tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38983373675404346062024-03-13T01:18:54.896-04:00World War II London Blitz Diary's: 1939-1945History is never quite as real as when it is told by those who lived it. Ruby Thompson, living during the World War ll London Blitz bombing blasts history out of the realm of dry, dusty names and dates and places the reader in the midst of the terrifying events as they unfold. This is very important documentation and will have tremendous appeal to those who have an avid interest in the effect of the war on ordinary citizens.Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-52577519127271633512016-06-04T08:19:00.002-04:002016-06-04T08:21:54.775-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 5-2-1945 to 5-9-1945 Tonight’s news: Ten forty-five p.m. is of the unconditional surrender of all the German Armies in North Italy, about a million men.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank">Purchase:</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">May 2, 1945<br /><br />Another of Joan’s surprise visits. She arrived about seven-fifty a.m. and had only heard of Hitler’s death on her way here. As she listened to the eight a.m. news she began to cry. I was at the gas stove, making the breakfast toast; poor Joan came and threw herself into my arms, and had a weeping fit. She was thinking of George, of course.<br /><br />Tonight’s news: Ten forty-five p.m. is of the unconditional surrender of all the German Armies in North Italy, about a million men.<br /><br />May 3, 1945<br /><br />Berlin has fallen. The Russians are in complete possession of the city. Many high officers and Party men have been taken prisoners. One of them, a propagandist minister, second to Goebbels, says that Hitler committed suicide, and Goebbels also. This may or may not be true, but it would account for why Goebbels did not announce the death of Hitler. These Germans say Hitler has been dead for some days, but that the Nazi’s had been trying to build up a legend of him as the hero; now, as the beloved leader, fighting to the death against Bolshevism. Admiral Domitz says, “The fight will go on”, but does not say exactly how! Today he has declared Prague a “hospital city”, so that will not be assaulted, this also looks as though he will not continue the fight long, no matter what he says. Amongst others, Rundstedt has been taken prisoner. Ribbentrop has been deposed as Foreign Minister, but is unheard from. Laval and Deat have landed from a plane in Barcelona. France ordered them to depart again, but they refused to go, so they have been interned; at least, that’s the story.<br /><br />It is now three-thirty p.m. and a nasty day, cold and dreary. This is our fortieth wedding anniversary. No celebrations, Ted asked me if I would like to go to the movies, but I said no thank-you. It is three years since I have been to the movies, and I have lost all inclination to go. Then, besides, all cinemas this week are showing pictures of the German concentration camps, and I certainly don’t want to look at these. Joan had seen them, and she says they are awful, absolutely horrifying. Yet she thinks people should see them. Perhaps; but not me, I can't do anything about the horrors, now or ever, so I cant see any use in making myself sick looking at them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">May 6, 1945<br /><br />I wrote to Charlie and Marjorie. As usual, this has made me very homesick for New Jersey. The end of the war is in sight. The Germans are surrendering wholesale, Northern Italy, North West Germany, and Holland, Denmark.<br /><br />Eire! DeValera, accompanied by J.P. Walshe, Secretary to the Department of External affairs, called on the German Minister in Dublin last evening to express condolence on Hitler’s death. Beautiful darling Irish again! Blast them!<br /><br />May 7, 1945<br /><br />We received a letter from Cuthie, written on May 3, 1945 “Somewhere in Germany.” I cannot transcribe it because Ted has taken possession of it, but it was to tell us that he and a few hundred others had been relieved by the British Army on the previous day; that they were still “quite dazed”, but they hoped to get to Lunaberg the following day for a bath, and to be home soon. He signed it with all his official numbers, etc, and ex-P.O.W. I noticed the “ex” Ted noticed that he still signed as Sergeant, so could not have had mail for a long time past as evidently he was unaware of his promotion.<br /><br />Today came the news of the final capitulation of all Germany. The “new “ Foreign Minister, Count Schwem Von Krogik, has broadcast to his German people announcing the unconditional surrender of all fighting German troops. Grand Admiral Donitz, the new Fuhrer, has ordered the unconditional surrender of all German fighting forces including his own navy of course.<br /><br />So the war in Europe is over.<br /><br />This news was given us on the B.B.C. just before eight tonight. Tomorrow is to be observed as official VE Day. Churchill will broadcast the official proclamation at three p.m., and the King is to broadcast at nine o’clock in the evening both tomorrow and Wednesday are to be holidays in the United Kingdom.<br /><br />There is a feeling of anti-climax. I feel too sad for words.</span><br />
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<br style="font-family: '"verdana"', sans-serif;" />Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-52527609485031296172016-05-29T09:06:00.003-04:002016-05-29T09:06:33.327-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 4-9-1945 to 4-30-1945 How much longer must we wait for the last utter final collapse? <span style="color: red; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank">Purchase:</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">April 9, 1945<br /><br />The news. In Italy our troops are within thirty kilometers of Spezia. In Austria, the Russians have taken five of the city districts of Vienna, including the center of the city. Stalin has tonight announced the capture of Konigsberg, and the taking of twenty seven thousand prisoners there. The best news of all, the American Ninth Army has taken Krupp’s, at Essen. The works were handed over to the Americans by a mere employee, who told the American officer to whom he surrendered the place, that not a wheel had turned in the works since March 1, when the R.A.F. bombed them. He also said the Krupp’s-Essen Railway was also destroyed by the R.A.F. Further; the Germans are flocking into Denmark as refugee. One Hundred and Ninety Thousand German refugees are in Copenhagen alone. How much longer must we wait for the last utter final collapse?<br /><br />April 13, 1945<br /><br />I was deeply shocked on the first news to hear of the sudden death of President Roosevelt. He died at Warm Springs, Georgia at ten-thirty last night, of a cerebral hemorrhage, very suddenly.<br /><br />April 17, 1945<br /><br />I listened this morning to a Memorial Service for Roosevelt, broadcast from St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was beautiful; also it made me know again where my spiritual home is. When I hear the beautiful words of the English service, I know I belong in the English Church. Roosevelt belonged to the Protestant Episcopalian Church of America, the church I was married in. When the congregation began to sing The Battle Hymn of the Republic I began to weep; and when the last post was sounded I felt my heart would break.<br /><br />Early this morning Reta telephoned to tell me that in this morning’s Daily Telegraph, the number of Cuthie’s camp, number three hundred fifty-seven, was given as one of the prisoners camps liberated yesterday by our armies. I have not seen the Times yet, nor has it been mentioned on the wireless, but I expect it’s true. Thank God.<br /><br />I got letters from Charlie and Marjorie this morning, for my birthday, also a card from Chic.<br /><br />April 18, 1945<br /><br />It is my sixty first birthday. I feel anything but gay and happy; in fact I awoke in one of my moods of sadness and depression.<br /><br />April 19, 1945<br /><br />Today all our papers show photos of the various Labor and Concentration Camps in Germany, awful beyond words. The German’s who did these frightful horrible deeds are worse than the fiends of Hell. In Parliament Mr. Churchill has said that he received a telegram from General Eisenhower recommending that we send a delegation of some responsible men to see these things for themselves, and then make their own report to the Government; he said he thought eight men form the Commons and two from the Lords should go, and go tomorrow, and asked for volunteers. I am not going to detail the atrocities here, they are frightful and inhuman. What I want to note is this, touching the problem of suffering. In this gratuitous brutality inflicted upon scores of thousands of innocent men, women and children, by other human beings (the Herrenvolk!), where does God and His Righteousness come in? What about the responsibility of God? These victims were innocent and defenseless, and their sufferings were arbitrarily imposed upon them for years, or until death released them, by the Germans. They did not suffer for their guilt or their sins; they did not suffer as a sacrifice for others. They suffered for nothing. Nothing. How can they be recompensed? Since God permitted everything, and foresaw it all, how can God be excused?<br /><br />This is a problem. I can’t understand it. It is insoluble. The only way I can come near a solution is to reject the idea of a Personal God.<br /><br />Ted says it isn’t a problem, and he can easily understand it. There has always been suffering in the world, and this is only a part of it. It is the Law of Suffering, brought about by the sin of Adam. I am appalled at this silly talk. “But you don’t suffer this.” I said. “No,” he said; “but that’s only accidental.” Suffering, yes, some physical and perhaps good even, indicating where the body must cure itself of disease; a great deal of it our own seeking; a great deal of it avoidable; some of it even deliberately sought, inverted pleasure. This deliberate infliction of cruel suffering upon masses of human beings by other human beings, for it’s own sake, and for delight, no, there is nothing good in that suffering. Why did God permit it?<br /><br />So that the inherent goodness of other better men can show itself in deeds of heroic rescue? What of those who died before rescue? What of the suffering endured which will still remain as having happened? No, that is no answer.<br /><br />There is no answer. Ted’s theological farrago is simple nonsense. The Christian argument answers nothing. Christianity is a dead horse. By the way I notice Roosevelt spoke always of “God”, and Churchill and Montgomery speak of God but never of Jesus, any of them. Jesus is inadequate for our days. But what of God? Well, God is the sum of goodness, I think. That’s all I can think today.<br /><br />April 20, 1945<br /><br />Ted is spieling about “Free Will”, the regular argybargy. I agree the Germans used their free will to work wickedness, but this still doesn’t account for the sufferings of their victims, who did not enter the Labor and Concentration Camps of their own free will, nor accept their sufferings willingly. Ted is hopelessly sunk in his orthodox explanations, which actually explain nothing. It is a waste of time to listen to him. He has the completely closed Catholic mind, and it is worthless.<br /><br />April 23, 1945<br /><br />The Russians are fighting in the suburbs of Berlin. I am reading Martha Dodd’s book, “My Years in Germany”, which I missed when it came out in nineteen thirty-nine, though I did send for her father’s book, which was an account of his years in Germany as the American Ambassador. Reading this book today, which ends before the outbreak of the war, I am surprised at the vice, horrors, crimes and madness it reports. One can see that war was the inevitable outcome of it all. What fools of statesmen we kept in office! Martha Dodd scorns Chamberlin and Daladier. In her closing paragraphs she writes: “We have witnessed the rape of Austria, the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia, the wholesale and unparallel murder of the Jews, the vicious and destructive class action by unprincipled if hard driven Judases like Chamberlain and Daladier. We have seen even America participate inadvertently in the capitulation to Hitler and his war mongers… if we do not urge a support of international peace and democracies whatever they remain; we do not realize that cooperation with England and France can be effected only when Daladier, Chamberlain and their ilk either change their policies or are removed from office if we do not recognize that the French and English leaders are in desperate straits with their own people because of their betrayal of their nations before, at and after Munich, we cannot possibly understand their pursuit everywhere and especially in our own powerful democracy for support, and appreciate our potentially constructive influence in remolding European affairs. If we do not conclude once and for all, as an American nation, that there is no such thing as isolation when the nations of the world are on our doorstep, we will discover too late that we are fighting the destructive and international Fascist spirit almost single handed, aided surely, only by Russia.”<br /><br />April 23, 1945 St. George’s Day<br /><br />General Saunts, is already in San Francisco for the coming conference, is reported as having said last night, that not only must the delegates draw up plans for the establishing of future peace in the world, but that they should also draw up a plain statement of what we aim to live for, a sort of new Declaration of Liberty, I take it. He also said something to the effect that the world must know what it is to live for, because society has suffered such a psychological shock, it could not possible survive another one.<br /><br />April 26, 1945<br /><br />Berlin is entirely surrounded by the Russian’s, who also occupy two-thirds of the city. Hitler is reported to be in the city, personally directing the defense.<br /><br />April 27, 1945<br /><br />This evening the B.B.C. read an announcement, just given out from 10 Downing Street, to this effect:<br /><br />General Eisenhower reports that firm contact has been established between his ground forces and those of our Soviet Allies. The commanders of a United States division and of a Russian Guards division met at Torgan on April 26, at four p.m.<br /><br />So the Russians and the Americans have linked at last, on the Elbe, and Germany has been cut in two. Torgan, unheard of until tonight, is, we are told, northeast of Leipzig.<br /><br />Moscow announces that Russian forces fighting for the conquest of Berlin have captured Potsdam, Spandau, and Rathenow. Farther west, Regensburg (old time Ratisbon) has fallen to the Americans, the Third Army, today, the Twenty-Seventh of April. Bremen is now virtually in British possession. General Dittmar, radio commentator of the German High Command, has given himself up to us in Magdeburg. He has declared that it is true Hitler is in Berlin, and his own opinion that Hitler would die there. Also he expressed his own belief that the war would be over in a few days. Goring has asked Hitler to allow him to resign from the Command of the Luftwaffe, for reasons of health! He is supposed to be suffering from a bad heart. Maybe is his, but more likely Himmler chose to demote him.<br /><br />April 30, 1945<br /><br />Mussolini is dead. The story is he was caught in Como yesterday whilst trying to escape, and was hanged there, with his mistress also, and that today the dead bodies were brought to Milan and exposed there. Hitler is reported dying. He has suffered a cerebral hemorrhage in Berlin. I suppose, in one of his rages, he has literally burst a blood vessel.<br /><br />Himmler, through Count Bernadette, has offered unconditional surrender, but to the British and Americans only. This news comes via San Francisco. Our governments decline to accept such an offer; they maintain that unconditional surrender must be made to all the allies, particularly inclusive of Russia. Of course.<br /><br />It is now eleven p.m. and the German radio, at ten-twenty p.m., announced the death of Hitler, “fallen at the head of his army, in the depths of his Capitol.” Admiral Donitz made the announcement, and added that he was now the Fuehrer, by designation of Hitler. Who knows? Why didn’t Goebbels do the announcing?</span>Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-6994867540918672942016-05-21T15:27:00.002-04:002016-05-29T09:05:55.277-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 3-1-45 to 3-31-1945 After four o’clock yesterday morning we had no bombs all day, but Gerry made up for his remissness last night all right; beginning at one-thirty he lobbed them over regularly every hour.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank">Purchase:</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">March 1, 1945<br /><br />We had a rough night and a cold morning. After four o’clock yesterday morning we had no bombs all day, but Gerry made up for his remissness last night all right; beginning at one-thirty he lobbed them over regularly every hour. Then we had four between seven-thirty and eight-thirty, and no more until three-thirty this afternoon, since then, silence: and it is now eleven p.m. There is news tonight that President Roosevelt is safely back in Washington.<br /><br />March 4, 1945<br /><br />Since Friday Gerry has been sending his doodlebugs over again, night and day, as well as his rockets. Last night he sent piloted planes to bomb us, as well; these were the first he had sent since last July. The B.B.C. reports our defenses shot down six of them, and two more over the Continent. I have been writing letters most of the day. I wrote to Marjorie this afternoon. Now I am going to write a letter to Charlie, to go in the same envelope. The last news I had of Charlie was that his 2A deferment was up on February 7, and he thought it most likely he would be drafted. “But” wrote Marjorie, “it is hard to tell just what will happen; there is much talk, even official, which means nothing and leaves much to the discretion of the local draft boards.” Well, I hope Charlie won’t be drafted. Now I will write to him. So, Au-Revoir.<br /><br />March 5, 1945<br /><br />Between thirty and forty piloted German planes are now known to have been over here on Saturday night. We have had two alerts this morning, one at eleven and one at twelve twenty-five p.m. I heard the Gerry’s going over but nothing was dropped in this neighborhood. The Americans have entered Cologne.<br /><br />March 6, 1945<br /><br />News on the wireless is that the fall of Cologne is imminent. Several rockets fell nearby during the night but we had no alert for doodles or planes. I cannot concentrate not on anything, apparently. It’s this damn war getting me down. There was an alert just before I went out today, around half past two, and several Gerry planes went over. How can one concentrate on anything? Now it is time to get Ted’s tea, so au-revoir.<br /><br />March 7, 1945<br /><br />It was a terrible night, rockets falling every half hour. Ted can sleep through most of the explosions, but I cant. He’s lucky he can take them so callously.<br /><br />March 8, 1945<br /><br />It is evening now and at teatime Ted brought in the news of an “accident” to Mrs. Arendzen. As he expressed it “She has caught a packet.” She was in a bus, on her way to Stamford Hill to visit her son, when a rocket fell directly in their path. She is very badly cut about the head and has a deep wound in her breast. In her face they have put twenty-seven stitches! Awful. So it goes; scarcely a day passes that we don’t hear of this sort of thing happening to those we know. Any day it may be our turn. God preserve us, and only God can.<br /><br />March 9, 1945<br /><br />On the continent the Americans have crossed the Rhine below Cologne, and, we are told, have firmly established themselves on the eastern bank. Hitler promises to annihilate us with a Death Ray after March 15 He is supposed to have visited Berlin today, which we have bombed now for seventeen nights in succession. Oh, this war! Who will survive it!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">March 12, 1945<br /><br />I expect everybody is catching up on lost sleep, for last night was a nasty night for rockets. Beginning soon after eleven o’clock the damned things dropped over regularly every half hour or so all through the night. Several of them were alarmingly near. I have heard this morning that bad ones fell in Highlands Park and in Upminister. None have fallen since seven fifteen, just before breakfast, but all day planes and gliders have been going out, very noisy. Fierce battles are raging along the Rhine, especially where the Americans crossed last week at Remagen. People begin to say now that they think the war will end by Easter. It could, but I don’t think it will.<br /><br />March 14, 1945<br /><br />On the nine o’clock news this evening the B.B.C. told us that today a new heavy bomb has been dropped on Germany. Its weight is twenty-two thousand pounds, or about ten tons. This is horrifying. I’ve been crying about it. I hate the Germans, and I think they asked for trouble and deserve all they get; but this is truly awful. Germans, too are flesh and blood, and in Germany as elsewhere the civilian is destroyed, the innocent suffer because of the guilty. Twenty-Two Thousand pound bombs are too dreadful to think about. When will mankind return to sanity?<br /><br />March 15, 1945<br /><br />We had a dreadful night of bombs, which is not to be wondered at, and an alert for Doodles about five-thirty a.m. I did not come downstairs, I felt too tired to get up. Anyhow the bomb passed over and we were all right. Since then we have heard rockets dropping every half hour or so, not in this immediate neighborhood but I don’t know where. Anyhow they were sufficiently near to bang the doors and rattle the windows. On every news period the B.B.C reports the ten-ton bombs dropped in Germany. The reader seems to gloat about it. I feel ashamed for him. If we must wage war like this we shouldn’t boast about it. I am in an awful state today anyhow. I feel ill, and I wonder whether I may no be mentally ill also. The first is, I can’t stand marriage any longer. I just can’t stand it. In the night Ted loved me. At the very moment he turned me on my back a rocket crashed and shook the bed; but that didn’t make any difference to Ted, not a whit. All of this floods me with revulsion. I loathe the whole business and I loathe the man. Loathe him. This shouldn’t be written I know. If I didn’t spit out my venom in these pages I should go mad. Violently raving mad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">March 26, 1945<br /><br />We had another bad night with rockets and doodlebugs. However, the war news is good. Montgomery’s Army is across the lower Rhine on a twenty-five to thirty mile front and to a depth of over seven miles. General Patton’s Third Army has made several crossings of the Rhine between Cobbling and Boppard. Churchill has crossed the Rhine, with Montgomery, and visited the troops in the newly won areas on the eastern bank. He also took a ride on the river. He’s seventy, yet acts like this, so Ted says, “What a boy!” To me he seems to enjoy the war, and I have a very disagreeable feeling about such sportiness.<br /><br />March 27, 1945<br /><br />Advances were reported last night in all the Rhine bridgeheads. The Canadians have cleared the town of Rees. The American first army in the Remagen sector yesterday advanced twenty-two miles through the German lines. General Patton’s tanks have entered the suburbs of Frankfurt. Lloyd-George has died. So has our neighbor Mr. Fitch. Lloyd-George was eighty-two, Mr. Fitch was eighty-four.<br /><br />March 28, 1945<br /><br />General Eisenhower has announced that the main German defense line has been broker in the crossing of the Rhine. The end must be near now.<br /><br />Good Friday March 30, 1945<br /><br />We had no bombs during the night, and none so far today. Maybe there will be no more; the whole German Army is reported on retreat in rout. No precise details yet, as “security silence” is being observed at Headquarters.<br /><br />March 31, 1945<br /><br />No definite news on the radio, this still being kept back “ for security reasons”, but at least we are told that Montgomery’s forces are fifty miles beyond the Rhine. I keep wondering about Cuthie. That is why I am so touchy today I expect, for to think of him and of what he must be enduring now, brings me to tears. We had no bombs last night.<br /><br />It is now eleven p.m. and the B.B.C announces that General Eisenhower has broadcast in Germany, to the German troops, and to the Foreign workers in Western Germany, to this effect: Soldiers! Over great portions of your country, your government has ceased to have any effective control; therefore, in order to avoid further useless bloodshed and loss of life, I command you: Surrender! Then followed details how to do so. Then to the foreign workers in Germany he said: I advise you, keep out of the way of the allied armies. Do not work in any factories or go near any railroads, bridges, etc. Take no more orders from the Germans. Go into the country and take refuge there; after we have passed, send delegates to the nearest allied officers depot, and we will make arrangements to return you to your homes and families at the earliest possible moment. We are fully aware of your anxieties, but do not impede us. Keep off the roads. Germans, these orders take effect immediately.</span>Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-28038231047762474022016-04-09T08:31:00.000-04:002016-05-21T15:30:53.706-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 2-2-1945 to 2-27-1945 : We have had four close by rockets already this morning.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/washuk/_/N-0" target="_blank">Purchase</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">F</span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">ebruary 2, 1945<br /><br />We have had four close by rockets already this morning. We usually get more on Fridays than any other day of the week, last Friday we had seventeen, so I suppose this locality is on the German program for Fridays. Berlin is preparing for battle. The Red Army is within forty miles of it. It is estimated that four and one half million Germans are on the roads, fleeing from the Russians. Good, they ought to suffer what they caused others to suffer; but who will be sorry for the Germans? No one. No one in the whole wide world will be sorry.<br /><br />February 10, 1945<br /><br />This has been another bad week with any rockets falling. One at Hornchurch, near Emerson Park Station, very bad; two in Ilford, one falling just behind the Super Cinema, on a shirt factory, killing many, and the other on the Cranham Road. One fell on the bottling plant of the co-op milk depot, killing forty-seven men; the building had a complete glass roof, so the casualties were many. One fell on Bethnal Green Hospital, two hundred patients had to be removed under murderous conditions, and so it goes, night and day. We get about fifteen every twenty-four hours in this neighborhood alone, that is, counting only those I can hear; but they are falling all over London; probably a couple of hundred are launched against us every day, but only the officials know what happens in its immediate locality. No information is ever given on the wireless beyond the base statement that “enemy action over Southern England caused casualties and damage during the period ending at seven a.m. this morning.” The allies have launched a new offensive in this West this week; the Russians daily get closer to Berlin; yet still the Germans fight. How much longer can they go on? The big three- Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin is meeting in conference, “somewhere in the Black Sea area.” In the Pacific the Americans have re-taken Manila. The Burma Road has been re-opened. Possibly this year will see the end of the war, but guessing is futile.<br /><br />February 16, 1945<br /><br />The war news is terrible. The collapse of Germany cannot be very far off now, but the daily battling is more than I can bear to think about. Death, death, death, all the time. Then when it is all over what is the living going to do? All these young men who have gloried in killing for so long, how are they going to resume normal peaceful lives? They wont be able to be Normal ordinary men, to live lives without excitement. The present can’t be thought about, nor can the future. I think nowhere in Europe is life going to be tolerable, even when the war ends. I hope to get out of it, to get away home to America. Meanwhile I think of the war as little as ever I can; that is the only way to stay sane, not to think about it. Instead I think about D.H.Lawrence, about Miriam Henderson, about Alice Searle, about Ruby Side…..