940
There was actually a lull in the war. We had no raids Tuesday, nor Christmas Day, nor yesterday, which was Boxing Day; nor during the nights either. The war began again this morning. Gerry was overhead during dinnertime, and the one o’clock news reported a heavy dueling this morning with the long-range guns across the channel.
“Midnight Masses,” the first mass for Christmas Day, were celebrated during the afternoon of Christmas Eve, because of the blackout, a special dispensation from the Pope being given for this. The real midnight mass, from the Benedictine Abbey of Downside, was broadcast by the BBC. This was weird. Here we lay, in this little room, rolled up for the night on our sofas, and in the darkness we listened to the mass, sung by the monks. We also kept our ears pricked listening for an alert to sound, because we didn’t know Hitler wasn’t coming. It was beautiful. As always, the Adeste Fideles brought me to tears, and also to prayer. I was melted and able to pray. I prayed especially for Cuthie.
December 28, 1940
The German night raids began again last night. There was a very big attack on London. The barrage was terrific. It began promptly at eight o’clock, and went on without ceasing until eleven p.m. Then it died down, and the all-clear came about midnight. It was bad here in Romford too. Bombs kept on falling. One terrific one seemed to fall right in our back garden. However, it didn’t. I don’t know yet where they did fall, though at church this morning Ted heard there was a landmine fallen in Gidea Park again. Perhaps that was the most awful one we heard. As usual, attack seemed to be concentrated further over toward the station, so I suppose poor old Victoria Road got it again. What a life.
Milkman has just been. He tells me the worst damage last night was in Balgores Lane, which is completely wrecked. They also got the gun crew at Marks Gate. At the top of Carlton Road is an unexploded landmine, all the people evacuated. Another mine happily fell in the tennis courts. Barking and Barkingside got the very worst of last night’s packets.
December 29, 1940
Ted is at church, and I’m hoping he won’t invite Simpson back to tea. I am not exactly dressed for visitors; in a towel and my hair hanging down to dry. We had a most awful explosion at exactly noon today, and a blinding flash of light accompanied it. Ted was in the parlor and did not see the flash; but I was in the kitchen, standing at the sink, and I thought the very sun itself had fallen into the room, and I wasn’t even facing the window. I was awfully frightened, and shook for an hour afterwards. There was no alert on, so we presume this must have been a delayed action bomb exploding somewhere nearby. There were no raids hereabout last night.
Memories. I have thousands and thousands of them. How am I ever going to pin them all down in a book? I feel I must hurry. When death strikes now any hour, any day, any night, I want to express all that I know, all this that I am, and all that I was, before death can strike me. I want this for my children. When in the future some of them say, “I wonder what sort of woman Mother was, anyhow!” I want them to be able to look into the mirror of a book, and find me. So I must write quickly and steadily. From day to day, I will write what I can, and if I cannot write consecutively, then those who find my writings must sort them into their proper order and so make the sequence correct for themselves.
December 30, 1940
At six o’clock last night the raids began again. The all clear did not sound until just before midnight.
Nothing fell here in Romford, though the zooming was incessant. This morning, however, we are told the main attack was on London, the heart of the city, and that hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of incendiary bombs were literally rained down. Among the buildings damaged were the Guildhall, another Wren church, two hospitals, a museum, and several schools. Except for naming the Guildhall, no names were given, but the report says it was a wholesale attempt to destroy London completely by fire. Eighty horses were killed when a high explosive fell on a brewery. Several shelters were hit, and railway stations; no properly military objectives were attacked, and the enemy appeared to be concentrating on setting fire to as many buildings as possible. When is all this deviltry going to end? The rest of the world for the remainder of time, I think, will hate Germans.
President Roosevelt made a great speech last night. Ted actually woke me up at three thirty this morning to tell me Roosevelt was on the air! We tried to get through, but could only get music. I was sorry. I would have liked very much to hear the real voice, making the real speech. However, we were given many excerpts from it in the one o’clock news; good, but not so good as hearing it in the first historic moment. He was calling to the Americans to give all aid to Britain. Harold, back in the summer, thought America would be in the war by January.
Now I’m going to get a cup of tea. I’m most horribly restless. I hope I am not suffering a premonition of something.
December 31, 1940
It was a quiet night, due, most likely, to bad weather.
Further reports on Sunday night’s raids on London. It was evidently an attempt to destroy the entire city by fire. Uncountable thousands of incendiary bombs were dropped, and practically old historic London was burnt down. The Guildhall is gone, Trinity House and eight Wren churches. What vandalism!
Commenting on this vast devastation to Ted this evening, I inadvertently let myself in for a long evening’s monologue; in particular the loss of Wren’s Churches gave him a fine springboard for his criticizing. He said the churches weren’t beautiful, weren’t used, and Protestantism was dead anyhow. Then he enlarged his discourse to condemn modern art and modern religion, about which he knows nothing of either. He kept on nearly the whole evening, and I sat grinning like a Cheshire cat, I suppose. Oh, I was so bored. I kept on noticing Ted’s mouth. When he monologues, he scarcely opens his lips, or his teeth either. He speaks very quietly in a monotone, and his mouth is one thin straight line. It was a horrible and cruel mouth.

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