<br /><br />February 20, 1945<br /><br />What I want to say, right here is that in case any grandchild of mine, forty or fifty years hence, should read this record of my life and thoughts; this is only a record of my life and thoughts, not a record of my times. I see, what I have written today, may be considered very trivial, and in face of events, very unfeeling. I tell you now; I have to turn my attention to these comparatively trivial things, to save my reason. To think about the war is to think about Hell. I wont do it. For the record of the history of these days you must look elsewhere. For instance, Churchill and Eden returned to this country yesterday from the Crimean Conference with Roosevelt and Stalin at Yalta, and a visit to Athens and Cairo in addition; and today both of them went to Parliament and spoke there. I don’t care. They are great politicians, but I am sick of politicians and all of their words I am sick to death of them. On the Continent the war is more hellish then ever; men destroy each other without ceasing. Over the air we are told of deeds of gallantry, which entail such suffering that simply to hear of them, is to shudder. Right here in town we suffer assault by the rocket bombs day and night without ceasing. Our absurd “rulers” daily devise plans for the future of our society, which if put into effect, will destroy the liberty of the ordinary free individual; we shall be planned into a very convenient servile state; and this I wouldn’t think about because it makes me angry; I feel that even when the war is over life isn’t going to be worth living. So I deliberately distract myself with thoughts and interests, which have nothing whatever to do with the war, and the present hour. Luckily I am practiced in living from my own vitals. More than most women I have had to live from my own roots.<br /><br />February 21, 1945<br /><br />At eight-thirty five p.m., a most terrific explosion occurred. The back door burst in, the fire was blown into the room, the house shook sickeningly. We thought we had received a direct hit. We hadn’t, but this was the nearest “fall” to us, which we have had yet. Ten minutes later a second bomb fell, but not quite so close. Ted laid his head down on the table and prayed. I couldn’t pray. I’m beyond that. Personal gods have ceased to be for me. Soon after nine o’clock Artie telephoned. He wanted to know if we were all right. He said the explosion had blown all their windows out, and in all the houses round about, and the street was full of people, looking for damage. He said he thought the thing had fallen in our direction, between his house and ours, and he was anxious to know if we were safe.<br /><br />For the rest of the evening I sat and trembled, and I had trouble not to break out into weeping. I felt deathly sick. I was afraid to go to bed, but no more bombs fell, except one after we were abed, about eleven-thirty p.m. This one also was very close, but not quite so devastatingly near.<br /><br />I have not heard yet exactly where the bomb did fall, last night on the nine o-clock news we were told that yesterday the Americans made a big raid over Germany. They attacked Nuremberg for the third time, and at noon nine hundred Flying Fortresses accompanied seven hundred fighters, dropped on the city eleven thousand high explosives, and three hundred thousand incendiaries. They also bombed Vienna and Trieste yesterday. It is no wonder the Germans sends their V2’s against us. War, insane, devilish, war. It fills me with fury. Fury at the stupidity of man. This loathsome crazy world, how I hate it!<br /><br />This evening I have written to Eddie. When Death comes so close, it is Eddie I think of.<br /><br />February 22, 1945<br /><br />The death roll in Fairholme Avenue has now risen to thirteen. Maureen Garven was here this afternoon and told me that nineteen people were killed in Harold Wood last week, and were all buried together today. So it goes, death and destruction without ceasing. There were A few bombs falling today, but not too near.<br /><br />February 27, 1945<br /><br />Mr. Churchill made a statement in Parliament about the Yalta Conference, and emphatically defended the arrangements made for Poland. There is to be a three-day debate on all of this.</span>Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-51232352085441948942016-04-02T09:17:00.001-04:002016-04-02T09:17:14.497-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 1-6-1945 to 1-19-1945 - I am saying damn the war ! Damn the war! Damn the war!<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's </span></a></span></span><br />
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">January 6, 1945</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I am saying damn the war ! Damn the war! Damn the war!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Last night at ten twenty p.m. we had an alert, and the all clear was not sounded until eleven p.m. Many doodles went over, I lost count of them. One seemed to trundle exactly over our chimney pots. I held my breath, and then when it continued past, going on towards the city, I vomited. Ted had already retired for the night and did not bother to come downstairs. He thinks it’s funny to be callous about the bombs, so I stick this war alone. So here I am, an old woman alone in a little room, sick with terror and anger and exasperation. You live your life alone, that’s positive. Do churches and masses help me? Not a whit. Dogmas? Evangelicals? What use are any of them against the flying bombs, the rockets, Hitler and all his gang? Did Christ save the world? He did not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Here I will transcribe a letter, which appears in this week’s <span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Time and Tide</span>. It is:</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sir: I cannot agree with Four Winds (a contributor) about our food allowances. Since we are so often told that these are “adequate” I hope you will allow me, in the interests of historical accuracy, to put another view.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I myself, for instance, am often hungry. Indeed, I am almost always a little hungry, with hunger not to be satisfied with bread and potatoes and dried eggs. (How much less palatable are these, than the dried eggs of 1914-1918!) I am a middle aged woman, no hearty eater, but I crave for more meat, more eggs, more butter, and for milk with ‘some body’. I would not exaggerate the value of school and works canteens, of the special allowances for young mothers and young children, but such as they are, my household gets none of these benefits. It is rarely possible or convenient for us to have meals in hotels or restaurants, and when we do, we find ourselves eating the same ersatz food and meager helpings.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">At the same time, my husband and I, besides our daily tasks—his in the office, mine in the house—have throughout the war spent our energies in Home Guard, Civil Defense, and many other national jobs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I have never grumbled about food rationing. I have never tried to get more than our share from the butcher or grocer. I am not grumbling now. I accept civilian hardships as the least that I can do for my part in this momentous fight. I know that we must win, and I know where the real burden falls.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I do get peeved when I am constantly told, and the world is told, that in spite of war, I am well fed and nourished. We have plenty to eat, certainly, but no one can say that the plenty is also good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Now of all the nations engaged in this struggle the British are admittedly making the greatest, longest, most forceful effort, individually, and I for one am grateful for the Christmas extras, about which so much noise is made. (A little extra sugar and margarine, a little more meat, for which, in this district, we went short last week, and a turkey here and there.) For the first time in months, we shall eat cake in our house. Usually, I have enough fats to make cakes, which are mostly flour and soda, and hardly eatable; for a week, we can be almost lavish with the breakfast margarine. There are thousands and thousands like me in Great Britain. I cannot feel that we need begrudge ourselves, or be begrudged, this small stimulant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I am, etc., S.M.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Except that I know nothing of the dried eggs of 1914-1918, I endorse every word of this letter. Our diet is horrible. Thousands and thousands of us are suffering from various forms of scurvy, sore mouths, sore eyes, sties, irritations in our private parts, etc., and perpetual fatigue. We do not and cannot thrive on endless starch. As for the dried eggs, they have become nauseous to us. People won’t buy them anymore, though they are urged at us from the papers every day. The only way we can tolerate them is disguised in a pudding. Where are the puddings to come from? For we have neither sugar, fat, milk, nor fruit, to make them with. “Right mental attitude” can do a lot for the body, but it doesn’t help much in wartime when the Ministry of Food doesn’t cooperate to supply it with the very necessary material proteins and vitamins. An ample supply of good fresh food is what we primarily require for good health, and that we simply have not got.</span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Monday, January 8, 1945</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It is a dreadful day. It is very wintry weather, icy pavements, impossible for me to go out. There is very bad war news. I can’t bear to listen to the war reports; the sufferings of the troops are beyond words. Twelve rockets here today between ten forty this morning and ten thirty tonight. We may get a couple more before midnight. Several have fallen in Chadwell Heath, I hear, opposite The Plough. The damage and death is awful. The Americans have been informed that they may expect flying bombs or rockets on New York and Washington, as those can be fired from U-boats.</span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Wednesday, January 10, 1945</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It is the twin’s birthday. They are twenty-six today. It is Cuth’s fifth birthday in prison. Poor Cuthie! Artie, I have not seen since Christmas Day. Since his marriage I have lost Artie indeed. If I could have my life over again, knowing what I know now, I would not have children, not one. If my life had been arranged differently, if we had remained in America in the midst of our family, I might have had some joy, some satisfaction, and some friendship with my sons. I might have lost them all to their wives, much as I have lost Artie. Who knows? What is certain is that I have had more continuing grief because of my children than any other reason in my life. If I hadn’t had children I shouldn’t have had to leave them. Nor should I feel, as I do, that if my children forget me that is, after all, merely my just due.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I have been in the most awful desolated mood all day. I long for someone to take me and hold me and love me and comfort me. Who have I, Oh Lord, on Earth? Who is there in Heaven? To whom can I go? I feel like a lost and frightened child, and I long, literally, for some kind being to find me, and pick me up in their arms, and soothe me. I want a bosom to cry on, a heart to lie against. Where? Whose? For me there is no one.</span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Thursday, January 11, 1945</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Danny Hartnett has been in to see me. He is a nice boy. He told me that on Christmas Eve, he and Lily, Mary, John, and Tony went to London and heard the midnight mass in Westminster Cathedral. He said there were thousands of people there, and everybody went up for Communion. Somehow this pleases me quite a lot. I love the Cathedral. Talking to Danny like this, somehow I can contact a little faith from his faith. He doesn’t know what doubt is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He said a queer thing about me. I inquired after his Aunt Rose. “Well she seems to be getting a lot older,” he said, “but she’s just as nice as ever. She’s like you. I always think of you and Aunt Rose together; you’re both so kind, so safe.” So safe! Here it comes again, this telling of a sense of reliability, which I convey to others. Yet could anyone in this world be more interiorly unreliable, unsteady, unsafe, than I am? How queer!</span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Friday, January 12, 1945</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">News today of the signing of an armistice in Athens between General Scobie and E.L.A.S. Well that is something.</span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Tuesday, January 16, 1945</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We had two awful rockets in the night; one at eleven fifteen, just as I was going up to bed. The reverberations seemed to go on a very long time. I was on the staircase and every stair seemed to tremble. The concussion claps were deafening. The other was at three o’clock this morning. The last one, very close, seemed to lift the house from its sockets and then drop it back again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I have just learnt via Mrs. Capes, via Mr. Harden who boards with Mrs. Capes, who is clerk of the works at the town hall, that the eleven o’clock one fell in Rainham, on a group of houses of a new estate, killing many; and the three o’clock one fell near Gallows’ Corner, Straight Road, in the direction of Noah Hill. This last, absolutely terrific, luckily killed no one, for it fell on open ground. A nearby farm had its roof taken off, and all windows blown out, but nobody or animal hurt. It could have destroyed scores, for it was an extra big one, but apart from damaging the farmhouse it has only caused two immense craters.</span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Wednesday, January 17, 1945</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It is reported on the B.B.C. that just before five o’clock this afternoon Marshal Stalin broadcast from Moscow that the Red Army under Marshal Zhukov has taken Warsaw; and a little later the announcement was made of the capture of Czestochowa, a German defense base only fifteen miles from the Silesian Frontier, and of two other Polish towns. Rudomesko and Pryedbory.</span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Thursday, January 18, 1945</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Late last night the Lublin wireless announced that Cracow, the second city in Poland, had been liberated. Five million Russians are moving on the Reich. Pray God this is at last the beginning of the end. In Parliament Mr. Churchill is making a statement on Greece, and on the general movement of the war. When the war is over I think nothing will ever trouble me again, nothing.</span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Friday, January 19, 1945</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I received a letter from Eddie. After Ted went to bed last night I had a second reading through Eddie’s letter. I did not share it with Ted. It would only hurt him and what’s the good?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The letter was in reply to mine of November 5; it was posted in Washington, December 6, and took until yesterday to get here! He writes:</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Have found out that Westwood is better fixed up, but you know Chilly and Marge. They’d drive me nuts. I hate good people. It was a saint who messed up my family and almost messed me up, only I didn’t let him. I hate virtue and piety and sanctity and seriousness. I want to be comfortable, and if being comfortable means being bad then G-D I want to be bad. As for Heaven, with the entire lily livered nincompoops going to Heaven, I want to go to Hell; it may be hot but it won’t be dull. Who wants to go to Heaven to meet his mother-in-law again? Or a twice-married man to meet both his wives? Or a divorcee to meet all her husbands? Woodrow Wilson will agree with Franklin Roosevelt!!! Priests and nuns, timid creatures, afraid of life, all of them. (It takes guts to live; any coward can run away!) Oh, I don’t blame them, I just feel sorry for them. To send me to a heaven littered up with such non-entities, that would indeed be Hell for me. It’s too bad, but to what some people is sublime, to me is just ridiculous. I don’t care if the world is going to Hell; I want to enjoy the ride while I am here. I’m shocking bad, mother mine, but my little family loves me and that’s all that matters. They don’t care what I think, only how I treat them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">However, if you want to come to our place you are welcome. It’s funny, now that I don’t worry about money anymore, it just seems to take care of itself; it comes in, and somehow there’s always enough. I’ll always make a good living, because I am happy and well cared for and I like my job, (and I have the best wife in the world.) I’m not afraid, no matter what I take on as extra obligations, bonds, insurance, etc. I always seem to have enough. I buy a lot of things I think are damned foolishness, but if it makes people happy, why not? You can’t take it with you. I struggled for the first half of my life, and now I’m enjoying the second half. I am too busy living this one to worry about the next one. You can’t frighten me; I am an adult now.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I wrote Dad a very long letter recently. I don’t believe it pleased him, but I have had so much of his truth and ethics for so many years that I thought I would dish out some of my own.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I much prefer silence and tolerance to truth. Truth is a nasty sharp weapon. You can cut a man’s heart and spirit out with truth. It has happened to me. So I finally come back with the same “nasty knife, truth!” Of course it really can’t hurt much because his faith is a perfect shield, the douser the faith the thicker the shield. For years I violated my own feelings so as not to hurt his, while he soothes his own feelings, at the expense of others. Finally the nasty “truth” came out. Truth I could swear at. The big lesson in life is to learn to keep your big mouth shut, that’s what I found out. I would never think of indulging the “truth” at home. I value my happiness and my family. Its love that people want, appreciation, attention, yes even flattery to a certain extent, especially the ladies fair, and it sure gets business from the men. I finally stood up for my own code of ethics. My heart, as well as my head, is just as good as the next mans. Judging a tree by its fruit, my accomplishments speak for themselves. I welcome comparison.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When you add it all up it is all so childish, what do I care what people think? As long as they can do me no harm? So I get a fresh grip on myself. Others forgive sin, but I have to go on forgiving virtue. A virtue to which a whole family has been sacrificed. Do you wonder I dislike England and the Catholic Church? My love to my children doesn’t diminish my love for my wife, and neither one diminish my very natural love for my mother. We’re all sacrificed to the Church and country. As much as he has hurt me I couldn’t begin to express my opinion of his opinions. Not really. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt anybody that much. After all, his intentions are good. You are the one who constantly reminded me of his goodness when he angered me. You taught me tolerance and forgiveness. He never boosted your stock to me, except to damn with faint praise. For years I feared him and believed I was really a foolish nincompoop, until I found out I am just as smart as he is, every bit of it. He has no right to impose his philosophy on you. You are doing frightful harm to yourself trying to be somebody you are not. There is one thing you must do. You must rejoin your own church. You belong in it. You can’t be a carbon copy of someone else. It certainly can’t really harm a saint; his egotistical skin is already far too thick. (It will only add another diamond to his crown.) You will feel better physically too, if your mind is at peace. I pray you go to the church you belong to.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Harold is a product of Dad’s romanticism, “marry early” “mind over matter” “don’t take women seriously, they’re not smart” somewhat of an ascetic; so he muffed his marriage, all theory, no practice, all logic, no brains, much talk, little action. I’ve been giving him hell hoping he might wake up. Let’s hope. I’ll help everybody up, but no one can drag me down.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Johnnie is much like Dad, really very self-centered, a complete ego inside a hard core, difficult to hurt. His marriage is a half-marriage, because Ruth is really no company for him, never can be a real partner. He likes his job, etc, and enjoys good company, and has many interests and hobbies. Like Dad, he never loses his temper, and I really believe Ruth is afraid of him, over awed, impressed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Jimmie loses himself in his work, has a host of friends, but they don’t come to the house. I believe he is afraid to think, to analyze his real situation.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Chilly is a glorious fool. Because of his gust enthusiasm it’s more glory than foolishness. He can remake the world between “breakfast and lunch,” but that wears me out. I quit remaking the world years ago; I’m content to live. His family life is happy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I don’t have time for reading much, but I do a lot of writing, educational matter for salesmen and mechanics. I’m going places in this company, mother mine, so never worry about my finances. They sent me to straighten out a mess in a shipyard in Maine last summer, and last week they sent me by plane to New Orleans to do a little more troubleshooting. I’m doing a lot of pioneering for the company.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Merry Christmas if I am not too late. I wish you would go to the hospital and get yourself fixed up. Getting back to our starting place, if you are at peace with yourself, in your own church. I think you would feel safer about it. Dad has no right whatsoever to expect you to violate your personality, and no right in any way shape or form to criticize your religion. I know he has a way of ruining people’s pleasure in their own taste. I always hid from him anything I liked, or he could make me dislike it with that Midas touch. Many many pleasures has he killed for me, until I finally made my “Declaration of Independence.” He has to sit back on his haunches, no compromise. When the camel gets his head in the tent you are out in the cold.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I could write a book, but you know the story. So do I.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In the name of common sense make your Declaration of Independence from this colossal tyranny; step down off the sacrificial altar. So I’m going to shut up. Please do what I say. I always found that your advice to me was always good. It always worked fine. Suppose you take a chance on me this time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Lots of love, mother mine. Eddie.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>Well, I didn’t sit down to transcribe so much of this letter, yet here it is. If Ted knew what his family thought of him he would have a fit. He does not know what sort of man he is, he hasn’t the faintest idea. How we hate his goodness! No, not his goodness, his mushy piety, his controversial theology, his self-righteousness, his damned churchliness, his crushing domination. Ted’s conversion on top of his very peculiar nature was a disaster for all of us.</span><br />
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Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-75657167187007917582016-03-12T23:55:00.000-05:002016-03-12T23:55:24.677-05:00World War ll London Blitz: 12-2-44 - 12-29-44 We had no rockets during the night, though seven fell in this neighborhood yesterday.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">PURCHASE DIARY'S HERE:</span></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">December 2, 1944<br /><br />We had no rockets during the night, though seven fell in this neighborhood yesterday. The one o’clock bomb fell at Lyndhurst Drive, Harrow Drive, and Osborne Road, rather near to Arties place. He told his father Hilda was extremely upset, and the baby too had a screaming fit. Just after eleven this morning another one fell near here. It was a most terrific crack and shook me pretty considerably. It must have been in this town somewhere.<br /><br /><br />December 17, 1944<br /><br />The war news is bad, especially the news from Greece. I have not noted this before, but Civil War has been going on in Greece these past two weeks, and our troops firing on the “rebels”. It is a shameful story. I will leave it for the history books.<br /><br />December 21, 1944<br /><br />The compulsion of men over women; how we hate it! Another instance was given out on the B.B.C. on the one o’clock news. Mr. Bevin, it seems, has decided, that women in the A.T.S. will now be compelled to serve over-seas, though they will not be sent to Burma or West Africa, and they may “volunteer” for India. It was bad enough to conscript our girls into the Services at all, but to compel them to go overseas is an absolute tyranny. The conscription of British women in this war has been one of the very worst things about it. Women as soldiers, women with guns, what blasphemy. That’s how men run the world. No wonder women hate men. If men will have wars, women can’t stop them; but that women should be dragged into the atrocities of wars is positively devilish. Women suffer and feel no compensating glories; but that they should be compelled into fighting them, that’s fiendish. It is Mr. Bevin’s bright idea. Another comfortable old man who allows the young fight and die for him. God curse Bevin.<br /><br />The war is going very badly anyhow. Civil War in Greece, and we, the English, fighting the Greeks! In Belgium, the Germans are achieving victories over the First American Army. Rundstedt has thrown in fifteen divisions against us, though today’s news reports the Americans are holding their positions. Losses on both sides are very heavy. This lunacy! When, oh when, will it end?<br /><br />December 23, 1944<br /><br />We received today a card from Cuthie, dated the Twentieth of October. It reads:<br /><br />Dear Folks, Just a card to wish you a good Christmas and New Year. I would not be surprised to get home before then but I send this in case I shall still be here. (Then there are three lines blacked out. When we can decipher again, he goes on) I am now reading “Dombey and Son” and have just finished “Barnaby Rudge.”<br /><br />Cuth<br /><br />That’s all. The poor prisoner boys are still in prison.<br /><br />December 26, 1944 Boxing Day<br /><br />I was surprised at midday to hear on the news that Mr. Churchill and Mr. Eden are in Athens. They flew there yesterday. They are convening a conference, with all parties, to try and settle the troubles, the Archbishop to preside.<br /><br />December 29, 1944<br /><br />The B.B.C. reports that an earthquake was felt last night in Northern England. The tremors lasted nearly three minutes. One man was thrown out of bed, but nobody hurt anywhere. It was the severest in Manchester to Leeds area, but was felt as far north as Darlington. What’s an earthquake these days, when men themselves are blasting the world to pieces?<br /><br />It is three-thirty p.m. and the B.B.C. has just announced that on the advice of Mr. Churchill the King of Greece has agreed to permit Regency in Greece, and has signified his sanction by cable to the Archbishop of Athens, Damashinos, whom he has appointed as Regent. So yet another King has stepped down, perhaps only temporarily, perhaps permanently.</span>Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-57512804799877088092016-01-23T09:19:00.005-05:002016-03-12T23:55:58.978-05:00World War ll London Blitz: 11-1-44 to 11-26-44 Of course someday the war will end, but I begin to be afraid I may end before the war does.<div>
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's:</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">November 1, 1944<br /><br />I was very agreeably surprised yesterday afternoon by the arrival of Hilda and the baby. This is the first time she has been to this house since leaving it last May. We telephoned Artie and told him to come to tea. They stayed until nearly eight o’clock, and everything was happy and pleasant. The baby is thriving and is a beautiful child, and Hilda was very agreeable, actually smiling for once. Two rocket bombs fell whilst they were here, but not too close. The baby was lovely. I should like her to bring it here occasionally, if only she would. I have asked them to come next Monday, when Joan will be here. They have agreed to come, but will let me know later whether they will come to lunch or to tea.<br /><br />In the course of a speech in the House yesterday Mr. Churchill said that militarily we couldn’t look for the end of the war before Christmas, or perhaps before Easter. </span></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Of course someday the war will end, but I begin to be afraid I may end before the war does.</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> Au-Revoir.<br /><br />November 3, 1944<br /><br />We had an awful explosion in the night at one a.m. with a second, not quite so bad, following at two a.m. I have heard this afternoon that the one a.m. rocket fell in the Elan Park Rainham neighborhood. At ten-thirty this morning the first daylight one fell; then they came along at eleven a.m.; twelve-fifteen p.m., twelve-thirty, twelve forty-five, one-twenty and two-twenty p.m. We have had none since then. It is awful.<br /><br />November 4, 1944<br /><br />I went out shopping this morning, which was unusual for me on a Saturday morning; but I simply could not stay in the house and cook. I loathe the house and the housekeeping. Just as I reached our gate on my return a most terrific explosion went off. The air quivered; the whole street seemed to shake. It was exactly eleven o’clock. Two minutes later a second occurred, not quite so bad. I don’t know where the bomb or bombs fell, but evidently not in Romford. When Ted came in for lunch it was still not known where the devilish thing fell, perhaps we shall know by tonight. It might be anywhere within a radius of six to ten miles. This infernal war. I’m restless, terribly restless. I want to go roaming. Where can we roam? The war is everywhere. Damn the war.<br /><br />This morning’s bomb fell on the golf course. Nobody was hurt, though one bungalow was completely destroyed, and several other houses severely damaged. We had another rocket at five-thirty p.m. and another at nine forty-five p.m.<br /><br />November 5, 1944 Guy Fawkes’s Day.<br /><br />A gale was blowing all day. This has been a dreadful day with the flying missiles. A rocket nearly shook the house down about midnight, but after that we had quietness until seven-fifty this morning, when the first bomb of the day fell and then followed by many others. At seven-thirty this evening an alert sounded for doodles, and a second alert was given at seven fifty-five. The all clear came at eight-thirty. Since then all has been quiet. The rockets were all near by, but the doodles were further off. I spent most of the clear time writing letters to Eddie and to Chic.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">November 6, 1944<br /><br />It was a foggy morning with fog signals going off intermittently. Joan arrived about eight-fifteen, for breakfast. Hilda arrived with the baby just before one o’clock and Artie very soon after. In the afternoon Miss Cannon came and also Miss Coppen. A rocket went off with a great bang exactly at three o’clock. Joan says they had ten in one day in Hammersmith, and on that same day a warden told her there had been seventeen in London. The theory as to why they are never publicly mentioned, or written of in the press, is, that silence prevents Hitler knowing whether he has got the range or not; the idea being that he may think they drop in the sea! Also if he fires off twenty a day, perhaps ten fall on Germany itself, five in the sea, and only five reach England; so hush hush! Don’t say a word. Isn’t it silly? Of course he knows they reach us. Joan says that in the city there is great dissatisfaction with the government over them because we do nothing, and say nothing. Naturally. Our Ministry of Information certainly treats the public as one big ass. How silly men are!<br /><br />Joan left about four o’clock, as she wanted to be home before dark, and Hilda, with the baby left with her. Hilda was quite smiling and cheerful today. I think the baby has humanized her. She was really pleasant to Mrs. Cannon and Miss Coppen, so much so that both of them remarked upon it after she had gone. Good. I hope she will now stay friendly and pleasant. It is so silly to be dour. The baby is beautiful.<br /><br />November 7, 1944<br /><br />It is Election Day in the States today. Also this is the twenty-seventh anniversary of the set-up of Soviet Russia. I suppose the Russian Revolution was the greatest historical event of my lifetime. After all a war is nothing new. This war is only bigger than other wars. The overthrow of Czarist Russia, the Russian Revolution, was a unique event. True, there had been the French Revolution, but great as that was; it was but an infant affair in comparison with the dreadful and terrific Russian Revolution. I’m afraid of Russia. It is Russia who is winning this war, first by her arms, and next by her ideas. I expect if I could live long enough I should see all Europe sovietized and communized. I should hate it. Dr. Alexis Carrel is dead, in Paris.<br /><br />November 8, 1944<br /><br />President Roosevelt has been re-elected for a fourth term. The commentator says this gives Roosevelt the green light, the go-ahead sign. Yes, I am glad. I think Roosevelt ought to be in office to help wind up the war. We have had no disturbance since half an hour of flying bombs, Monday evening. The Germans have been driven from their last posts on Walcheren. This means the approaches to the Port of Antwerp are now free for us. Clearance engineers and special mine sweepers are already on the job. Vienna has been bombed for the fifth night running. The Germans are giving ground in East Prussia.<br /><br />Oh God let the war end soon!<br /><br />Our planes are very active this morning; they are passing and re- passing incessantly, ever since early dawn, and it is a foggy day too. I think a big battle must be in progress somewhere.<br /><br />November 9, 1944<br /><br />For once the sun is shining and the sky a clear blue. Planes were going out ever since early morning, long before we got up. Today I am in a state of exasperation hard to bear. Ted gave me a beautiful lecture over breakfast, all because I asked him to change my Boot’s book this morning and he said he hadn’t had time. Then he launched forth about the rottenness of today’s literature, by which he meant novels. This is what Ted does with the books he brings home for me; before he will even let me touch them he opens them and reads pages on which cursory reading he passes judgment. If he finds one word about sex, love, or the body, the book is condemned. It is filthy he says, or degenerate, or immoral. To suit Ted all novels must be innocuous as the Dickens’s, where men and women only have faces, and live strictly by conscience and the Victorian Sunday. This morning I got his usual harangue, complete with his condemnation of modern women, and me in particular. I listened in silence. I have heard this song before. Inside I was groaning. This man is such an awful fool. In speech, in what may be said or written, Ted is as prudish as the Victorian spinster; but in action, in the bed, when he feels like it, he is as brutish and as sensual as the Victorian paterfamilias. Nothing may be uttered but everything may be done and must be done when the man is in the mood. I have never known Ted to desist when his inclination urged him, never. Last Sunday night I nearly went mad with him. Sunday had been a hectic day with bombs and raids and warnings all day long. I was a nervous wreck. In addition I was crampy. Ted wanted to love; I hadn’t an atom of feeling, except pain, and the expectation of pain. What did that matter to him? He turned me on my back and clambered upon me. Then I did get a cramp, a severe one in my left thigh, and he had to let me go. I walked the floor. I was in and out of bed several times with the damned cramp returning, and all the time I was in dread of another warning! Finally I became easy, but was I allowed to lie in peace and sleep? Perish the thought! Not until he had taken his satisfaction. I lay in bed full of hatred and loathing, I felt sick to death of him and of marriage. I am weary of him. I am dead weary.<br /><br />November 10, 1944<br /><br />We have had three rockets today so far. Churchill actually “told the House” about the rockets this morning. These are the V2’s. Apparently he had to mention them because the Germans were told about them on the eighth and all the damage they were doing to us. They fly through the sky at an altitude of from sixty to seventy miles, Churchill says. So that is why we can’t be warned of their approach. He minimized them of course. What humbuggery is talked in Parliament!<br /><br />Last night we had two alerts for flying bombs. I counted at least seven explosions in the last attack. I was so frightened, and so ill. Planes are buzzing about right now, very low. I hate the sound of them, even our own. What an invention! Now man destroys himself with his own cleverness. How can one control fear? I am sure I don’t know. It is a physical malady, which assails you. With me it has nothing to do with my mind. I am not afraid of the Germans. I am not afraid of death, as death, yet I can sit and shake like a frightened dog. I simply can’t control my nerves. My animal body is aware of danger and that awareness pervades the whole of me. I hate the Germans and I loathe the fiendish stupidity of war. My mind remains in control of my reason. I do not scream or cry or become hysterical. Actually I try to divert my mind with a book. My body misbehaves. My stomach retch’s, sometimes I vomit. My limbs tremble and my hands shake. Sometimes when I am very frightened, pulses beat in my neck, my jaws quiver, my head trembles like a palsy. Nor can I do anything to stop these reactions; I just have to suffer them.<br /><br />November 12, 1944<br /><br />Last night we were awakened about four-thirty a.m. by a most awful explosion. It must have been fairly close, though so far today we have not heard where. It shook the house, shook the bed. It also shook my heart. I can easily understand how people can die of shock or of sheer fright. In the dead of the night these shocks are truly awful. It took me a long while to get to sleep again.<br /><br />November 13, 1944<br /><br />We had four rockets during the night: two between noon and one o’clock today, and doodles this evening between six and seven p.m. Miss Cannon and Miss Coppen were here this afternoon, bringing news of the various neighborhood fatalities. Two brothers who attend Liberty School, and their mother, were killed by a rocket in Brentwood, the father, who was out, escaped. One rocket fell on a shelter in Dagenham and killed the six people inside it. A falling fragment killed an A.T.S. girl walking by Gidea Park Station. So it goes on. We are told that these things are fired from The Hague, Holland.<br /><br />The newspapers are full of comments on the supposed Hitler broadcast to the German people, read for him by Himmler. November Ninth was the first time in twenty-one years that Hitler has failed to broadcast to his Nazi’s on the anniversary of their Munich Beer Cellar Putsch. Why didn’t he speak on this occasion? The Germans have been told he was too busy; a very inadequate excuse, for since he found time to compose his speech (if it was his) surely he could have taken twenty minutes to broadcast it from his headquarters? Yet he didn’t. So the world is asking: Is Hitler sick? Or is he mad? Or is he dead? The last time his voice was heard was in July, at the time of his attempted assassination, when he went to the microphone to assure his dear Nazi’s that Providence had preserved his precious life.<br /><br />November 14, 1944<br /><br />This is one of the dreariest days for weather that I ever remember. Darkness covers the face of the earth. Not fog, darkness. I went to the cleaners to collect my dresses. Outside the cleaners a wedding-taxi all tied up with white ribbons was held up for traffic. All of us in the shop exclaimed Poor Bride! What an omen! This makes me think of the day in nineteen forty when France fell. An extraordinary and unaccountable thick darkness covered the world here about that day. If only this were an omen of the fall of Germany! Oh, how thankful we should be! One woman in the cleaners said: “Maybe Hitler’s dead. The Express says he is likely to be killed any day now by his own Germans.” “Yes,” said another, “I expect there are crowds of folk in Germany who would kill him if they could.”<br /><br />We have had three rockets so far today; I have expected more in this darkness. However the day is not over yet. Last night we had none. I had a lovely sleep and also a good loving. For once our moods coincided. I feel serene today, in spite of our ominous darkness.<br /><br />Mrs. Fitch has been in, and staying to drink a cup of tea. That’s how much free time I have got! We talked of the war of course; there is nothing else to talk of. She too had seen the held up bridal taxi; and felt sorry for the bride. We agreed together how queer it was to see all the South Street shops with lighted windows. “Like before the war, wasn’t it!” It was queer, and somehow it didn’t seem right. We have all been so habituated to the black out that to see lights shining out in the darkness somehow seem wrong and definitely unsafe.<br /><br />November 15, 1944<br /><br />We suffered a dreadful night. Very soon after midnight the alert sounded. I came downstairs at once and the all clear did not go until one-fifty a.m. I lost count of how many bombs flew over, seven or eight, perhaps more, some of them very close indeed. After I had fallen asleep we were awakened again abut two-thirty a.m. by the explosion of a rocket, two hours later came another, then at five twenty-five a.m. came a most terrific crash, shaking the bed and the house and crashing in the dining room window. Ten minutes later an alert was sounded, and before I could get out of bed a flying bomb passed before our window, sailing over the back gardens down this street. It was most terrifying. I grabbed my petticoat and gown and hurried downstairs. Four others passed, practically in the same track, but the all clear came fairly quickly, being given at five-fifty five a.m. I went back to bed, very shaken. A text flashed into my mind: “ His mind is stayed on peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee.” God. Yes it is God to whom I instinctively turn, God and no one else.<br /><br />Lying in bed, trying to warm up, trying to fall back into another hour of sleep, a certain peace of mind did come over me. I thought I am at peace with everybody. Ted and I are good friends. There is more amity between us during these latter awful war years than there ever was before. This war has drawn us closer together. Hilda no longer troubles me. As for Artie, well, I seem to have no feeling about him at all. He sundered himself from me completely about a year ago, when he stole away to Scotland. That was sort of death he gave me then, and death is death. Artie left me. I have gotten over it. He is not important to me anymore. I have no sore feelings about him now, nor even any disappointed ones. I have let him go. My angry feelings about Hilda have vanished too. He and she are not strangers to my regard, but they are not friends. Equally they are not children. They went off violently into their own life all right. As far as all deep feeling goes, I am finished with them. It doesn’t matter. As for the other boys, I lost them long ago. There remains only Cuthie. When he comes back, will he be like a son to me? Or will he be simply another stranger? I feel it is immaterial. If he wants me I am here. So I am for all of them. I am alone, always alone.<br /><br />Thursday November 16, 1944<br /><br />I dream a dream. I live in a nightmare. Night was quiet until five-thirty this morning, when a crashing rocket fell. Then it was quiet again until seven-thirty, when an even more deafening one fell nearer. We shook in our bed, and more windows cracked. I got up to prepare breakfast. Ted came into the room and bumped the door; more glass fell out of the window. I began to cry. I felt I could not stand any more of this life. I suppose why my thoughts are dwelling so persistently on the Novembers of my childhood is a way my mind is protecting itself. Memory is retreating into the far past, even when Novembers could hold happiness for a child when life was safe, and when the whole personality floated serene in the irresponsibility of protected childhood. I thought I could write it all down but that thought was a dream; I can’t write, my mind can only wander. It is impossible to concentrate on anything.<br /><br />Joyce, the Radio girl, has just been in. She tells me that this morning’s seven-thirty rocket fell on Collier Row Lane, directly opposite the police station. “Roseland’s again!” she said. She had driven past. “It’s awful up there this morning,” she said. “People all over the road, running about with blood all over their faces. People screaming. There is glass all over the road. Houses down, I don’t know how many. Ambulances. Makes you fairly sick. So much blood.” The poor child shuddered. This girl had her eighteenth birthday last Saturday, yet here she is, carrying on with her job, driving her van through the desolation, continuing her rounds as usual, earning her living, keeping her nerve. God protect the poor child.<br /><br />I am very distressed by this mornings “incident”. Havering School is down to the ground. Luckily there were no children in it. The rocket hit a bus, which turned completely over before exploding. It is not known yet which way it was traveling, but it would have been full of people going to work at that hour in the morning. Mrs. Copsey and her daughter were killed, and three children who lived next door to her. Total casualties are not known yet; digging for the bodies is still going on. The number must be large. Rosedale Road is quite gone. All of these people were alive at half past seven this morning. Their deaths do not help Hitler in the slightest. This is not war; this is murder. Wanton blind murder. God damn the Germans, now, and for all eternity. Oh, damn, damn the Germans!<br /><br />Friday November 17, 1944<br /><br />I have been in a passion of fury for hours. Two rockets have just fallen on each other’s heels, and a previous one fell at ten-fifty a.m. All through the night they fell, approximately every half hour until six a.m. how many poor unfortunates have been bombed into the streets in this, God knows. I am sitting here in the little dining room with the black out curtains still drawn, to keep out the weather. Rain is beating in at the broken window, and the curtains are soggy with it, but at least the curtains are holding it, so far.<br /><br />All this week the members in Parliament have been debating White Papers on the demobilization of the services and the demobilization of the workers as soon as the war with Germany is ended. It isn’t ended! Yesterday they even passed a regulation permitting the manufacture of ice cream, as from today. Our politicians winning the war! Last weekend Mr. Churchill and Mr. Eden visited Paris, taking their wives with them, and Churchill his daughter Mary. They collected plaudits and all had a good time. Churchill is enjoying the war. He appears everywhere with his big cigar and his big paunch, a grinning Uncle Toby. His son, though in uniform, is carefully kept out of the firing line, another nice fat baby. Oh, I fume. This intolerable war drags on and on, whilst the old men keep on talking. When there is no more money for the top dogs to be made out of it, then it will stop I suppose. Are armaments made for nothing? I don’t think so.<br /><br />The B.B.C. tells us this morning those six-allied armies are now attacking Germany in the West, over a front of six hundred kilometers, from Holland to the Swiss border, and that the Red Army has nearly cleared the Hungarian Plain. Well? I think of our poor boys, fighting in this weather, which is atrocious. Poor fellows! (The Germans are doing fine, it seems, in spite of the six allied armies. Oh my God, how are we going to endure?)<br /><br />It is now evening and a rocket at seven thirty-five p.m. and another at nine forty-five p.m., very bad. Again tonight I am afraid to go to bed, an awful feeling.<br /><br />Saturday November 18, 1944<br /><br />Reta was at the door. She had been coming up the street as the bombs fell. This mornings bombs fell in Rush Green. Reta stayed until nearly nine o’clock. Another bomb fell at seven-fifty and another worse one just now at ten thirty-five p.m. A moment before it fell our light went out and at the explosion still more of our windows crashed in. Ted is starting the night in bed, but I cannot go to bed tonight. From the back windows I can see a fire on the horizon; looks at the back of the station a big blaze. I shall spend the night down here on the sofa.<br /><br />Ted received a communication from the air ministry this morning, informing him that his son, P.O.W. A.C. Thompson, had been promoted as from May 1st, 1943, to Flight Sergeant, and as from May 2, 1943, to Warrant Officer. So the poor prisoners get allowed their promotions, so that is something to the good.<br /><br />Sunday November 19, 1944<br /><br />We suffered an awful night. We hardly slept at all. Cars were driving up and down for hours, and many trains whistling and passing on the line. A bad bomb fell around half past one, but no others followed. Our first daylight one fell at seven-fifty this morning. At breakfast Ted brought in the news that the ten-thirty bomb last night fell on Rush Green, and that’s where the fire was. Casualties are not known yet, but believed to be many. Wardens are still digging out the dead from the Collier Row incident. This has been a terrible week.<br /><br />Monday November 20, 1944<br /><br />I have written another letter to Eddie. Life is now more precarious than ever, I feel I must communicate with my children whilst I know I can. Last night I heard of the sudden death of Mr. Dumaresq. This was not due to bombs, but natural causes. He was taken ill at South Street last Tuesday, brought home in a taxi, and was dead by the time the taxi reached his house. He was buried on Saturday in Romford Cemetery. What a tragic way to die, alone in a taxicab. I received today a card from Cuth written July 2, 1944.<br /><br />Saturday November 25, 1944<br /><br />About twelve-thirty Reta Pullan came, and again a bomb was falling somewhere as she came up the path to our door. “I seem to be a Jonah,” she said. She came to tell us she received a card and a letter from Cuth this week, dates of July 2, and July 11 in these he expected to be home in a month. Poor boy! She did not stay to lunch. Miss Coppen told us the noon time bomb fell in the Thames, near Woolwich. Maurice was on the Woolwich Ferry and felt and saw it fall. It sunk a boat a little ahead of the ferryboat and then struck the riverbank on the Essex side. He said women and children on the ferry screamed “something awful.” He also said that there was nothing you could do about these rockets, there was simply no time at all for warnings or to take shelter; if you were hit, well, that was all about it.<br /><br />Sunday November 26, 1944<br /><br />A rocket fell early this morning on Longbridge Road, Barking; fifteen houses were down, casualties not yet known. Worse yesterday, for one fell on Woolworths’s store in New Cross, when it was filled with Saturday shoppers, mostly mothers and children, hundreds killed. Last night I found myself reciting the Hail Mary! Over and over.</span>Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-18639776311262706952015-10-12T22:13:00.000-04:002016-01-23T09:18:50.722-05:00World War ll London Blitz: 10-2-44 to 10-30-44 Yesterday we heard details of the surrender of Calais and the capture of Cap Griz Nez.<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's</span></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">October 2, 1944<br /><br />Yesterday we heard details of the surrender of Calais and the capture of Cap Griz Nez. On Saturday at noon the Mayors of Dover and Folkestone announced to the people of those towns the capture of the last cross-channel of guns. This corner of Kent has been nicknamed Hell’s Corner. Saturday night was the first night they could sleep without fear of being shelled, for over four years. They came out of their caves and sang and danced in the streets, and they went to church in the evening, to offer prayers to God for their deliverance. At the end of the news last night the B.B.C. gave a short recording of one of these Thanksgiving services form Folkestone Parish Church. As I listened to those Kent's people singing a hymn, I wept. I experienced a great feeling of belonging. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br />October 10, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br />The war still drags on. The summer has not seen the finish it. Yesterday we were told Mr. Churchill and Mr. Eden were in Moscow; they had flown there for consultation with Stalin. Today we are told they have taken fifty members of their staffs with them. What are they going to cook up now? Final victory? Soon?<br /><br />The Germans have launched their flying bombs against us from Henkel’s over the North Sea, these past five nights. Everyday a few of their rocket bombs fall without warning. The last was at ten-twenty this morning. Ted said he thought from the smoke that it fell Chelmsford way. Anyhow the explosion was terrific, sounding much closer than Chelmsford. The wireless never mentions these things; only the neighborhoods, which receive them, know anything about them. They make me furious. They fill me with a raging anger against all Germans. In the beginning of the war I did not hate the Germans. I think I was sorry for them because they had to obey Hitler but now I despise them because they do obey them. The obscenities and cruelties of the Germans are beyond all computing, and not one German dares to stand forth and refuse to carry out orders. They must like Hitler. So I say all Germans, they are all demons. Forgive them? Never! They are unforgivable, the whole nation of them, and always will be.<br /><br />Wednesday October 11, 1944<br /><br />I am taking a pause before finishing my scullery jobs. I have had a full morning of cooking, and I am now very tired. A rocket bomb startled us while we were eating lunch. It fell at one-fifteen p.m. a worse one, or perhaps a nearer one woke us at five twenty-five a.m. and this was something terrific. Yet the B.B.C. never mentions these things, nor ever has done. We are waiting for either the capture or surrender of Aachen. An ultimatum was given it by the Americans, which expired at ten-fifty a.m. today. So far the commander of the city has made no reply, although a company of German soldiers walked out and surrendered last night, and today in many houses in the city have hoisted white flags. The Germans were informed that if the city did not surrender it would be totally destroyed. This is the first German city to fall to us, although the allied armies have already occupied many villages. The Polish Prime Minister in London has been invited to attend the conference in Moscow with Churchill and Stalin. He is leaving at once. Dunkirk is being demolished. Possibly the explosions we have heard today were not rockets at all, but came from Dunkirk. The B.B.C. said just now on the one o’clock news that people on the South Coast have been hearing and feeling the explosions at Dunkirk since early this morning. What next?<br /><br />October 13, 1944<br /><br />Mrs. Jude called in this morning. She went away to Teignmouth when the doodlebugs started, and only returned to Romford last week. She is very concerned over the rocket bombs, but what are we going to do about them? They are fired from inside Germany, and they travel at the rate of nine hundred miles per hour, so we cannot be notified of their approach. Every morning this week one has fallen in this neighborhood at exactly five twenty-five a.m. The first we know of them is the explosion. They are falling on practically the same spot every time in Warstead, so presumably that is their range. The B.B.C. never mentions them.<br /><br /><br />Saturday October14, 1944<br /><br />We had a very bad night. Two rockets fell between one a.m. and one-thirty and then at three-thirty a.m. we had an alert for doodles. Oh this wearying war! Aachen has not yet fallen, but Stalin last night announced that the Russians had taken Riga and there is a report, not yet officially confirmed that the allies have liberated Athens. They freed Corinth some days ago. It doesn’t look like the war is ending this year after all, and Eisenhower himself has said there is a prospect we shall have to fight all through this coming winter. What a dreadful prospect!<br /><br /><br />Sunday October 15, 1944<br /><br />I had pain in my stomach all night. I had to come downstairs at one-fifty for an alert. One flying bomb passed practically directly overhead almost immediately afterwards. It was very frightening. Then a little later I heard two others exploding at a distance. The all clear was given at two-thirty a.m.<br /><br />We had authentic news today of the freeing of Athens. The made me weep a little. It seems to me Athens means more to us English than Rome does. It is of Greece we think when we dream of glory and beauty, not the Roman Empire. Damn! There is an alert now. Au-Revoir<br /><br />Saturday October 21, 1944<br /><br />The Americans have now taken Aachen outright. This is the first German city to be occupied by the Allies. I wonder how the Germans like that. I am feeling fine. Fine. I haven’t been so serene for years.<br /><br /><br />Sunday October 22, 1944<br /><br />An alert went last night just as I had put out the light and got into bed about eleven-fifty p.m. I came downstairs immediately and a flying bomb came right overhead almost immediately. Three others came in such quick succession, almost as close, but all went further on before dropping. However, they were so near they made me sick with apprehension. The all clear came just around midnight, so I went back to bed, but could not fall asleep for a very long time. How heavenly it will be to lay oneself down in bed without fear of the night. According to the six o’clock news we have been doing a lot of bombing over Germany today so I expect we shall get more over here tonight, probably before very long, as the night is pitch dark already. Infernal war.<br /><br /><br />Monday October 23, 1944<br /><br />We had no alerts during the night, nevertheless I lay awake a very long time. I was thinking of the books I have never written, and scrapping them all I think.<br /><br /><br />Tuesday October 24, 1944<br /><br />We had a bad night. About seven-thirty last night, without a hint of warning, a rocket bomb exploded somewhere near by. The impact was terrific. The whole house rocked. Ted dived under the table. This morning we have heard it fell in Brentwood. We had an hour of the alert with flying bombs between eight and eight-thirty p.m. Four fell in this district but no details are known yet. The remainder of the evening was without incident so we went to bed in the usual way around eleven. I fell asleep quickly but was awakened soon after midnight, by another violent explosion. Then all was quiet, so I fell asleep again, to be wakened at one a.m. by an alert. I got up at once, but one buzzy bomb fell before I could get out of the bedroom, then several more through the next half hour. The all clear was given at two a.m. however sleep seemed banished for the night, and I lay in a semi doze, full of bad dreams, until morning.<br /><br />When will this damn war end, and life get back to normal? There is a report today that the Russians are thought into East Prussia, thirty miles in on a ninety-mile line. Good! I hope they will soon get to Berlin! A month ago we hoped that the war would be finished this autumn, but now we are not so optimistic. The Germans may collapse any day, but they look more likely to fight on all winter. They’re licked, and they must know it, but Hitler is going to make them keep on fighting. It’s a suicide policy, but Hitler won’t save his own Germans any more than he would save any other peoples. For so long as he can prolong the war, for so long he can save his own life, and that is all that matters to him. Who can be sorry for the Germans? If they are so stupid as to throw away their lives senselessly and uselessly, because Hitler commands the silly sacrifice, well, such sheep are bound to be slaughtered. Who is ever sorry for sheep?<br /><br /><br />Wednesday October 25, 1944<br /><br />Two months until Christmas. Will the war be over then? God knows.<br /><br />It is ten a.m. and I am waiting for the radioman. Last night we had three rocket bombs between seven and nine p.m. and the last one seems to have cracked the radio. We were listening to the Brains Trust when it fell, and the whole house seemed to crack and shake. There was a sound as thought the roof was tumbling off. The radio stopped dead, and has not revived, so have had to call in the expert. The girl at the telephone said she would try to send someone this morning, and I surely hope she does, for one feels lost without the radio these days<br /><br />Like the previous evening we had an hour of buzzy-bombs during the spasm of rockets. We heard four in this neighborhood, which seems to be our average quota of these damned things. Then after we had gone to bed there was another alert, about midnight, and four more of them passed close by. One dropped before I could get to the bottom of the stairs, taking my breath away. My response to these is anger. Not fear, but anger, deadly anger. They make me furious, and full of hatred of all Germans. As the war goes on I hate the Germans more and more, and I shall hate them until I die. Mrs. James came in yesterday afternoon. She was talking about the war, of course, and about the weather, which has been so bad all the year, and always against us. She said, “ It really seems as though God doesn’t want us to win too easily. He wants to make it hard, so that we’ll fight. We’ve got to fight, really fight. He wants us to remember it. That’s why the weather is so extraordinary, my dear. God doesn’t want to make the war too easy for us.”<br /><br />What can I say to that? How weary I am of folks that know the intentions of God.<br /><br /><br />Thursday October 26, 1944<br /><br />If the war doesn’t end soon I shall die of sheer fatigue. We had raids last night between seven and ten p.m. These make me feel so ill. We had none in the night, but a rocket fell nearby at eight-fifteen a.m. and another at eight-forty. We had another at twelve-thirty p.m. and another at one-fifty p.m. It has been all-quiet since. The afternoon is closing in misty, so probably we shall get more as soon as darkness settles. Early morning was misty, almost foggy, too. Apparently October twenty-fifth is reckoned by the government as the first day of winter, for it provided a winter timetable for transport, and for shop and office hours, to start as yesterday the twenty-fifth. I feel very sleepy and long for a long night of deep solid undisturbed sleep.<br /><br /><br />Friday October 27, 1944<br /><br />I am saying damn the war, and damn the war and damn the war. We had no flying bombs during the night but are being peppered with the rocket bombs. One fell at six-thirty last night, and another about eleven p.m. none during the night, but one fell at eight-fifteen this morning, another at ten-thirty and another at eleven-ten, another at eleven-fifty and the last at twelve-twenty p.m. These are terrible things. They drop without warning, and do an awful lot of damage. The one at eleven o’clock last night fell in Ilford, at the corner of The Drive and Cranbrook Road. A whole block is down, and it was a big old property that stood there. Casualties are not known yet, but there must be many. Ted laughs and jokes about the bombs, and says; “ see, we are alright” but I can’t take them so lightly. Somebody dies every time, and sometime it might be us, we have no guarantee the bombs will never fall in this road. They are horrible. They do fill me with fear. I can’t help it. I am afraid.<br /><br />Old Bert paid us a surprise visit last night. He is staying in Romford with Peggy for a week whilst Mrs. Webb is having a holiday. He told us he has just had a letter from Bertie, from somewhere in Holland, who gives it as his opinion that the war will either be finished in the next three weeks, or else if not finished by that time, it will carry on all through the winter. It seems to me it can go on indefinitely. Mr. Churchill is to make a statement in the House today on his recent visit to Russia. We shan't be able to hear anything of it, because the radio is again on the blink, and was carried away this morning by Mr. Bean to be dismantled “at the bench”, to have its fault found. On hates to be without the radio these days, for one does look for the announcement of the end of the war any day now, or, for the news that Hitler is dead.<br /><br /><br />Yesterday we heard of the death of the Princess Beatrice, mother of the ex-Queen of Spain, and the last surviving child of Queen Victoria. She was eighty-seven so nobody minds. We were shocked by the news of another death, and of a really important person, Dr. Temple, Archbishop of Canterbury who died very suddenly. He was only sixty-two. The previous Archbishop, Lang, who resigned only two years ago, because he felt too old for the job, is still alive. Temple, they say had been suffering for a few weeks with the gout, but succumbed yesterday to sudden heart attack. I always listened to him when he was on the air, and I was glad when he was made Archbishop of Canterbury, I felt him to be nice in every way and now he is dead.<br /><br /><br />Saturday October 28, 1944<br /><br />Last night we had a rocket at seven-fifteen and another at eleven-twenty and another at eleven –fifty p.m. This last upset me so much I came downstairs and spent the night on the sofa. If one drops again tonight before midnight, I shall come down again. We had two more this morning and another this evening. I do not know what the latest news is, as Mr. Bean did not bring back the radio this afternoon, as promised.<br /><br /><br />Monday, October 30,1944</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br />Sure enough, as I anticipated, a rocket bomb fell around midnight, but somewhat farther off then usual. Of course, close enough to wake us from sleep. Another louder and closer, much closer, fell about four-thirty a.m. but since then there have been no more.<br /><br />It is now twelve-thirty p.m. and we have had two bombs without warning. I was standing on a kitchen chair, hanging up my bandages to dry, and was blown backwards off the chair. Luckily I was able to grab hold of the sink and support my back against the pantry-door so I did not fall to the ground; nevertheless I am shaken badly.<br /><br />It is now four-twenty and we had another bomb. The midday bombs fell on Becton Gas-Works. Mrs. Cannon’s niece, in Ilford, lost her home in last Thursday’s blowup in the Cortauld’s Road; and only by a fluke did she save her life. The bomb fell at eleven-fifteen p.m., and the young woman (I do not know her name) happened to be standing at her gas-stove, making some coffee, for her mother who was paying her a late night visit. Had the mother not been there, the daughter would have been in bed. After the explosion she found an enormous lump of concrete on her pillow. She had no idea where it came from, but it is certain had she been in her bed she would have been killed.<br /><br />At six forty-five we had another bomb. Dorrie Stanford came in soon after it fell. She verified the report that this morning’s bombs fell on Becton Gasworks as true, as notification came through to Old Church Hospital about it. I do not know yet where the others have fallen. The radio was brought back at two o’clock today, but no news is ever given about these rocket bombs. So far as the B.B.C. is concerned they have never happened.</span></div>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-25746888496326443452015-06-23T18:20:00.002-04:002016-01-23T09:21:55.171-05:00World War ll London Blitz: 9-1-44 to 9-30-44 Today is the fifth anniversary of the day upon which Hitler launched his war on Europe, but today, Thank-God, he is nearly beaten.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's:</span></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">September 1, 1944<br /><br />Today is the fifth anniversary of the day upon which Hitler launched his war on Europe, but today, Thank-God, he is nearly beaten. The battle of France is in its last hours. The Allies have passed Sedan; today they have stormed and taken Verdun, and right now are approaching Metz; they have crossed the Seine above Le Havre, and are within fifteen miles of Dieppe. Rouen and Rheims are freed. The Germans are fleeing in rout. The Russians are in Bucharest; yesterday they took Ploesti. The Poles are fighting in Warsaw. The Czechs are ousting the Germans from Slovakia, and the Italians are in possession of the Great Saint Bernard passes. Yes, the war is winding to its end, thank God; Nemesis is overtaking the Nazis. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">September 3, 1944<br /><br />It is a National Day of prayer and dedication, by the wish of the Majesty the King. Five years ago today we entered the war against Hitler. It is just a day as that Sunday was, clear and sunny and warm. I took myself in hand and went out to the eleven o’clock mass. The church was packed, and so I believe have all the churches in the country been. As a people we are all moved to prayer by this anniversary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">September 4, 1944<br /><br />The B.B.C. interrupted all programs to announce that we are in Brussels. Last night the British and Canadians were on the borders of Belgium; this morning they are in the Capital. Also this morning comes the news that the Finn’s have agreed to the Soviet’s terms for an Armistice, and at eight a.m. all firing ceased.<br /><br />No air attacks from the Germans were launched on Great Britain last night; and no flying bombs have dropped on us since Friday afternoon. I don’t think we shall ever get any more of them. Hitler may be able to launce air attacks on us from inside Germany, but it is certain he cannot now do much. The Germans are licked. Hitler declares he will carry on the war from inside Germany, but it is hard to see how he will be able to do so. Any day now Germany will be invaded from both sides; the Russians will surge in on the East, the Allies on the West. My idea is that once the Allied Armies get into Germany there will be no more fighting, I don’t think the Germans will fight at home, because I think their civilians won’t let them; once the Allies get into Germany all the fraidy cats who’ve never had the courage to defy Hitler and his Nazism will flock to us for protection, like the other refugees. I don’t think there will be a revolution in Germany; though I think it is likely all the impressed foreign laborers will revolt, perhaps even rise and come out openly to join the Allies. I think the people of Germany, the oppressed Germans themselves, will act by passivity, they will know that we will never shoot them, though they’ve been afraid that Hitler might. Well, we shall see.<br /><br />September 7, 1944<br /><br />It has been officially announced today that the Battle of London, the battle of the flying bombs is over. Our armies have over run all the launching sites on the coast of France, and the Germans can send no more against us, unless, perhaps a few odd ones they may be able to launch from airplanes over the North Sea. In all, in the eighty days of bombardment, eight thousand seventy flying bombs were launched against London; there were a few others at some coastal towns, Southampton and Portsmouth, but the great majority was aimed at London. Ninety-two percent of the casualties were in the London area. Bombs came at the rate of one hundred a day, but now they will come no more. Thank God.<br /><br />It is evening now and something apropos. In the Times today, in the column from their correspondent in Washington, date of yesterday, September Seventh about politics, comes this, “Senator Vandenberg (Michigan) said: ”Peace, finally is a state of mind; peace is a moral and spiritual conviction; peace is a matter of world-wide education.” It might have been Woodrow Wilson speaking. Whether any change has been wrought by events in the texture of public opinion in this country has yet to be put to the test, but a quarter of a century ago it was true, if anything was true, that the American vision of peace as a moral and not a political, or a military question marked the deepest dividing line between the United States and Europe. The feel that reason has its dwelling place here and that Europe is a battleground of prejudice, and the hatred, which is born of prejudice, is still deeply implanted. Senator Vandenberg and President Wilson, one a Republican and the other a Democrat, were moved by something which may be irremovable because it is emotional.”<br /><br />September 9, 1944<br /><br />In the late afternoon Ted brought in with him three Italian soldiers, for coffee and cake. They had very little English, and chiefly with the dictionary carried on conversation. All had been in Abyssinia and Kenya, and all three seemed to thoroughly dislike Africa. “Africa, no good” they kept saying. I should say these men were some of the Italian prisoners sent here, and now, since the Armistice with Britain, part of the regular army again preparing to fight with the Allies.<br /><br />I didn’t like them. I looked at them, three swarthy ruffians and I thought, they are Italians, turncoats, the enemy. Then I thought, my God! They are Catholics! I felt in revulsion to all they represented.<br /><br />September 10, 1944<br /><br />It is the last official day for the Home Guards. They shut down tomorrow. Ted left the house early, before ten, to go to headquarters. The morning was beautiful, a perfect day so I went out early and took myself to St. Edwards.<br /><br />September 12, 1944<br /><br />Now a new terror has struck us. Whilst we were at breakfast, about eight-fifteen, without sound or warning, a most terrific explosion occurred, shaking the whole place. Ted rushed upstairs to look from the windows, but could see nothing. About nine o’clock another happened, though not quite so violent. I had also been awakened in the middle of the night by an awful loud noise, and Ted heard what he thought were guns whilst dressing around six a.m. Mrs. Fitch has just been in, coming from shopping, and she tells me that what we heard this morning, was the V2, a rocket fired bomb; this fell in Dagenham, on a nursery school utterly destroying it. Luckily there were no children in it, as it was just too early for them to be there. Where the others have fallen she did not hear. I am filled with a grinding hatred of all Germans. I will never forgive the Germans anything. They are demons incarnate. Last Sunday we heard gunfire from the Channel. It was weird. About half past three I began to hear queer noises, but I thought it was Mrs. Thomson next-door, sweeping heavily through her bedrooms, but nobody was in the Thomson house. Then there were sounds in the top of this house, like an elephant padding about. Then the house began to shake, as though in a gale, and this got worse, until I thought all the windows would rattle themselves out of their sashes. The doors went too, an awful racket. Then all the noises and shakings repeated themselves about five o’clock, and again at seven. We were told it was gunfire on the Channel ports. Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn’t. It might have been these rocket bombs falling in our southern countries. What ever it was, it was eerie and frightening.<br /><br />September 13, 1944<br /><br />Those three Italians that Ted brought to the house on Saturday must have rattled me even more than I recognized that afternoon. I can’t forget them. One of them said, when asked was he anxious to get home: “No, me stay here when war is over. Italy is no good anymore. No money in Italy. No work. Me stay here. Here good food, good work, good money. Yes, yes. Me stay here.” What a patriotic Italian! What does he intend to do, but grab for a job and a living from an Englishman! What about all our own demobilized? Of course I expect all the Italians will be taken back to Italy and demobilized there; then they will have their difficulties in getting back into England again. I hope England will be swept clear of all foreigners, and England left for the English.<br /><br />September 14, 1941<br /><br />Guns are sounding intermittently ever since nine o’clock, but I think it is only practice somewhere. I was wakened in the middle of the night by a most terrific explosion, followed by a long rumble, and then another explosion, slightly less in volume. I thought the earth had cracked open. I looked at the time and it was three-twenty a.m. I could not sleep again, mainly because I felt so sick. At six-thirty the alarm went, and Ted got up and went off to mass. I thought: Isn’t this preposterous!” After all, that’s the way he guards his mind, I suppose. Then when I was washing in the bathroom another explosion cracked without warning. The B.B.C. does not mention these things, going on the principle of “fool the enemy”. These bombs are worse than the flying bombs, for they cannot be detected, so no warning of their approach can be given, nor do they make any preliminary sound of their own. You could hear the doodlebugs coming, but you can’t hear these things. They fly extremely high, so you cannot see them. You know nothing until they explode. They are fiendish. The whole war is fiendish. The longer it goes on the more and more I hate the Germans. I didn’t hate them in the beginning, but now I hate them fiercely, and for all time. I will never forgive the Germans anything, not one German, one thing.<br /><br />Two or three weeks ago the new Catholic Archbishop of Westminster Griffin (Irish!), returned from a visit to Rome bringing a letter from the Pope to the people of London, in which the Pope talked about forgiving our enemies, and not being revengeful against the Germans, etc. This roused a storm of protest in all the papers. To talk to Londoners about loving the Germans is to insult intelligence. The Germans are accused, and will remain accused. The accumulation of their crimes and savage barbarities can never be atoned for. They have put themselves outside the pale of civilized humanity, and there they will stay. As long as memory lasts, as long as history is written, the Germans will stand in time as the most cruel and most infamous of all peoples. They are worse than the antique pagans, because the Germans were supposed to be Christian; they could and they did, know better. Deliberate they chose to make evil their god; they are unforgivable. They are totally, completely absolutely unforgivable.<br /><br />September 15, 1944<br /><br />I found it very difficult to fall asleep last night because of apprehension about the V2. However I finally fell asleep and had a quiet night after all, no bombs.<br /><br />September 16, 1944<br /><br />I was up very early this morning, so my work is well advanced. Just before dawn the alert sounded, and flying bombs began coming over again. Between five-fifty and six twenty-five this morning three dropped very close here, about Woolwich, I should guess. Then without sound or warning, a V2 dropped somewhere near at exactly seven-thirty and a second at eight-thirty. I expected one a quarter of an hour ago, the Germans are so regular! It didn’t come. The damned Germans! My God, how we hate them! It just occurred to me while preparing vegetables a little while ago that it was a German church where we were received into the church way back in nineteen hundred and nine; old St. Henry’s, Bayonne. Father Riley told us that it was the old Catholic Church for the Germans of Bayonne, and he had been sent there because he spoke German. All pastors previous to him were Germans; he was the first English-speaking priest to be appointed to that parish. He told us the trouble he had because he refused to speak German in the Church, in sermons, notices, and so on. The congregation almost came to riots; they wanted to hear their German tongue. He insisted on using English. They told him they didn’t understand it; he replied they must learn it, for they were in America, they must use the American language. Of course he would hear confessions in German, but nothing further. In the end he had won out, we never heard any German there, but he said it had been a tussle. Certainly now that I think of it I distinctly remember seeing German –Latin missals and prayer books in use in the church, particularly by the older people, and you could pick up an odd one in the pews right up to the time we began to use the new St. Henry’s on Avenue C. A German St. Henry’s, well I never!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">September 17, 1944<br /><br />Yesterday again before dark the alert sounded again, and we had three doodlebugs over. Then all was quiet, until just before eleven when with out warning came the awful crash of a V2. Only one, but this put the wind up me, so that I could not go up to bed, so I spent the night on the sofa here in the dining room. Several bombs passed in the early part of the night, and then we had quiet until about five twenty-five a.m. after which we had a few more. This morning was without incident, but I could not get up the nerve to go out, so no church.<br /><br />Reta Pullan came in to tea. She was looking very well. Whilst she was here we had some more doodlebugs, and just at the end of our tea another V2 came crashing without warning. She left before dark (the clock went back an hour last night) but before she could have reached home another warning sounded, but the all clear came quickly, and nothing fell hereabouts. On the six o’clock news we were told that this afternoon an enormous Allied Air-Borne Army had safely landed in Holland. After the nine o’clock news “war report” gave several eyewitness accounts of this feat. I sat and cried. I weep for all the young men. They are all glorious, and they are defeating the enemy, but in what strange and awful ways. Everything is so unnatural, so frightening, and so awesome.<br /><br />September 18, 1944<br /><br />Joan arrived about eight a.m. She had written last week to say she would come, but I scarcely expected her, for we had raids in the night, so I thought she would be too cautious to start out. However, it seems they had no incidents in London, so she was quite unperturbed. The day had been a long talkfest, for we had not seen each other for months. We had no warnings or raids or V2’s all day, thank goodness.<br /><br />September 19, 1944<br /><br />I am very tired after an extra busy morning, catching up with the work that didn’t get done yesterday. Oh, God, I am tired of housekeeping! The early part of the night was quiet, but at about four-fifteen a.m. the alert sounded. I came downstairs at once, and about a half a dozen flying bombs passed and dropped nearby in the next forty minutes. The last one was extremely close; I thought this house was falling down. That one, we have found out this morning, dropped between the gardens at Cranham Road and Hasel-Rise, only a very little behind Artie’s place. Ted was up there this morning. He says the devastation is worse than at Hainault Road. Four people, so far, are known to be killed, and when Ted was there he said the A.R.P. were still digging for victims. These bombs are being launched from Henkel’s, from over the North Sea. Of course they can’t keep up long, but everyday they hit and destroy and kill somewhere. It is hellish awful. It’s so stupid. His flying bombs could never have won the war for Hitler. All they can do is to make even more indelible the English mind our undying hatred for all Germans. The end of this week brings the equinox. Pray, we can bring this war to an end before the bad weather sets in. We are now past the middle of September and soldiers say that only a fortnight remains of the season of good weather conditions for campaigning in Western Europe. It is important if we can to reach a decision within that time. Can we? General Montgomery and General Eisenhower broadcast optimistic speeches, and say the end is in sight, but they do not say when, and certainly they do not say within the next fortnight.<br /><br />September 20, 1944<br /><br />I awakened at two a.m. by a warning. I came downstairs immediately but Ted remained in bed. The all clear was not given until three a.m. During this hour many bombs passed overhead, I lost count of them. One seemed barely to skim our roof tiles. I thought I would die. The din alone is terrifying, they sound like express trains rushing through the air clackety clack clack. We had more of them this evening between nine and ten p.m. two of them seemed to travel our roof. Of course they didn’t but it sounded like that. Ted went into the garden to look at the second one. He said it was on the other side of the tracks, probably a mile away, and heading for Chadwell Heath. (At Cranham Road and Brentwood Road the death toll is now thirteen, and two hundred people injured.) Romford is now directly in the new bomb alley, all the bombs come in from the East. It is believed that they are discharged over the North Sea from aircraft based on aerodromes which may be in the Island of Sylt or even further away. (Cuthie used to fly over Syet in 1940) Anyhow they come, and wherever they are coming from we are in their direct line of route. Lord, defend us!<br /><br />I thought in the night, holding myself together whilst the bombs flew over: Germans: it is Germans who are doing this. I thought; millions of Germans are Catholics, Roman Catholics; so then, even if there were no other reason then that, I shall leave the Roman Catholic Church. I will not stay in any church, which holds Germans any more than I will stay in any other place in this world that holds Germans. Germans have put themselves outside the pale for all time so far as I am concerned. The Pope can keep them if he wants, as many as he likes, but he can’t keep me also. The unspeakable Germans I am English and I cant be anything else. I wont be anything else, so help me God!<br /><br />September 21, 1944<br /><br />We had one short alert in the night; it sounded about four-thirty with the all clear given at five a.m. I came downstairs at once, but nothing fell in the neighborhood, and I heard only one passing at a great distance. It has been quiet ever since then.<br /><br />Brest has fallen and so has Boulogne. The British Second Army has established an armored corridor through Holland to the banks of the Rhine at Nijmegen, and at noon today we were told that they had secured the bridge there. In Italy we have taken Rimini and are on the heights North of Florence. Stalin has announced the launching of a double offensive in Estonia. Warsaw? God knows what is going on in Warsaw. In Denmark the Germans have tried to abduct King Christian, but were foiled. The population of Copenhagen has gone on strike. The Germans have rounded up seventeen hundred of the Danish police and sent them to Germany to an internment camp. It is impossible that any people could ever be more hated than the Germans are hated, and will be hated, until the end of time.<br /><br />A flying bomb factory has been discovered at Thiel, near the Luxembourg frontier. The workshops were in tunnels of an old iron mine, three hundred and thirty feet below ground. It is estimated that fifteen thousand impressed workers there could eventually have assembled five hundred flying bombs daily. It is said that the workers were never allowed out of the mines. They were Russians, Poles, Italians, Serbs, and German political prisoners, under the supervision of two hundred German technicians. Even the local French had no idea of what was going on inside the mine. Yes, Hitler intended that the flying bombs should utterly destroy London; there is no doubt about it. On Monday Joan was telling me of the flying bomb damage in Hammersmith, and round about. One bomb she says, fell behind Woolworth’s, down Cambridge Road. It completely obliterated eight houses. She says not even bricks and rubble remained, there was nothing there but one huge hole. This is annihilation. Then the Pope dares to write to Londoners expressing his hopes that they will forgive the Germans! We shall never forgive them.<br /><br />September 23, 1944<br /><br />I am so weary of wartime meals! They are so monotonous and dull. Not that monotony would be so bad if only it was real food, real beef, real eggs, real milk, real bread, and real fruit. It is the monotony of fakes and substitutes, which is so tedious and so uninteresting. There were no raids during the night, although we had a short one between eight-thirty and nine o’clock last night. Three bombs went over here, that was all, but they made me feel very sick all the same. After all any one of three is likely to kill you, the same as any one of one hundred, if you happen to lie in its direct line of travel, and it explodes upon you. Oh, I hope the war ends soon. I can’t endure it very much longer.<br /><br />This letter is in the Times today:<br /><br />To the editor of the Times:<br /><br />Sir, May I direct your attention to the incalculable harm, which is being done to the prestige of the United States Troops by the knowledge that they are treating the Germans with the kindness that has been extended to a liberated people of Europe?<br /><br />This attitude is being bitterly commented upon in the country homes and quiet villages where British public opinion is often more vocal then in the towns. It is essential to the future peace of the world that American soldiers should understand what Europe has suffered at the hands of Germany.<br /><br />Yours faithfully,<br /><br />W.A. Skeate, Squadron Leader, R.A.F. Rose Cottage, Cookham.Berks. September 19 (retired)<br /><br />Yes and I too, hear with nausea some of the accounts given by war correspondents regarding the behavior of the Germans in Germany towards the invading Allies, how they come forward with cups of coffee, bowls of plums, and the girls giggling, bidding for favor from the incoming troops, of course. The Americans breeze along, of course. As Eddie says, the Germans are already busy with the whitewash brush. Can they wash out their concentration camps, their atrocities? Not for us, never for us. There is an alarm now. Damn the Germans! God Damn them forever.<br /><br />September 24, 1944<br /><br />Last night was so threatening that I could not go to bed. Searchlights were everywhere weaving about, searching, and searching. So I made up my bed on the sofa again. As it happened no bombs came over during the night but I was full of apprehension and could not sleep. There was incessant traffic on the railway; too, trains seemed to be going out all night. Supplies, of course, were being carried to the coast for shipment to our armies. Towards dawn heavy rain began to fall, and there has been rain and storm ever since. It is the equinox of course. We have had a raid tonight, between nine-fifteen and nine forty-five p.m. bombs dropped at a distance, but more immediately near. All clear now and I am going up to bed or at least to start the night there.<br /><br />September 25, 1944<br /><br />I was awakened soon after five this morning by an alert; almost before I could get downstairs I could hear the damned bombs traveling toward us. There were three of them that fell in this neighborhood, one very close, though I have not heard exactly where. There have been none since six a.m. but my poor old insides still feels quakes. What bliss it will be when we no longer go in fear of our lives from hour to hour, day after day, night after night. When we can live in peace and security again, what Heaven!<br /><br />September 27, 1944<br /><br />I had to get up this morning for an alert, one bomb only came and dropped near by, possible in Chadwell Heath again.<br /><br /><br />September 29, 1944 Michaelmas Day<br /><br />There were flying bombs over the southern counties and London again early this morning. No alert sounded in this area, but three terrific explosions were felt and heard at five twenty-five a.m. No warning was given, no approach was heard; Ted says he thinks they must have been rockets. News was given at ten a.m. that the Canadians are now in The Citadel of Calais, but fighting is still going on in the town. All this week our hearts have been wrung for the Battle of Arnhem. We have had to withdraw and our losses are very heavy. Glory. What price glory?<br /><br />September 30, 1944<br /><br />We had two nasty periods yesterday evening, between eight-thirty and nine ten p.m., and again between nine-thirty and ten-fifty p.m. One bomb seemed to trundle over the back garden, and stopped and dropped very soon afterwards. The night was cloudy, so I thought they might come over all night long. However I decided to go to bed, and slept soundly until four-thirty a.m., when I was awakened by a long alert. I came downstairs at once, and the all clear didn’t come until five-ten a.m. I heard several bombs, but all in the distance. It was a horrible time. You think every bomb is making towards you; then they pass and you feel better, but only for a few minutes, because lo, you hear another one on its way. You are literally sick with apprehension, or at least I am. Last night Ted heard nothing, he slept through it all.<br /><br />When this war is finally over I think nothing will ever bother me anymore. To have surcease from this constant fear of sudden and frightful death, knowing you are alive only by luck, oh, what bliss! We had great hopes in the spring that the war would be finished this summer, but it isn’t, nor shows any likelihood of being over soon, either. Opinion is that it may be over by the end of the year, but I don’t think any of us believe that. The Germans will be able to fight quite along time on their own ground. Why wouldn’t they? They are beaten now, and they know it, but they are not going to easily surrender. In fact, Hitler has boasted that if he is destroyed he will drag all Europe down to destruction along with him. He has ordered all his troops to stand and die for him, and most of them are obeying. To only comparatively a few does it occur to consider that as a live man he could live for the future good of his country. Germany seems to be a nation of lunatics, with an arch lunatic raving at the head of them. I wonder how posterity will see us all.</span>Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-38166375430875096592015-02-26T20:03:00.001-05:002015-06-23T18:19:30.323-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 8-1-44 to 8-31-44 The weather is clear tonight, but I expect the bombs will begin coming before midnight as they usually do.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's:</span></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 1, 1944</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is clear tonight, but I expect the bombs
will begin coming before midnight as they usually do. We
had two very nasty ones this morning about ten o’clock. I
think they fell in Dagenham. We had several more this
afternoon but more since four o’clock.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This evening I have managed to get a letter to Doris
written. She was expecting her fifth baby in July, so I
presume that it is safely born by now; our eighteenth
grandchild.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Now I am going to spend the rest of the evening
listening to,<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">Tuesday Serenade</span>. I am too tired to do
anything else, so Au-revoir.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 2, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have just been listening to a long report of Mr.
Churchill’s statement in Parliament today. On the whole
it was optimistic. I have noted some of the figures he
gave: R.A.F. losses in the Home Command, from April,
First to June, Thirtieth: over seven thousand, and very
many more in the American Air Force. Dreadful. This
is the price of victory. About the flying bombs: in the
period from June 15, to June 30, five thousand three
hundred and forty have been launched against us,
mainly London. They have killed four thousand seven
hundred and thirty-five, severely wounded fourteen
thousand, with many more people slightly wounded.
They have totally destroyed seventeen thousand houses,
badly damaged eight hundred thousand, with many
more slightly damaged and the number of people evacuated from London, mainly women and children, is nearly
a million. He holds out hope of us being able to check
them until we can occupy the part of France where the
launching sites are and moreover he advises all who can
leave London to do so, “in an orderly manner because it is quite possible Hitler may launch his heavier rocket
guns against this city.” God defend us!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I managed to write to Eddie today. Now I must really
concentrate on writing to the rest of the children before
the end of the world finally crashes in on us. Oh, God
help us!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 3, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was about to prepare myself for the night when Ted
telephoned about a half hour ago to inquire if I was all
right. He had heard of last night’s raids. In Oxford they
have none. Last night here was terrible. The flying bombs
came over in six shoals. Nothing in this immediate
vicinity struck. Rainham Road and Whalebone Lane the
nearest spots to be hit. In London seven hospitals were
bombed and God knows what else. It was as though to
crown Churchill’s speech Hitler was just showing us
what he could do. It was an awful, awful night. They
began again at seven o’clock this morning. All has been
quiet since mid afternoon. The moon is practically at the
full and tonight is a clear night, so we may have a quieter
night tonight. Last night was cloudy. There was news
from France that the Americans have taken Rennes. I wrote Charlie and Marjorie today but could do no
more. I am too exhausted for writing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 4, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather turned fine and hot this afternoon. Very
hot. I had to walk to Green’s to put in my grocery order
and the walk nearly killed me. Very few people are out.
Thousands of Romfordites have evacuated themselves
and the fact is plainly perceptible on the streets. I had
only been back in the house about ten minutes when the
first alert of the day sounded and the bombs have been
coming constantly ever since.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 5, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had heavy rain last night. We had no bombs until
about five this morning and then many very bad ones;
one at four-thirty on Hogg Hill towards Chigwell, and
one-fifteen on Gorseway. I thought the house was hit, for
it rocked and the glass crackled, though luckily it did
not break. Mrs. Cannon was in this afternoon, and she
tells us that the bomb in Gorseway fell within twenty
yards of the one that fell there the other Sunday. It fell
directly on an Anderson shelter. Everybody in it was
killed, a whole family. Many houses demolished.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted returned about two-thirty this afternoon. He
looks very well and has thoroughly enjoyed himself. This
evening of course, he went off to confession. Oh dear! He
enrages me but I give no sign. Supposing I gave rein to
my tongue as he does to his, what frightful degrading
quarrels we should have then! I won’t quarrel. I loath
quarreling. I endure with these silly books for my only
safety valve. Better to write as I do herein, I think, than
write my scourging and scolding’s to my children; or
worse, confide in friends or neighbors. Every marriage in
the long run is unendurable, I suspect, but adult women
don’t broadcast the fact. That is, unendurable to wives;
husbands live their own lives regardless of marriage
altogether men can always find compensations, always
find fresh outside interests. It is only women who are
imprisoned in marriage, whose circle is circumscribed,
and whose exterior life perishes. What a curse to be a
woman!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 7, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is Bank Holiday and a very nice day. For those
people able to take a holiday the weather is perfect. We
were amused when the B.B.C. informed us in the news
that all day long, at Ascot cyclists went around informing the public that warning would be given if any doodle
bugs approached. As those folks wouldn’t know! What
would a crowd on a racecourse do anyhow supposing
flying bombs approached? All they could do would be
to lie on the ground. Nothing happened there. We had a
few bombs in London, but not as many as usual, I expect
because the day was fine. One awful cracker fell near
us at seven fifteen a.m. but nothing in this immediate
neighborhood since.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 8, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am resting after my morning’s chores. Laundry day
today, so I had all that to attend to. I also have made a hodge-podge using Sunday’s beef bone and a variety of
the summer vegetables. Ted is out on his rounds of rent
collecting.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Our early morning bomb arrived at six this morning.
I do not know yet where it his, but probably Rainham way
again. It brought down more of our plaster and crackled
all the glass, though none broke, thank goodness. We
had another one very near at nine. The morning was very
misty, so they came along pretty steadily until the sky
cleared, but I haven’t heard one for the past hour. People
begin to think the war may end this month. I surely hope
so. The Germans are taking a licking in France, and the
Russians are on their eastern borders. Our bombers go
out day and night by the thousands. I don’t see how the
Germans can stand it much longer.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My private war is taking a lull. Ted was as sweet as
pie all day yesterday, so I knew exactly what was going to
happen when it came to bedtime, and it did. I knew it was
inevitable. As the evening was quiet he persuaded me to
“start the night” in bed. However, an alert was given at
eleven-thirty p.m. and I came downstairs instantly. A few
bombs passed over and at intervals during the night, but </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">nothing dropped in this immediate vicinity until that </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">six o’clock one, our morning call!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 10, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It was a quiet night until around four o’clock this
morning, and then between four and five about a dozen
bombs fell in this neighborhood. We have had none since.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Today’s news is that General Eisenhower has moved
his headquarters to France and General Maitland Wilson
moved his to Italy. This shows we are safely established
on the continent; the war is at its climax. It probably will
end this summer. Oh what joy then in the world!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning I received a letter from Charlie’s little
daughter Lynne, addressed to Dear Grandmother and
Grandfather. She tells us she was seven on the Fourth
of July. She also tells us that cousin Beth is staying
at her house, because Beth’s mother is in the hospital
with a new baby, his name is Carl James. So Jimmie
has another son. This brings our total of grandchildren
to eighteen: ten boys and eight girls. Artie's child is
expected tomorrow, the Eleventh.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night Ted told me that Artie wants he and I to
stand as the child’s godparents. I said I thought grandparents couldn’t be god parents, but he replied, <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh yes
they can, Artie has asked about that, and its quite alright.
</span>So what? I have a sense of being caught. If Artie asks
me to be godmother, I will be but of course his assumption, and Ted’s and Father Bishop’s must be that I am
definitely still an orthodox Catholic. So I suppose I shall
have to be, or at least apparently one. Well, I suppose I
can be. If Artie does come and ask me to be godmother,
well, I shall like that, no one has ever asked me to be a
godmother, so I shall just continue to jog along with the
family, a practical Catholic of sorts. What a worthless </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">sort of person I am, hypocrite all through and I hate</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">hypocrites.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">August 11, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am feeling so well and happy this morning I take a
fresh page. Last night I slept the night through in bed for
the first time in two months, or more, ever since the flying
bombs began their bombardment of London. We had
alerts in the evening, the last about nine o’clock, but none
at all during the night, in this neighborhood, though the
B.B.C. reports there were bombs over Southern England
last night, and some reached the London area. However
they have begun their usual routine this morning. I had
only just got downstairs at seven-twenty, when the alert
sounded, and ten minutes later a bomb fell somewhere
near. We had three more, and then a rest, lasting until
now. It is a beautiful day, clear and bright, so we are not
apt to get many until nightfall.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The news is good. Our troops in France are sweeping
up all around. Yesterday we took St. Mals; today we are
told we have cleared Chartres of the enemy and the
Americans are within seventy-five kilometers of Paris.
Good. If the weather will stay favorable, as it may do
now, seeing how very bad it has bee hitherto, ever since
D-day, we may even finish the campaign in France this
month. Then we shall pass on into Germany; the allies
are determined to finish the war this time in Berlin and
they will. The Germans have got to know they are licked
militarily without a shadow of doubt.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had had no news from Artie yet. I hope Hilda
will get through her labor without the accompaniment
of bombs. Also I hope this frightening time will not have
affected the baby.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I thought in the night; it is the war that is getting
me down. For five years now we have lived in the restric</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">tions and depressions of war. The war has been on long
oppression. It is surely coming to its end now. When it
ceases the oppression will lift, and we can be normal
again, all of us. I took a firm resolve, as Ted sank into
sleep, religion less for a space, I resolved to throw this
nagging torment of religion, and the problems of religion,
out of my mind once and for all. What I think is my own
concern; I think as I must what I will do will depend
upon my circumstances. I will attend mass occasionally
for the sake of the family, but when I feel I want to attend
a service in the Church of England, equally I shall do. I
intend to be free, free in myself. I will stop this botheration of religion for the rest of my life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 12, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is a scorching hot day. I have been cooking all
morning and have still some to do. We have more food in
this house this weekend than we have had at any time
since nineteen-forty. Yesterday Greene’s sent with my
groceries in addition to our rations, sausages, a flank of
bacon, brisket, liver and an ox-tail. Of course this is not
the kind of weather for bacon and sausages and ox-tail
stew, nevertheless we are very pleased to get this extra
food. None of it will keep, except the bacon for a day
or two, so today I have to cook it all. With most of the
extras, I shall give them to Artie. He has got to nurse
Hilda, run the house, and do all the cleaning, shopping,
and cooking, until she is up and around again. There
simply are no nurses. Dr. Munro will deliver Hilda, and a
midwife will come in daily, to bathe the baby and Hilda,
and make mother and child as comfortable as she can,
but Artie must do everything else. Luckily he is quite
capable. His good American upbringing stands him in
good stead. I have an idea that the reason the tradesmen </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">sent us these extras this week, is, the evacuation of large
numbers of Romfordians, which makes some of their
supplies surplus; but of course I may be wrong about
that. Anyhow we have got this surprising abundance of
food this weekend, and it is really remarkable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The flying bombs began coming over again about
two o’clock yesterday, but quieted off in mid evening. I
thought I would try another night in bed, as all seemed
quiet, but was unlucky. I had only been in bed about
five minutes when the alert sounded about eleven-fifteen
p.m. I came downstairs straightaway, and a very nasty
night we had of it. Dozens came over before midnight,
and then slackened somewhat, until one a.m. when
they began coming thickly again. One terrible crumper
crashed at one-thirty a.m. These was over the golf course,
but have heard no details yet. We have had a cessation of
the blasted things since about nine this morning.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mr. and Mrs. Capes have been in. Mr. Capes tells me
his morning paper states that Lloyd's are wagering the
war will end in Europe before September Fifteenth. I
surely hope so.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Rita Pullan came in to tea. I thought she was in
France with the American Army but she says the government will not allow our civilians to go to France before
September First.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Artie also called in for a short while. He had a taxi
and was picking up a crib from the Garven’s. I sent him
off with a basketful of stuff, cake, pudding, bacon and
the casserole of our left over liver. I said, <span style="font-style: italic;">There is enough
there to make you and Hilda a good hot meal, supper
tonight, or dinner tomorrow, just warm it in the oven, all
it needs to make it complete is some hot potatoes.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh</span>, he said, <span style="font-style: italic;">I can easily boil a pot of potatoes. </span>Yes,
and even though Hilda is still around, I bet Artie is
doing all the cooking.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 14, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another bad night. The last bomb fell just after
eight this morning, but the rest of the day has been free
of them, thank goodness. Terrible fighting is going on in
France. Field Marshall Von Paulus, who was in charge of
the German Army at Stalingrad, and has been prisoner
in Russia ever since the fall of Stalingrad, has broadcast
from Moscow to the German people, telling them the
war is lost, and urging them to get rid of Adolph Hitler,
and to create a new government which can bring the war
to a finish quickly, before more and more German lives
are sacrificed in vain. The great query is: How can they?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 15, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is Feast of the Assumption and Ted has gone off to
pray for benediction.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At twelve-thirty p.m. today the B.B.C. interrupted its
program to give the news that early this morning the
Allies made a successful landing on the South Coast of
France, between Nice and Marseilles. French, American,
and British troops took part, over eight hundred boats
were used, and thousands of paratroopers were dropped
from the skies.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fierce fighting continues in Normandy. The flying
bombs have been coming over all day, all last night too.
Several have crashed near by since six this evening. I
should say at least thirty have passed over since six, but
I have lost count. The last one, about twenty minutes
ago, seemed to go right over the roof, and looked to be
headed straight for Chigwell. These bombs can’t affect
the outcome of the war in any way at all, but I suppose
Hitler can talk about them to his Germans and make
them think maybe they are doing something to down us.
They do not down us; they only deepen our anger against
their inventions and uses. They are devilish things; they </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">kill some of us, and destroy our houses and buildings;
we suffer our individual fears from them, but as a people
conquer us they never will.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is a beautiful evening, I should love to go for a
stroll, but I don’t dare. How strange it will be when this
hellish war ends and we can walk the world without fear
again. To have the war end, what bliss that will be!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 16, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A few bombs fell around midnight, and then no more
until five-thirty this morning. An all clear was given at
six, but another warning came at seven-ten, just as Ted
was leaving for church. I heard a big crump before he
could have gotten there and have heard since that one
fell on Hare Street. They started coming again about
nine, and have continued on and off all day, sometimes
a dozen together, sometimes one or two an hour apart.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mrs. Cannon came this afternoon, and we did a little
more work on my paisley dress. She told me her sister in
Leytonstone has had her home blitzed twice; the house
next door was completely demolished. The sister sleeps
in a shelter. One morning recently when she returned for
breakfast she found all of her windows blown out and the
frames couldn’t even be found, doors off, and all her floor
boards cracked, and all lino in ribbons; <span style="font-style: italic;">and the house
next door, well, you would never have known there had
ever been a house there, just a mound of rubbish, nothing
else.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Another friend of Mrs. Cannon at Forest Gate had a
lucky escape. She had been shopping, with her young
son and another woman friend. Usually they take the
bus home, but this day, one day last week, was hot, and
the bus crowded, so the boy said, <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh mum, what a crush!
Let’s walk!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The mother agreed but the friend said she would </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">have to take the bus anyhow as she must hurry home to
get the husbands tea. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">But she never did get it. She’s never been seen since.
The bus, containing seventy passengers, received a direct
hit, and nothing remains of it but the wheels. That was in
Danes Road, Forest Gate. The sight was so dreadful; a
corrugated iron screen has been put around the wreckage
until it can be cleared up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This evening Mrs. Capes, who brought us in a basket
of plums, was in a state of distress about their old friend
Bob (don’t know his surname, have never heard of it.)
He lodges with the Capes, and is an inspector of Milk
Rounds men, dairy work, etc, at East Ham.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">These bombs are getting Bob down, s</span>he said. <span style="font-style: italic;">They are
always over East Ham. Today he had to throw himself
down in the gutter and he’s grazed his arm ever so bad.
Yesterday it was the same. One went right over his head.
He thought; now I am in for it as he heard it cut out. It
glided on and fell on Waustead Flats. It hit direct on a gun
site and everybody was killed, A.T.S. girls. Isn’t it awful!
It is awful.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Of course I think it is awful to put the girls on the
guns anyhow, a dreadful thing to do. Really. I think they
that take the sword shall perish by the sword. Women
firing guns, it’s awful.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 17, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a fairly quiet night, some bombs between
midnight and one-thirty a.m. and then the all clear until
six-thirty. Ever since then we have had warnings continuously. It’s been a fiendish day.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now six-thirty p.m. and we have had news that
the Americans have taken Orleans and have entered
Chartres. Our armies in the South of France are </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">penetrating inland almost without opposition. The </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Russians are reaching the boundaries of East Prussia.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 18, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted is at church. It is the first day without bombs. A
few fell late last night, and then none until six o’clock
this morning, several then until seven, but none since.
They will probably begin again as soon as darkness falls,
but anyhow thank God for a quite day. Only confused
news coming out of France. There is a rumor that the
Americans have reached Versailles's, but this seems
impossible. The German Seventh Army is trying to pull
out of Normandy, and we are trying to prevent their
succeeding. All bridges over the Seine are destroyed,
the work of our Air Forces; and since last night our guns
have been heard in Paris. Will the Germans in Paris
fight or run?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Artie was in this afternoon for a half hour. The baby
is not born yet. It’s a week overdue today.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 19, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Bombs began coming over at three-fifteen this
morning and kept on sporadically until half past seven.
I am most devastatingly tired; cooking the dinner I had
all I could do not to cry from sheer tiredness. I am past
this work. I don’t want to keep house any longer. I shall
have to. There is no retirement possible for me.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">About four o’clock this afternoon Artie telephoned to
say he had a son: Frederick Harold Victor; weight nine
pounds. Hilda is feeling fine. The baby was born between
the alert we had at two-thirty p.m. and the all clear at
three-fifty p.m. <span style="font-style: italic;">Soon after the bomb crashed, </span>said Artie.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This is our nineteenth grandchild, born on the
nineteenth of this month. I am glad Artie has the son
he desired. I am also aware of the fact that I am glad; </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">positively glad Hilda hasn’t got a daughter. Hilda remains
to me, and to Ted, a very disagreeable and no-account
young woman. She is so ignorant and so unmannerly,
anything but a lady. She knows nothing, she can pass
on nothing. She is such an unsatisfactory female herself
her girl children are certain to be unsatisfactory also.
A boy will be all right; her social and cultural defects
won’t harm her sons. Artie will be able to see that his
sons are properly educated and properly mannered. I
never wanted any grandchildren from her at all. She is
an inferior person. She is not good enough for Artie, or
good enough for me. I hope she never has a daughter;
a replica of her would be a disaster, absolutely. If this
child had been a girl I should have been heart sick about
it. I don’t think I could have borne the dismay it would
have occasioned me. It isn’t a girl so it is all right. Where
is my little girl to come from? Nobody knows what a
disappointment it is to me never to have had a daughter.
Every woman craves a woman child. There it is, my lack,
another of the deep abiding disappointments of my life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 20, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is a rainy day. We had a few bombs in the night and
some again throughout the morning. One fell very near
about half past eight. It made me wonder how the people
in church were feeling. Ted is playing all the services
again today.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">About five o’clock Artie telephoned and asked us to
get a taxi and go and see the baby but we declined. His
father explained that since he was playing Benediction at
six-thirty, we had planned to have our evening meal after
church, instead of before, and that I had some cooking
to do, and it would be too late to go out afterwards. Artie
said anytime up until ten o’clock would not be too late.
Ted replied that I should be too tired, after cooking and </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">dishes and so on. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">Some other time, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">he said, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">Some other
time. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When he came into me from the telephone he said
</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">“It won’t hurt these young folk to be left alone a bit. Let
them find out they cannot indefinitely ignore people and
then expect them to come at their calling. They’ve made it
so obvious they want to be alone, well, let them be alone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I said, <span style="font-style: italic;">I expect Artie has been looking for you all day.
Oh, do you think so? </span>said Ted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Of course. Your first grandchild in England, he’d
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">naturally think you would be in a deuce of a hurry to see
it.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Heavens! What an idea!<br />
Well a baby is no novelty to us. </span>We laughed together.
<span style="font-style: italic;">I should say not, </span>said Ted, and then remarked that this
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">was the nineteenth grandchild, born on the nineteenth
day of the month, an idea that occurred to me yesterday.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 21, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is Gladys’s birthday. She must be fifty-five today. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Last night Ted coaxed me to bed at ten o’clock, and
we were natural and happy together for an hour or so,
and then fell asleep. (There goes a warning! Damn the
bombs.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was wakened after awhile by an alert, and came
downstairs at once. The clock said two-thirty a.m. In a
few minutes several bombs passed over and dropped in
the distance and then a big fellow crumpled very near by.
It sounded as close as Romford Station, but must have
been further off then that. It shook the whole house and
took my breath away. After the bomb had fallen everything was quiet until about five o’clock when they began
to come again, until about eight then quietness until
now.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">On Saturday we were told that the government had
evacuated about ten thousand hospital patients from </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">London in special ambulance trains, taking them to
the north for safety, even as far as Scotland. This seems
rather ominous, for with the great battles now raging in
France, and the Germans being steadily defeated there,
we had hoped that the menace of these flying bombs
would soon be eliminated. Once we can get the Pas De
Calais area there will be an end of them. Ted says it
is because the Government fears the worse and greater
rocket bombs, which the Germans are threatening us
with. They may never launch them, but then, they might,
so the Government is playing for safety. (Explosions now,
sound to be in Chadwell Heath.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Sunday, September Third will be the fifth anniversary of th</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">e commencement of the war and the King has
asked that we all make it a day of prayer and of dedication. Well, if the flying bombs are still flying I shouldn’t
have the courage to go to church but if they aren’t, and
I could go out, I should attend service in the Parish
Church. I know I should. For it is the Parish Church, The
Church of England, that I feel an Englishwoman, that I
feel I belong to the community. In Catholic churches I
have always felt a stranger, an outsider; but I feel it is
the Catholics who are the foreigners, not myself. I am
aware of all the people in the congregation as separate
units, bodily there, but only bodily, not spiritually, mere
on lookers, not participants. In the Catholic Church the
priest does everything, the layperson nothing. In the
English Church, priest and people together pray and
praise, and in that togetherness I too feel to belong. That
really is brotherhood, community, and the communion
of the saints. So I shall go back to it, I am quite sure
of that. (Another warning!) Oh, this is coming nearer. I
must stop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 22, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted has gone off to a committee meeting of his
“knights.” It is still rainy weather, with very low cloud,
so we are getting many flying bombs. They came continuously all day yesterday, and throughout most of last night.
We have not had so many through this day as yesterday,
but still too many. They are most wearing; they twist my
insides with fear. The beastly noise they make is alone
enough to frighten you.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There is a “secrecy silence” being maintained on
the war news. We are told the Americans have crossed
the Seine both on the east and on the west of Paris and
that the roads on the east from Paris are blocked with
German transport. We are told that the Parisians’ are
rising, have risen, and there is street fighting going
on in Paris, that the Boulevards are crowded, and the
churches full. There is a rumor that we are at Versailles.
Nothing is officially known. The guess is that we are
surrounding and attacking Paris and that we shall be
given no authentic news until the allies can announce
the fall of Paris. Yesterday General Montgomery made a
broadcast to all officers and men, telling them the Battle
of Normandy was won, the Battle of Germany was about
to begin, and the end of the war was in sight; <span style="font-style: italic;">So let us
finish quickly</span>, he said. Yes, let us.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 23, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is nine-thirty a.m. and an all clear has just sounded,
the third since seven o’clock this morning. It was another
nasty night. The weather today is still deeply overcast,
so I expect we shall receive bombs all day long. What
weariness! I am in a state of exasperation bordering on
tears. Just as Ted was retiring last night he told me he
had arranged for the sweep to come today and clean the
parlor chimney; he did not know what time, and perhaps </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">he wouldn’t come at all, but some other day, for he told
Mrs. Frosdick it didn’t matter when Frosdick came,
because I was always at home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Now this makes me cross. Having the sweep is a nasty
dirty job, and one certainly needs time to prepare for
him, and to clean up after him. Moreover I hate it when
I don’t know exactly when to expect anyone, uncertainty
ties one so. I look at the parlor and groan. It is chock-a-
block with furniture, books, pictures, ornaments, a nasty
ugly overcrowded Victorian room. I can’t cope with it. It
is a room I never use. I never sit in it, and only go into it
when I need to telephone. It is Ted’s room. I haven’t time
to empty it, even if there was anywhere to empty it to,
and the job of cleaning it after the sweep departs appalls
me. Ted wants the chimney swept, so there you are! Not
even a time given to me! So here I must hang about,
doing nothing, waiting for the sweep. Oh, by heavens I
am sick of the house and of housekeeping!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am so sick of Romford. I hear old Ernest next door
hacking and coughing and spitting in his garden, and I
could scream. I hear Miss Owlett chatting, chatting, and
I think, Oh what a twittering old maid! Oh God, deliver
me from the neighbors! I hate neighbors. I hate living
on a street. I hate a husband coming in for a mid day
dinner. Gosh, now I hate the Sweep! I want to walk away
from everything and everybody.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now evening and the sweep came, in mid morning,
and I have survived him! I have partially cleaned the
room after him, washed windows and mirrors and
mantelpiece and hearth, and swept the floor; the dusting
and polishing I will do tomorrow.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We were thrilled at mid-day by news of the liberation
of Paris. Ever since Saturday there has been news that
the Parisians were fighting in the streets, and today we
are told that the city has fallen to the people of Paris </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and fifty-thousand men of French Forces of the Interior
who entered the city yesterday. Casualties are not told,
nor what was the severity of the fighting, but we gather
whatever Germans can, are in full retreat to the east.
Anyhow, the Germans have pulled out of Paris and Paris
is once more free again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 24, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had bombs again throughout the night and early
this morning. The Germans are leaving France as soon
as they can go, so we suppose Hitler is going to bomb us
up until the last minute, until we have driven him out of
the coastal regions. Late last night we received further
good news; the French have captured Marseilles, and
Romania is out of the war. The young King Michael has
broadcast a proclamation from Bucharest, which in effect
says that the Russian Peace terms will be accepted, a
new National Government will be formed, and Roumania
will be an ally of the United Nations. It is another jackal
looking to pick the bones of Europe.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In Rome Mr. Churchill has received the Greek Prime
Minister. The Greeks are making up their interior
quarrels, and so are the Yugoslavs. Now it remains for
the Poles to compose their differences. All this excitement about France, it makes me weep.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 25, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted has gone out to play benediction and tells me he
has “a meeting” afterwards, so will not be home until
sometime around ten. It is a quiet evening and fine.
Yesterday was very rainy with two heavy thunderstorms.
About eight-thirty Wilf Pullan called in. He had been
having a session with Mr. Lunt, the dentist, and had left
his fiancé, Pat, in there for a treatment. They had come
form Gidea Park on bicycles, but it had become too wet </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">to cycle home, so Wilf wanted to phone for a taxi, and
to leave the cycles in our shed. A little later Pat came
in, and they remained until after the nine o’clock news.
Wilf told us Artie called on them on Monday night and
told them about the birth of the baby. I was glad to hear
this, for Artie has neglected the Pullan's disgracefully
this past year. I think this is Hilda’s doing. I guess she
is afraid that, as Glasgow people they, the Pullan’s, will
know too much about her, where she comes from, and all
that she isn’t.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Whilst Pat and Wilf were here we had a bad hour of
raid; several flying bombs came over and dropped quite
close, one very much so, it was very nasty. However the
all clear was given at ten o’clock, and the next warning
didn’t sound until seven-fifteen this morning, so we had
a free night, which was heavenly.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 27, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The flying bombs early this morning broke the longest
lull since the attacks on London began. We had no more
since Friday morning. I have had two consecutive nights
in bed. This is wonderful!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday afternoon General DE Gaulle rode at the
head of his troops from the Unknown Soldier’s Tomb at
the Arc De Triomphe to the Cathedral of Notre Dame.
As he was about to enter the Cathedral snipers opened
fire on him and on the crowd. Also inside the church
snipers fired on him and on the congregation. However,
the service went on, and the Te Deum was sung. Public
rejoicing and acts of violence seem to have gone on in
Paris for the greater part of the day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 28, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another quiet night and another night in bed.
A warning was given at two-fifteen this afternoon, and no </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">all clear has yet been sounded. In fact, a bomb is passing
over right now. At least half a dozen have gone over since
the alert. Another has just dropped!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning, because all was quiet, I called a taxi
and went to see Artie and his family. The nurse was still
at the house when I arrived there but on the point of
departure. She comes in once a day and bathes Hilda
and the baby but that is all she does. Artie has to do
everything else, and very well he does it, too. Hilda is to
be allowed to get up for a little while on Wednesday; her
stitches, four of them, were removed yesterday. The baby
is really a nice baby, though he does not look one scrap
Thompson. Hilda was quite chatty and cheerful. I have
never seen her so smiling and so amiable before. I hope
she continues like that.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">August 29, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another night with out the flying bombs,
so another lovely night in bed. However an alert was
sounded just before eleven this morning, and they have
been on and off all day ever since. The Allies are across
the Marne.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 30, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is pouring rain. It was a very nasty night, particularly between eleven p.m. and three this morning. The
bombs came over continuously. Just before eight this
morning the first alert of the day was given, and we
have had several more since then, I have lost count. Our
troops have at last crossed into the Pas De Calais area,
so in a few days now these fiendish things may cease
blasting us.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night I was praying, praying; to God, to Mary.
If I haven’t been able to pray I couldn’t have survived
this war. These awful nights we’ve suffered, they crack </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">the brain or they would do unless the mind could turn
itself to God. I stay myself with the Catholic prayers,
the Memorare, the Salve Regina, the Rosary. I suppose I
shall have to go to confession again someday. I am tired
of skepticism, I am longing for conviction. I wanted to
surrender everything, my cleverness, my rebellion. I
wanted to be swamped with belief.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">What is the value of belief, which believes only in
times of great stress and fear? Can I believe when peace
comes? Shall I be able then to keep hold of this yearning,
this conviction, which floods me in the terrors of this
war time nights? Shall I be able to remember faith? I
don’t know. I am such a wishy washy person, such an
everlasting Reuben. I’ll try to remember. Fear is real,
terribly real. Love is real, most materialistically real.
Can I continue to live by and in the Catholic Church,
even though much in it irks me? Can I continue after the
terror dies away? I don’t know.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">August 31, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It was a quiet night, but bombs began again before
nine this morning, and kept up steadily until midday;
quiet since then. The morning’s bombs sounded to be
falling much nearer to Chadwell Heath, Collier Row, and
us I should say. Last night I went out with Ted to church,
and he and I stood as godparents to the baby. Artie
brought him by taxi, and the baptism was at seven-thirty
p.m. We were the only people in the church. I held the
baby. He was baptized Frederick Harold Victor. Afterwards we rode back with Artie and visited for about half
an hour with Hilda. Then we bussed it to the Cutting,
and walked the rest of the way home, getting in just
before dark. I have no time to write more now. Au-Revoir.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now ten-thirty p.m. I had hardly had time to
close this book before a bomb crashed somewhere fairly </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">close and they continued to come over until nearly eight
o’clock, but since then we have had rest from them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This has been a rainy day, and this evening we have had
a couple of thunderstorms, but now the sky has cleared and
the moon is shining, so I shall go upstairs to bed. The flying
bombs are seldom launched against us when there is a clear
sky. I hope to be able to spend the whole night in bed. </span></div>
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Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-19202361527084268352015-02-18T20:23:00.002-05:002015-05-17T21:51:51.521-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 7-1-44 to 7-31-44 Last night at eight-ten p.m. a pilotless plane fell on Eastern Road, and part of it across the tracks, between the houses, on Victoria Road. The blast was terrific. <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's</span></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 1, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night at eight-ten p.m. a pilot less plane fell on
Eastern Road and part of it across the tracks, between
the houses, on Victoria Road. The blast was terrific. These </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">planes carry one thousand pound bombs; their blast
carries across an area about a mile wide and the whole
circumference round. Ted was in church, and plaster fell
from the roof. Windows were broken and doors blown in
all up Park End Road and into Parkway. This road, and
Eastern and Victoria and Junction Roads, and South
Street, have suffered severely. This dining room window
was blown out, also the kitchen window and the frames
were wrenched from the walls of the upstairs windows,
though no glass was broken up there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Number forty-two Eastern Road, where the thing hit,
was rented by a man named Bruen (known as Brown)
who filled it with American soldiers on leave. He charged
for bed and breakfast and could accommodate twenty to
thirty men. As it was early evening nobody was in the
top of the house, so luckily no body was killed, though
there were many injuries from the flying glass. Bruen is
suspected of being a German, so there is no sympathy for
him. Instead the towns’ feeling is that he has suffered
an act of justice! Anyhow, he isn’t hurt, so what does his
house matter? Eastern Road is still closed to traffic, so
must be pretty well devastated. Nothing down on this
road though practically all the windows are broken.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When the laundry man came today he said, <span style="font-style: italic;">If there
is any dirt on the top of the basket, Mrs. Thompson, it
is from the blast, so please excuse it. The explosion was
right beside us. The roof is off the laundry and the walls
are down, but the machinery is still standing. I don’t know
what we will do next week, but I expect we will be able to
carry on.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This is an instance of the impenetrability of the
British. Here is another: As soon as I realized I wasn’t
hurt I went out into the garden to look around. Mr.
Holloway was in his garden, next door, and a young girl
who is staying with Miss Owlett and of course we all </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">talked together. Mr. Holloway had been gardening, the
young woman hanging up clothes to dry. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">I saw </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">it falling,
</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">she said, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">so I just threw myself on the ground.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, I saw it coming, </span>said Mr. Holloway, <span style="font-style: italic;">but before I
could do anything it was down. It’s broken my windows, I
see. What a nuisance!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We then went out to the front, to see the ambulances
rushing by and crowds of people streaming up the road.
All the neighbors had the same idea; we were all in our
front gardens, counting our broken windows.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, well, </span>said Miss Owlett’s young visitor<span style="font-style: italic;">, this won’t
do. I must go and finish my washing.”</span>And she went back
into the house. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I don’t think everybody is so calm. The laundryman
told me things are much worse in the city and people
are getting very angry there. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">Mr. Morrison will be getting
a deputation soon, I think. The folk’s want to know what
he’s going to do about it. They are getting a bit tired of
this. This isn’t war, this is just plain murder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The B.B.C. gives out extremely little information on
the air, but people know how very bad the raids are.
London is getting the bombs day and night, almost
without pause. The laundryman said last night the
Mansion House got them, the Air Ministry, and the
Strand Hotel.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now five p.m. and the green grocer is at the back
door; his call coinciding with another passing pilotless plane interrupted me. He, too, saw the bomb fall
last night, and he says it must have been one of the
very heaviest because the surrounding and extending
damage is the worst and the largest he has yet seen.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Those planes are rousing great anger. They are aimed
blind and the German’s can’t possibly select their objective so this is just simple terrifying murder of civilians.
Actually there is nothing Hitler could have done to have </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">so aroused the national temper to defeat him. All those
who were weary of the war and beginning to suggest
that statesmen might arrange a negotiated peace, are
now all for the continued prosecution of the war until
Hitler is utterly defeated. These bombing outrages the
British sense of fair play, and the fact that the planes are
pilot-less seems to make them even more inhuman than
the others and infuriates us. Until we can check them,
extremely hard to do right now because of the very bad
weather, so much constant cloud and twenty-four hour
poor visibility, no doubt they will continue to rain death
and destruction on us, the civilians, but they won’t make
us stop fighting. This war is hellish, hellish, but we have
got to win it and we shall. Nothing will stop us, and
certainly not their terror bombs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Another plane fell very near about two a.m. this
morning. I had fallen asleep when the explosion woke
me. It was terrific and the whole house shook. To my
dismay I was attacked with cramp in both my thighs
and could not get off the sofa. It was acute. I suppose
the muscles were in tension, as well as the mind. I am
always afraid of cramp in the night, it is an agonizing
affliction, but to suffer it in both legs at once is a bit too
much. My legs are sore today from the pain. I feel as
though I had been trampled.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 2,1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Officials began calling at breakfast time to investigate our war damage; one man inspecting walls, another
the roof, a third the windows, and soon gangs of men
appeared on the street and began temporary repairs.
Every house on this street has suffered blast damage.
Two men came in mid morning and put up black felt on
our broken windows to keep the weather out until glass
can be obtained, and two others came in the afternoon </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">to hammer the window frames back into their walls.
The town council does this. One of the men told us that
a great company of them had been called up from the
South End to assist in the Romford repairs, and they
would keep on working until the job was done. It will
take several days. These are only temporary repairs of
course. Happily our roof is intact, but many roofs are
lifted completely off. Mrs. Fitzgerald’s house, the first one
on Junction Road, and consequently which lies across
the foot of our garden, looks fantastic; the binding tiles
along her roof ridge have been lifted up like a garden
rake, a picot edge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Rita Pullan telephoned just before lunch to inquire
how we were. She said she arrived at Romford Station
soon after the pilot less plane fell and saw the confusion
of the immediate destruction. She said it thoroughly
frightened her, she got a taxi for home, as for some
reason the train wasn’t going to Gidea Park. She quaked
as to what she might find at home. However, their house
was all right. Her people had been scared by the noise,
and the house shook, but luckily they must have been
outside the area of the blast. No damage was done to
them, not even a windowpane cracked.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then she told me a piece of bad news about a woman
we both happen to know; Mrs. Richardson of Victoria
Road. Mrs. Richardson was a neighbor to old Mrs.
Barkham, and ran a boot-shop, nearly opposite to old Mr.
King. When the bomb fell she was in her shelter, quite
o.k. At the all clear she came out and found all her shop
windows blown out. She set to work at once, cleaning up
the broken glass, rescuing her stock, and so on. She
completed the job, and then complained of feeling tired.
Naturally. Then, however, she said she felt rather ill,
and then she died. The doctor said she wasn’t hurt, and
nobody belonging to her was hurt, but she had died from </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">shock. Isn’t it awful! She was a middle-aged woman,
healthy, and cheerful, not a bit the silly or hysterical
type; yet she died just like that. That’s modern war;
you’re here today, and then you’re not. Mrs. Richardson
is another of Hitler’s victims.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 3, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It was a very bad night with real planes over as well
as the pilot- less ones. Today the weather is still very
bad. We had torrential rain in the night and again this
morning, so it was lucky the demolition men had come
and made us weather proof yesterday, otherwise our
rooms would have gotten very wet. As well as rain today,
we have had darkness, much like a November winter
day with this dining room window blacked out with its
“pane” of felt, this room has been gloomy as a dungeon.
Of course we have had to burn a light all day, but it is
still gloomy. Mrs. Cannon came for the afternoon and
was quite a godsend. It is true, misery loves company;
together we could forget our disagreeableness and give
each other a little cheer. Alerts were on and off all day.
Several p-planes were passing very near here whilst Mrs.
Cannon was visiting; she seemed even more scared than
I was. They certainly are devilish things.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I received a letter from Joan, written in the shelter
yesterday. She writes she won’t come over here, as she
feels it is necessary to stay and keep guard over her
house. It was blitzed last week, in the front, and on
Saturday again in the back!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">She writes, <span style="font-style: italic;">I feel I want to stay and take care of my
home, if there had been no one here when it was blasted
over a week ago there would have been very little left of
it by now. Last Friday men came and made the ceilings
safe, yesterday I got the front room livable again and this
morning at four forty-five a.m. I was blasted again, this
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">time at the back of the house. The window and ceiling came
in and in the front room some bits more of this ceiling came
down. We have had a rough time here. I will not tell you
the details, except that four have dropped within blasting
distance of Angel Walk. I go to the shelter and stay there
until the all clear but three times I have been caught when
I have been getting some shopping done and have had to
throw myself down on the ground. I sleep every night now
in the shelter, so you can guess how bad my legs and back
are. Gladys wrote to me about coming to London. I told
her not to think of doing so while the flying bombs are
coming over. I hardly have time to wash or go to the W.C.
between raids and I know my nerves are on edge so I don’t
feel I could cope with Gladys. If I get bombed out I might
be very glad to have a flat with Fred, but for the present I
shall stay here because of the shelter which I feel safe in,
and because it is so close at hand, its almost like having
it in one’s garden.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So there it is. It’s true, you couldn’t get Mother out
of that house, and now you can’t get Joan out either, yet
neither of them needs ever live there!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 4, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At nine-twenty tonight another infernal flying bomb
crashed dangerously nearby. It fell only a minute after
passing over these housetops. Well, it might have fallen
on us. It didn’t but it could have. So with death blowing
in my face like that, I want to put it on record now that
I know quite well that my husband is a good man. Only
the trouble is that I don’t like good men. I prefer sinners
to saints because I am a sinner, I suppose, and who finds
the pursuit of perfection and sainthood too wearying to
my spirit. I am content to be average decent, as good
as is sufficient, but that’s all. Life with Ted is unending </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">strain and he wears me out. I want him to be easier,
careless about much, as I am. I want him to be kinder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The pursuit of truth is all very well, but I have all the
truth I want without pursuing it. I know what I know.
What I want is not more exact knowledge, pedantic
accuracy about trifles but more loving kindness. Loving-
kindness. I am ready to give it, but he is not ready to
receive it. Ted doesn’t want my love or affection; simply
he only requires my services, and they don’t always suit.
His corrections and reprimands ceaselessly annoy me.
Who is he to hold himself above me? Why can’t he accept
me as I am? He has gone up to his bed now in this usual
way, quite amiable, yet quite self-contained. I feel he is
quite callous. Why couldn’t he show me some sign of
sympathy in this distressing night? Put his arm around
my shoulder; hold my hand for a minute? No, he doesn’t,
he only brags about how he isn’t going to let the bombs
disturb him. Yes, he’s good, an estimable character and
a good citizen, a patriotic Englishmen; yes, I know.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 5, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a terrible night with an awful near-by bomb
explosion at two a.m. This, we heard today, was on
Eastern Avenue. The one at nine-twenty last night was
on Marlborough Road. I heard another bad one at three
a.m. and various further away ones at intervals all night.
They have been coming all day too, sometimes every
hour, and sometimes every half hour. Mrs. Cannon was
here this afternoon and several bad ones whilst she was
here. There was another extra bad one near by again
at exactly nine-twenty this evening, and three more
before ten-fifteen. Well, goodnight, and I hope it will
be “goodnight” though I don’t think it’s likely. Anyhow,
Au-revoir.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 6, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No, it wasn’t a good night. Bombs on Marlborough
Road and on Eastern Avenue. However, the weather has
improved, today has been really beautiful, the first real
summer day since D-Day, a month ago.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mr. Churchill has made a statement in Parliament
about the flying bombs and has given the casualties,
which he says are about one death for one bomb. Up
until six a.m. this morning in the three weeks since they
began, two thousand seven hundred and fifty-four bombs
have been launched against us, chiefly London, whose
area is eighteen miles by twenty miles, and the deaths
are two thousand seven hundred and fifty-two. The
seriously wounded, detained in the hospital are roughly
eight thousand and about another three thousand
slightly wounded, but not detained in the hospital.
These he accounts “light”; adding that because of the
comparatively lightweight of the bombs, one thousand
pounds, their penetrating power is not great, but the
damage they make by the blast is great. They destroy or
damage more property than lives. He gives no hope of
checking them until we can land on the soil of Calais.
He says they have a hundred launching points between
Calais and LeHavre. We have been attacking them since
last September, but we cannot destroy them from the
air, though we do put some out of action, though they are
later repaired.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In short, he says we must simply continue to endure
them, as the greater war effort will not be diminished
so as to deal with these. He says everyone must continue
to carry on with their work, whatever it is. There will be
no evacuation of London, although arrangements have
been made to evacuate those children and mothers and
pregnant women who wish to be evacuated. He adds that
these flying bombs, launched indiscriminately against </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">London, will not make the slightest difference to the
continuation of the war and to our winning it. So that’s
that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The news tonight of the dismissal of the German
General In Chief in France, Von Rundstedt. The reason
is, that he has resigned because of ill health, and it
is announced that Hitler has written him, in his own
handwriting (my! my!) a letter of thanks, for his valuable
services to Germany. Yes, we know all about that too.
Very soon we shall hear about the death of this famous
general. Like Dietl, in Finland, who died last week “in
an air-accident” unexplained? Hitler is quite slick at
removing his friends when they no longer please him.
Von Rundstedt who had been in charge of The Atlantic
Wall and the “impregnable” defenses of the French coast
has lasted only thirty days since the allies succeeded in
landing in Normandy. He has failed to hold the enemy,
so he has been kicked out of his command. He was
supposed to be the best general Germany had; he was
supposed to also be an anti-Nazi. Any how he has had
to resign right now, because, we are told, of reasons of
health.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 7, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another terrible night. At twelve-twenty p.m.
a p-plane passed directly over our roof and exploded a
couple of minutes later, falling on Hainault Golf Course.
Another fell into the lake at Ilford, killing an American
soldier and girl who were in a boat on the lake. The
weather is as bad as ever again today, the clouds as dark
and gloomy as November. It was a full moon yesterday
and we hoped the weather had definitely changed for
the better; but no, except that it isn’t raining it couldn’t
be worse.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">Lift Up Your Heart </span>talks this week please me. A </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">soldier gives them. He is hammering away on the topic
that the the Spirit means God within man; the spiritual
means everything godlike, the spirit in which a life is
lived is the only really important thing in that life; and
the spiritual part of you is the only real part. Thence he
goes on to the design for living, God’s design and law
for us, which must be, brotherhood, and that therefore
now, in the climax of the war, all people of good will
in all nations have now to choose to follow God’s design
and keep God’s laws. He is stressing individualism and
personal responsibility, arguing that a single individual
can and does influence the whole. “To forward God’s plan
for man, which is Brotherhood, to prepare ourselves, the
first step is in absolute honesty and real determination
to resolve to walk in the light of God’s laws: in the light
of goodwill, service to others, good sense, justice, happiness, and to overcome the obstacle of the outer self.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Poor chap, he can’t say much in only five minutes
each morning; but he is saying something, not the usual
platitudinous and feeble drivel which is handed out on
most mornings of the year.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 8, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is eleven a.m. and I am cooking the dinner. The sun
is shining again this morning but only intermittently.
We had a terrible time again last night, especially from
just before midnight until about one-thirty a.m. Bombs
were coming over every five minutes some frighteningly
near. Even Ted couldn’t stay upstairs! He could see them
approaching from the bedroom window, appearing to be
coming straight for us. One which almost scraped the roof
top exploded a minute later. We guessed it could hardly
have reached the end of the street, perhaps gotten as far
as the convent, but we have heard this morning it reached
as far as the Rainham Road and exploded there; casual</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">ties not known yet but the butcher boy says there maybe
scores as the ambulances were up and down the road
until four o’clock this morning. Another close one fell in
Collier Row. Collier Row gets them nearly everyday; that
spot must just make an end of one of their drives.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We are only on the outskirts. London is getting the
great brunt of the attack, It must be simply frightful
up there. The B.B.C. told us that fifteen thousand
children were evacuated from London yesterday, and
forty thousand people are sleeping in the Tube stations.
Hell, Hitler made hell. Today the B.B.C. tells us that it is
known that Rundstedt was dismissed by Hitler because
he told Hitler the war was lost and an armistice should
be asked for, as it was criminal to uselessly sacrifice
more German lives. It is also known, according to the
B.B.C. that Rundstedt was “violently angry” about the
use of the flying bomb, and told Hitler so. Maybe. Anyhow
Rundstedt has been removed from his command.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Now a personal word, something to laugh about. It
is a word about the nature of man. Mrs. Highman used
to say, <span style="font-style: italic;">All men want only one thing, and all men are the
same; there are no exceptions. </span>That was her main reason
for being anti Catholic, she simply could not believe in
the celibacy of the priesthood. <span style="font-style: italic;">You can’t tell me! </span>She
used to say.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I must say that in Bayonne the “foreign” priests did
not lead lives of edification; the Italian priests and the
Polish priests being the worst offenders. One of the
priests at the Polish church on Avenue E was once shot
whilst saying mass because he has seduced a sister of
one of the Pollack's in his congregation. It was notoriously “not safe” for a woman to go as housekeeper to the
Italian priest.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">However, well, last night, about two a.m. when things
quieted down, Ted became amorous. How could he!
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well, he could all right. He coaxed me to go upstairs
to bed, <span style="font-style: italic;">for a little while. </span>We loved, and in my head came
a phrase <span style="font-style: italic;">Upon the brink of hell I’ll sing the song of love.
</span>The previous hours had been hellish. They couldn’t have
been worse without actual destruction. Yes, hell, and
here was my funny husband being loving. I surrendered.
That’s not my idea of love, but what can a woman do?
Maybe I should take it as a compliment. I don’t know.
Anyhow, you are apt to think any female would do. I
think an old wife gives her body to her man much as she
gave her breast to her infant, you give the fellow what
he wants; you appease him. You think: Oh, anything
for peace and quiet! You get recompense; you do get the
peace and quiet, a deep assuagement of the flesh. Also, I
think, you get sort of a rejuvenation. I think that as long
as physical loving can go on it keeps the body from ossification and petrifaction; when all the secret juices and
secretions of the body are kept acting you can’t possibly
dry up like a mummy.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning I feel fine, especially as the sun is
shining and there is no alert on at present. However,
before I could fall asleep last night I heard another flying
bomb in the distance, and had to come downstairs again,
to finish the night on the sofa although Ted remained up
in bed.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There is one final thing to note: I am sure that matrimony is the death of religion in women; that is, orthodox
religion, Christianity. No old wife can possibly believe in a
masculine personal God; and as for priests and parsons,
well, she just laughs at them. Men are so silly. What man
can teach a woman anything? It is we who have to teach
and bamboozle them. Silly fool men. I cannot believe
in the masculine god, whether he is Jehovah or Jesus.
Male gods are preposterous to the minds of women. God </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">as spirit, yes. The queen of heaven, a female symbol of
divinity, yes; but God as man, no, never.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now eight-thirty p.m. and so far through this
day without a bomb or warning. The B.B.C. has reported
heavy bombing by the Americans today on their launching
platforms, and a large storage place in caves, thirty-six
miles north of Paris. Maybe we have given them enough
damage to hold them for a few days. Further reports of
where the bombs fell in this neighborhood last night:
Birch Road, Mawney Road, Lindley Crescent, and much
destruction. This afternoon a man with a loud speaker
went through the streets, calling out information for
those people who wished to be evacuated; where to go
to inquire for tickets, billetts, etc. Many people have
already left. Everything is quiet now, but we are all
keyed up, listening for the warning, and the racket of
the blasted things. Although this day has been mercifully free of them, we expect them to come again as soon
as it is dark.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is impossible to settle to anything. Ted is playing
Bach, but I can’t do anything. I have read the papers, but
cannot read a book, impossible to concentrate any attention. So there is nothing to do until its time to listen to
the nine o’clock news. I think I will turn on the radio
and listen to the silly <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">Music Hall. </span>By the way, the B.B.C.
has announced that the seasons <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">Promenade Concerts,
</span>of Sir Henry Woods, have ceased for the time being and
gives notice that to all the people who bought tickets
for them, their money will be returned. This means The
Royal Albert Hall has been bombed. Poor Sir Henry! His
Queen’s Hall was blitzed in 1941. Well Au-Revoir.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 9, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a bad night and a bad day. At twelve-twenty
a bomb fell very close. It blew my plaster down again a</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">nd smashed many more windows along the street. It
is almost funny how regularly our worst bombs descend
hereabouts at twenty minutes past the hour. Gerry’s
methodical send offs, I suppose. Smoke ascended again
from the neighborhood of the station we found out later
that the bomb had dropped along the</span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Hornchurch Road,
just before you come to the waterworks and Romeo
Corner. Two people were killed. Later another fell in
Gorseway, knocking down the houses, though nobody
was killed. For the entire af</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">ternoon bombs kept falling.
It is hateful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 10, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If this war doesn’t stop soon, I shall stop. These flying
bombs are absolutely fiendish. No wonder Hitler thought
he would win the war with them; and no doubt he would
have done so, had we not heard about their imminence
in time; and blasted his sites out of order. Since what he
is doing to us now he is doing with a diminished power,
it is simply paralyzing to think what he could have done
to us if we had left him unmolested. It is seven-fifteen
p.m. now, and bombs have been coming over steadily all
day. The weather is still all in his favor, very thick low
clouds. It was a bad day. Last night too was awful, and
I expect tonight will be the same. What one longs for is
sleep; rest. I made a dash to the library between alerts
this morning to pick up, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">The Antigone, </span>which I was
notified on Saturday was being held for me. Ah! There
starts another warning, so I’ll shut up. Au-revoir.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 11, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Something has happened to me, something totally
unexpected, and as sudden, and as devastating as the
explosion of a bomb. I have lost my God. For a long time
now I have been asking myself what had happened to </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Christianity? What good was it in this war? What earthy
connection was there between the Christian story and
the war? All the time I still believed in God, and the
goodness of God; at the root of my mind was the image
of the Heavenly Father, the Almighty Creator, creator of
heaven and earth, willing good to his creatures. It was
the image of God built up in my mind mainly by Charles
Voysey, and his Theism. God must be a Being at least as
good as we are and wish to be, and as good as the highest
we can imagine, and he must be loving and reasonable
and true, because he has made us that way. For a long
time I have thought of Christianity as much too simple
and too naïve for any adult mind to “believe” but now I
think Theism also is too simple and naïve to be believed.
My thought of God as Being, and as exterior Power, has
collapsed; that conception no longer has any credibility
whatever. For years I have been listening to the platitudinous drivel from assorted ministers, parsons and
priests, which the B.B.C. puts on the air at seven fifty-five a.m. every morning. Very very occasionally somebody
has really said something like “the soldier” of last week,
but mostly it has just been stuff for children.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well, today I have heard something on the radio,
which has simply blasted my Theism, (my belief in
any sort of a personal God) to pieces. It came in a war
report. It was given by an American war correspondent
that had been a prisoner of the Germans for fourteen
days in Yugoslavia, and then escaped. His name was
something like Stoyan Stepanovich, not that, but
something like that, I couldn’t catch it. Presumably he
was an American, born of Yugoslavia parents. He said
five of them, American correspondents and photographers had been taken prisoners by the Germans, but he
was the only one of them that could speak German, so
he could talk to his captors, and moreover he could hear </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and understand much which he wasn’t meant to hear.
He told what the Germans said to him, and what they
asked him. He told how they all believed implicitly all
Goebbel’s propaganda.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">He told how they thought him to
be a fool to be in the war voluntarily. It was what he told
of what he saw which underpinned me. He told of the
brutal kicking and shooting of prisoners, of hostages, of
women and children, of the innocent. He told this; at one
place he saw the Germans massacre a group of missionaries, men, women and children. He saw them kill one
family; a father, mother, and two children. The man was
torn away and trampled, a little girl of three years old
was shot, the baby in the mother’s arms was bayoneted,
and the mother then shot. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">This is true, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">said Stoyan. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">I
saw it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When he said this my soul reeled. I have heard
of other atrocities, yet nevertheless my faith in God
remained uncracked. In fact, I thought instead; this is
the work of the devil; these are the powers of darkness,
these Germans are fiends; these Germans are crazy. The
world is crazy. I have thought Germany will never be
forgiven, never and I will never forgive the Germans as
long as I live. I have thought of the stupidity of statesmen
and the lunacy of war. I have prayed, day and night, for
everybody, as well as for myself. Today, all at once, I
thought: No, it is God who will never be forgiven. I have
believed in free will. I suppose I still do believe in it,
and I have said, God cannot be blamed for the war War
is because men will have it.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The fury does not descend only upon the wicked, and
those who willed it. “They that take the sword shall
perish by the sword.” Yes, some of them do, but some
of them don’t. What about those who don’t take the
sword, and yet perish by the sword? What about that
missionary mother’s baby being bayoneted in her arms?
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">What was God doing for her? Hadn’t she praised God
and prayed all her life? I’m sure she had. Was she in
the Everlasting Arms? I don’t think so, else why was
she permitted to fall into the hands of the Germans?
Was the Providence for her? What about the little three-
year-old girl shot on sight? Is that the love of God for
little children? I simply cannot think so. “Believe: only
believe.” No, I cannot. Belief is stupid, belief is useless.
“God protects his own.” How? “Such innocent victims
will go straight to heaven?” How do you know? Who says
so? What is the guaranty? Even if so, what can undo
their anguish? God himself cannot undo the past; nor
can heaven recompense for it. “The innocent must suffer
for the guilty.” That doesn’t make sense. Even supposing
the innocent willingly and knowingly and deliberately
undertook to suffer for the guilty, vicarious punishment,
vicarious suffering, as theology has it; yet what of the
innocent who suffer and die for nothing? For no reason
whatsoever that baby was murdered in his mother’s
arms, that little child shot down before her eyes, how
can such an act possibly resound to the glory of God?
Write the killers off as devils from hell, and still nothing
is explained. Where is the love and mercy of God in this
sort of an incident? It’s nowhere; you know it is nowhere,
and why? Because God is nowhere, there is no God.
Theology is defunct.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So what is left? Spirit, I think. The spirit in me, and
the spirit in all my moral equals; goodness in the good,
those of good-will; mind in the intelligent, knowledge in
the well instructed, reason, beauty, mysterious beauty,
God in my soul. My mind and soul, my God within.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I must think about this. I expect I must regard myself
as one of those peculiar “inside” people that Laura
Riding talks about, and, as Adela Curtis said, God is my </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Principle. It is certain I am no Christian, not any kind of </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">a Christian.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 12, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted was collecting in Ilford yesterday. He said the
damage was much greater there than here, and the
laundryman told me this morning that one night last
week Ilford had thirty bombs fall in two hours. He also
told me that Croydon is stripped to the ground, and
Stratham nearly as bad. He said the A.R.P. reports that
at least twenty five thousand people are homeless from
those two places alone. The greatest damage is in all
those places south of the Thames. Still the bombs fall.
Every day we are told the R.A.F. goes out and bombs
their launching sites, and storage depots, and yet still
the bombs come over. Last night in this neighborhood
was quieter, but Southern England reports damage and
casualties this morning. On Monday I spoke to somebody
in Romford Market who had come up from Southend. I
asked if the doodle-bugs fell there. She replied, <span style="font-style: italic;">No, we
don’t have any fall in Scotland, but we can’t sleep for the
noise of the shooting, our boys go up and shoot them down
into the sea.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Many?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
Heavens! Yes, about seventy an hour.<br />
</span>Seventy an hour! Then one thinks of the day’s war
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">report, as given out by the B.B.C.; carefully, ambiguously,
trickily worded so as to convey the impression that not
so very many came across the Channel anyhow. Our war
reports are absurd. The information department seems
to work on the scheme: Fool the people; don’t tell a thing;
the public’s an idiot anyhow.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This war is run by the few. Whilst the public has
the privilege of dying and of paying the bills. As for
Churchill, he enjoys himself; any picture of him will </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">show you that. He is a naturally bellicose man. War is
good sport for him. The laundryman told me a tale about
Churchill this morning. He said Churchill went out to
Croydon to look at the mess, and got hissed. People say,
</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">It’s all very well for him; he’s got four or five houses.” </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and
one bystander called out to him swearing, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">You! You! You
so-and-so! You go back to your dear daughter Mary and
watch the bombs drop down. We don’t want you here!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Certainly Churchill’s popularity is waning and if the
government can’t find a way soon to stop these awful
flying bombs, he will become downright hated. The
people have had about all the war they can stand, and
there certainly is a feeling, a suspicion, now growing that
Churchill is responsible for the prolongation of it. I think
it is likely that if our bombers can’t blast the flying bomb
sites out of existence within the next week or two, this
Government will fall.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 13, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There were flying bombs over this country during the
night, the first time for a month. However we had plenty
yesterday. They began at three o’clock in the afternoon,
and kept it up until ten p.m. Several exploded in this
neighborhood, one on Rainham Road again, rattling this
house and blowing in windows along the street, though
this house only got dust and plaster blown in and down.
Elizabeth Coppen arrived just before the first one fell.
She stayed an hour and a half and was very panicky
all the time. One traveling north seemed to be headed
for Parkway, but I guess exploded beyond, as I have not
heard from her that she found any damage on her return
home. Well I’m blessed! There’s the warning sounding.
Oh this infernal war!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is eleven p.m. and the all clear came about a half
hour ago. The damned bombs have been coming over all </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">day, particularly close and frequently during the afternoon. It’s fiendish. We got a letter from Johnnie today; he
says he is waiting to be called up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 14, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There were no bombs on London during the night,
but I hear they were catapulted on to Bath. This evening
we heard that a trainload of evacuating mothers and
children, ready to leave London was bombed this
morning, children and many of the mothers killed. The
rest were dispersed and sent back to where they came
from. You see, you can’t escape your fate, your death is
appointed to you and it awaits you somewhere, and at
an hour you cannot evade. You can’t run away from your
destiny. You can’t even run away from danger, if you run
away from it, you may only run into another.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Children from our St. Edward’s Church School were
evacuated this morning. This evacuation has many evils
to it. One mother told Ted this morning that she knows
a case where a child, on returning from evacuation said
to her mother, <span style="font-style: italic;">No, I don’t want to come back. No. I want
to learn to live like a lady, not like you! </span>Gives you a shock
doesn’t it?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted has gone to church and I hope we don’t get
another bomb while he is at devotions. The first alert
was given at eight a.m. today, but not so many bombs
have come this way today as yesterday. It is quite enough
to go on with though! The worst come regularly in the
afternoons, between three and four p.m. In the House
Mr. Morrison has said we cannot hope to stop the flying
bombs yet, so we must continue to endure them. Many
members asked for a secret session about them (as they
have done before) but this was obstinately refused. They
are bad, very bad, but the government isn’t going to admit
it, so “so we must continue to endure them!” Folks are
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">getting angry. We’ve had enough of this war and we’ve
had enough of this Parliament. If the war doesn’t end
this summer I think there’ll be a big bust up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 15, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The all clear sounded about five minutes ago. We had
a quiet morning, but the bombs began coming in about
two o’clock; and as usual the worst of all at three-twenty
p.m. It went directly over this roof, and exploded about
three minutes later. I don’t know where, Collier Row or
Rainham Road, most likely. As these things travel on a
direct-catapulted line they frequently fall repeatedly on
practically the same spots. We have had several others
since the three-twenty one, but no other quite so near.
They make me feel very ill.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is atrocious, more like late October
than mid summer. Oh this English climate, what a
depressing one it is! Gloom, steady gloom. Ted has gone
out to get some organ practice. I am frightfully restless,
very moody, Oh God! Let the war end soon!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now evening. At four o’clock today a flying bomb
fell in Broad Street just outside Liverpool Street Station.
The station crowded with the Saturday afternoon crowd
returning home, but it is said there were not very many
people actually in Broad Street. The casualties are not
yet known.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">July 16, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is better today, with the sun actually
shining. They flying bombs come over steadily all day
long. This morning I heard on the wireless a “Church
Parade” service broadcast from a field in Normandy.
General Montgomery read the lesson, which was the
story of the good Samaritan in Luke. The men sang the
hymns, recited the General Confession, The Creed, and </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">the Our Father. An English Canon gave an address. It was
most moving, and it was beautiful. I wept, but not from
grief. All the while in the background could be heard
distant guns, planes overhead, a church bell tolling, and
birds singing. It was impressively beautiful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 17, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is Ted’s birthday. He is sixty-five today. Mrs.
Cannon came visiting this afternoon, and gave me news
from Woodford, where she has a sister living. One day
last week the flying bombs hit and demolished a mental
home there; one hundred imbeciles were buried, but all
dug out without loss of life; another bomb hit a maternity home near-by, and several of the mothers and babies
were killed. Mysterious, isn’t it? She also told me that a
bomb hit a goods-train at Bethnal Green at five-thirty
p.m. yesterday; nobody hurt. Another bomb fell on
Moorgate Street Station, and the station had to be shut.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Today we had fine weather; this is two days running
and how very much better we feel for it! I went to the
library this morning and returned, <span style="font-weight: 600;">The Antigone, </span>which
had not given me the pleasure I had expected from it;
but probably I am too distracted to read properly; the
worry of these bombs is constant, and it takes detachment indeed to detach your mind from that.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 18, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a rainy cloudy morning again, but a clearance into good weather this afternoon. I have been to the
library again. I took a chance on going out in mid-after-
noon, because as the sky had cleared I guessed there
would be no bombs sent over. I got there and back without
any incident, but an alert was given about half an hour
ago, and the all clear is now sounding.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am feeling particularly kindly towards Ted. That </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">awful feeling of having to endure him has shifted,
instead I feel I want to love him, to give him my love.
Oh, if that could only last!</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 19, 1944
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A bomb has just fallen not far off. They have been
coming over all day, also all last night, which was the
very worst night we have had yet. Today we can see
the reason for it, for another terrific battle opened in
France yesterday. We are told of an unprecedented air
bombardment, one of the most concentrated air attacks
ever made. In over three hours more than twenty-two
hundred allied heavy, medium, and light bombers
dropped between seven thousand and eight thousand
tons of bombs in an area of little more than seventy
square miles and as soon as the path had been cleared
fighter bombers and fighters operated in great numbers
just ahead of our advancing troops to harass and shake
the enemy still further. No wonder he peppers London
with his flying bombs all day and all night.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At different times during the dark hours last night
we lay and listened to our bombers going out, crossing
his p-planes coming in. The alerts go on and off all the
time. It would be simpler to leave it on permanently, or
until the battles wane. I am literally sick with sustained
apprehension. You wait and wait to hear whether the
bombs are passing over, or not, and then for the explosion, the suspense almost twists your guts, you feel as
though your inside is being pulled out of you. Then the
B.B.C. has the bright idea of broadcasting battlefield
effects, straight from the front. They gave us an assortment of them after the one o’clock news, with running
comments from reporters on the spot. War up to date,
but it fills me with yet another agony. Why turn mortal
combat into an after lunch entertainment? Possibly the
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">censor is trying to encourage the British public with
sounds of victory, but to me it is the dreadful sound of
death and destruction and to broadcast it a barbarous
vulgarity. Men will fight; yes, and men must fight, but
why degrade it to the level of show?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am very tired and don’t think I slept more than
an hour all night, but thank God I was able to pray. Of
course, the problem of the baptized baby still remains,
but somewhere in my own immediate distress I have
been able to shunt it aside.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I think it is perhaps at last I have attained to a
comprehension of sin. Of course I have heard about sin
all of my life but I could never feel or think about it in
the required responses. I was too respectful, I suppose,
and led too sheltered a life to really know anything
about sin. I couldn’t think of myself as a sinner, not ever.
I was an educated Englishwoman, a lady; how could I
be a sinner? Well, now I can see that the whole war is
sin, and the result of sin. How sin came into the world I
don’t know, but it is here. I know that all right. Sin is an
affront against the good, against God. Sin is the cause
of the misery of the world. How avoid it? By good will,
by the right action of our free wills. Sin killed the baby,
but that was only an infinestable part of the ferocious
general German sin, the sin of the willful destruction of
the innocent of which the whole German nation is guilty.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We are all fighting the Germans because of their unprovoked aggressions against their neighbors, their injustices, and their cruelties. We are fighting the Germans
because we do stand for goodness and justice, for God.
Why does God permit such sin? Because he gave us free
will. Free will is the fact, which explains the possibility
of sin. The Germans act as savages and demons because
they choose to act that way. Certain German individuals
chose to bayonet that baby in arms. God did not stop </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">them, he left them in their will to be bad. What of the
baby? I don’t know, but I have to trust it to God, and
believe that he took it instantly into himself, back into
Heaven. The mother too, for they were not against him.
The murderers? They are already in the outer darkness,
and they will be annihilated, because everything and
everyone, which is against the good, cannot stand. Evil
is powerful, but goodness is more powerful in the end.
In the end God prevails. All evils are man made. Man
makes the wrong choices, but does not forever. Sooner
or later he sees he must make the right choices, and
then he does so. The simplest can see, ultimately, that
the good way, God’s way, is the only way. We are in war
because man has insisted on war, but we shall come to
an end of it. Then we must turn from chaos to order, and
to the right ordering of society, and we must begin to do
that in the right ordering of ourselves, our individual
selves. Repent and begin again. I am rambling; I better
close up now and set about getting the tea, so Au-revoir.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">July 20, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Existence is becoming well nigh intolerable. Last night
was terrible. Nine bombs dropped in this vicinity, whilst
scores and scores went over. They have been coming
constantly all morning. Two big clumps have fallen near
by since eleven, probably in Ilford. Mrs. Cannon came
in a little while ago and brought me a cupful of black
currants, enough to make a small plate pie. She said one
bomb had fallen at Liverpool Street this morning. She
was wondering about her husband, whether he got safely
to work or not. The bombs are coming in from the East
now and she says the morning papers say that Hitler has
opened two fresh launching sites, and that’s the reason
the bombs are taking a new direction. One fell on Berry-St. Edmond's, on a train full of children evacuees.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I felt this morning if this bombardment keeps up I
should have to ask Ted not to go to Oxford next week,
for I could not remain in the house alone. The nights are
absolutely terrifying. I don’t think I could stay in this
house by myself. I don’t want to spoil his holiday for him,
but I really am very very frightened. Probably I will be
quite alright by the end of next week, if still alive, but I
am sick with fright today, I really am.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 21, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The sun is trying to break through. The morning has
been very cloudy, so flying bombs coming over regularly,
about three an hour. One fell near by whilst we were at
dinner. We could hear it coming so close we felt impelled
to leave the table. Ted laid on the sofa with his face to
the wall. I stood in the doorway to the kitchen. It passed,
so we resumed our meal. What a way to live! Another fell
close by at one-forty p.m., the last so far.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last evening was quiet, but they began again at eleven-
thirty p.m. and kept on coming until nearly two o’clock;
then we had quiet until eight-fifteen this morning, and
they have been coming over ever since.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There is one piece of startling news today; a number
of the highest German generals have rebelled against
Hitler. Last night they tried to assassinate him and it
is rumored civil war has broken out inside Germany.
Hitler broadcast to the German people about one o’clock
this morning, to “reassure” them of his safety and to
condemn “the usurpers.” He has put Himmler in charge
of the army in Germany and threatens to wipe out the
revolt by force. So now what? The German generals know
they have lost the war, but will Hitler’s fanaticism still
have power to carry the people into further war and
destruction?
</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 22, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another very bad night. In fact, the bombs
have been coming over without ceasing all day yesterday;
all last night, and all today. One hundred and eighty-
two thousand mothers and children have been evacuated from London; one day alone forty-one thousand left
and one hundred and ten thousand school children have
been evacuated, in addition. In spite of the split inside
Germany the war still goes on.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Rita Pullan came into tea today, looking very pretty
in a navy blue silk jumper dress. She expects to go to
France very soon, probably within a month’s time.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is abominable, couldn’t be worse. There
is torrential rain in Normandy, slowing all action there.
The weather has been consistently bad ever since D-Day.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 23, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is another bleak, cold and over cast day. We had
another bad night. The all clear was sounded at eight
this morning, and at twenty past a fresh alert was given,
and no all clear given yet. Nor is one likely, for every half
hour or so along come fresh bombs. No fresh news from
inside Germany, so general conjecture is, that matters
are very bad there. Not bad enough to stop the war
though, not yet.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is eleven p.m. and Ted has gone up to bed, and I
must now prepare this room for my nights sleep, what
I can get of it. There have been no bombs since teatime,
though I expect them to begin again any minute now.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 24, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another bad night. The alert sounded
before I could get undressed and bombs began passing
over almost at once; until half past one they were very </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">frequent, after that they slowed off until four a.m., then
none until six-thirty a.m. Ted sleeps but I cannot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">God! I am so tired!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 26, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted is out auditing some books. I have had workmen
here all day doing war damage repairs, mending the
walls around the back windows. The upstairs window
was worse than we had supposed. When the bureau was
moved a large tract of wall damage was disclosed. This
is a dirty job, plaster and dust all over the place.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night was shockingly bad again. After a quiet
day, no alerts, the bombs began coming over at eleven-thirty p.m., their usual night starting hour. Last night
was worse than Tuesday’s a week ago. The all clear was
given at eight a.m. and then at eight-twenty we had a
fresh alarm and five heavies came over in a space of ten
minutes. It was terribly frightening. Of course Jerry
is trying to catch the people on their way to work. One
morning last week a bomb fell outside Canon Street
Station at twenty to nine one morning, and killed two
hundred people leaving the trains. From nine this
morning to three this afternoon was quiet, but an alert
has been on ever since three. It is quiet now, but evidently
not quiet enough for us to be given the all clear. The
fiendish things are probably falling nearer the coast and
south of the river. Happily the weather improved today,
so I expect our boys have been able to shoot them down
before they could reach far inland.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I received a letter from Gladys this afternoon.
She says many trainloads of evacuees have arrived in
Penzance. No recent news of Joan, so I presume she is
still all right. Artie was in for a few minutes this afternoon. He is riding a bicycle, so that’s fine.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 27, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted has gone to see Mrs. Capes and arrange with her
to do his rent collecting next Monday and Tuesday. It is
a fine evening, by way of a change. Workmen were here
all morning finishing repairs, and up on the roof fixing
the gutters. Councilmen here also, were repairing the
window. I did a lot of work myself, sweeping, scrubbing,
washing windows, consequently I feel very virtuous,
extremely so. I am also extremely tired. I hope I don’t
get cramps tonight.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Bombs began coming over about three o’clock,
and are still at it; several have fallen very close here.
Towards five o’clock this morning Ted came downstairs
and persuaded me to go up to bed with him for loving.
It was sweet.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 30, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is a bit better. The night was bad but
I slept on in the morning until eight o’clock. I break-
fasted at leisure since Ted is on holiday; bathed, and
then cooked my solitary meal. I spent most of the rest of
the day writing to Harold. Bombs were coming on and off
all day. There is news of a rumor that Rommel is dead,
killed in the battle in Normandy.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 31, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A very bad night, bombs started coming at a quarter
to midnight and no all clear given until six o’clock this
morning. This is very nerve racking, and it is eerie being
the house alone.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I kept an appointment at Miss Young’s for ten this
morning. I was in two minds about going, as the day was
very overcast; just the kind of day for the flying bombs.
However, I took a chance on Jerry and did go, as these
appointments are hard to get, and so are my opportu</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">nities to take the attention. Miss Young was away so
Peggy Smith did the job. I am very pleased with the job,
too. I had the whole head done, hair tapered properly,
and waved all over. I have decided on a plain conservative style, hair combed right off the face all around and
set in a pompadour wave, with curls in the neck. I was
there from ten until two thirty p.m. and no alerts all
that time, but I had already been back in the house a
quarter of an hour before an alert sounded, and within
ten minutes two bombs had crashed somewhere near by.
How relieved I was to be safe at home! I had intended to
write to another of the boys, but my mind is too woozy
to write a letter tonight. I am even too tired to read,
so shall just drivel the evening away listening to the
wireless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Artie came in for a few minutes at teatime. He says
Hilda is now so uncomfortable she cannot do anything.
The baby is due August, Eleventh.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I received a short letter from Eddie posted in
Washington on July Fifth. He writes:
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The Germans in this country are already getting ready
the whitewash brushes, all the propaganda, making preparations for the next war. They really are annoyingly clever,
and there isn’t one I would trust any further than I can
throw a piano. If we don’t absolutely ruin them this time,
there will be another war twenty-five years hence. I firmly
believe they are incapable of understanding kindness and
they mistake kindness for weakness. I shall inculcate a
strong dislike and distrust of them in the two young’uns.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A month since the p-plane crashed on Eastern Road,
that fell on the last day of June, and here we are on the
last day of July, still alive. How will things be on the last
day of August, I wonder? Will the war be over then? Oh
God! I hope so.
</span><br />
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Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-35998311542461054212015-02-15T19:05:00.003-05:002015-05-20T19:43:02.523-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 6-3-44 to 6-29-44 I received a card from Cuthie this afternoon: “Stalagluft 3. Lager A. 8th April 1944 <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's</span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 1, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted cut the grass before he left for the office at breakfast time this morning, especially so as to have that job
done before the rain. Now he has left with a large bouquet
of cut flowers from the garden, these, of course, will be
for the church. Every year Ted strips the garden for the
church, carrying his best blooms there several times a
week. Silly fool! Father Bishop has a garden, and there is
a very large garden at the convent, but just the same Ted
gives practically all our flowers to the church, seldom
bringing any into his house. Oh, what an all around idiot
he is. Anyhow he bores me!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night when the light got too dusky for reading
he felt chatty, so he talked, and I perforce had to listen.
He got onto the subject of names, and held forth for
an hour on his pet theory that Irish names are practically the same as Italian names or Spanish names; for
example: Donnelly is Donelli, Hayes is Spanish, all the
Hayes he ever knew were very dark people, probably the </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">descendants of the Spaniards of the Armada who were
wrecked off the coast of Ireland; of how White is an Irish
Catholic name when you think of it only as English: how
Lyons is frequently an Irish Catholic name when you
think of it only as Jewish. Russell of course is Irish, etc.
So he went, on and on. I could have screamed, for I have
heard all of this hundreds of times, and I mean literally hundreds, for this topic on average, at least once a
month, sometimes oftener. Every time he talks it forth
as though it was the first time, as though he had just
thought of it. He mustn’t be shut up or side tracked, above
all he mustn’t be interrupted. When he wants to talk, he
talks, but what silly garrulousness, what senile garrulity! Oh, he is an ass! His jokes too, his awful puerile
jokes, oh he is a fool.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am getting merely overcome with boredom and
fatigue. After we were abed last night, about midnight,
there was such a clatter in the heavens sleep was impossible. For a couple of hours without pause, planes flew
over; our planes going to bomb France and Germany.
Their noise was incessant. Thousands of them must have
passed over. Ted fell asleep, but I couldn’t sleep. In fact,
I didn’t know how to endure. I had to put compulsion
on myself not to start shouting and screaming. I was
afraid I was going mad with the madness of the world.
The sheer stupidity of the war, apart from its horror, is
getting me down. Oh, it’s awful! What can one do?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As time goes on I get angrier and angrier. Everything
seems so senseless. Yet it need not be. Surely there are
enough sensible people in the world to run it sensibly.
The trouble of course is to how to oust the fools in possession.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So anger consumes me, private anger at the incompetent gasbag of a husband I cannot escape, and social
anger at the incompetent gasbags of politicians and </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">statesmen and militarists who have put our civilization into its present spin towards total destruction. Well
there is no sense in raving so, Au Revoir.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 3, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I received a card from Cuthie this afternoon:
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Stalagluft 3. Lager A. 8th April 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br />
Dear Folks,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br />
Just a card to say I am o.k. I send my respects. Cuth.
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">That’s all, but it is reassuring. Only last month we </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">were told that the Germans had shot forty-seven R.A.F.
officers in Stalagluft 3. Seventy-six had escaped, but had
been recaptured, and forty-seven shot in attempting to
resist capture. All of this happened in March. Mr. Eden
gave out this information in Parliament, and we were
told that the relatives of the killed had been notified, so
for those who had prisoners in Stulaghuft 3 there was
no need to worry if we had not heard anything. So we
weren’t worrying about Cuthie and now today comes this
card. He has now entered his fifth year as a prisoner.
Poor boy! Anyhow he is alive and whole, and he doesn’t
have to go out on the damned bombing, thank God. I’m
thankful he’s a prisoner, a safe prisoner.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 4, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have been turning through my various Mary Austen
books this afternoon. I want to contact a woman’s mind.
I am not interested in what any man thinks. The awful
thing about life is that we are really alone in it. We can’t
live for anyone else, or by anyone else. We can’t understand anyone else. I wanted to. I tried. It didn’t come
off. The </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">misunderstanding between man and woman,
the blank, the total blank of comprehension between
husband and wife, good people who want to understand
each other. I think that is the worse thing there is in</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">the world. You can’t really know, you can’t understand,
the ones who above all others you most wish to. If I
could understand Ted! If he could understand me! We
never shall understand each other, our minds function
in totally different worlds. Only our bodies occasionally speak the same language, the language of mere
brute physical love. Animal passion. How surprising!
So today, out of the blue I began to remember Mary
Austin. I have five of her books, that is all, but they are
five treasures. Mary Austen, Mary Beard, Mary Eddy,
my three American mind friends; and in Englishwomen,
Dorothy Richardson, Evelyn Underhill, Laura Riding,
Adela Curtiss.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I’ve learned one thing; everyone has to find his own
anchorage, his own security. Ted found his in Catholicism. I didn’t. Mine is still to find, I’m still seeking it, but
I think it is in myself, in my own soul. Yes, I think so.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 5, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was up at six-thirty to get Ted’s breakfast and on
the seven o’clock news we heard the announcement of
the fall of Rome. Our allied armies entered the city late
last night. The German’s did not stay to fight; they are
fleeing to the North. So Rome has been taken without
destruction, the first of the European Capitals to be
freed from the Nazi aggressor and invader. Which will
be next? Paris?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 6, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Our invasion of the Continent has begun. Early this
morning our armies made landings on the beaches of
France between Cherbourg and Le Havre.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Communiqué No. 1 issued at nine-thirty this morning:
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied
Naval Forces, supported by Strong Air Forces, began </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">landing allied armies this morning on the northern coast
of France.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mr. Churchill in Parliament gave details of the operation this evening. He was able to announce that the operation is proceeding in a thoroughly satisfactory manner.
The passage of the sea has been made with far less loss
than had been anticipated: the resistance of the German
batteries has been greatly weakened by the bombing of
the Air Force, and the superior bombardment of our ships
quickly reduced their power to dimensions which did not
affect the problem.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">He went on to say that the landing of the troops on a
broad front has been affected, and that the Allied Forces
have penetrated in some cases several miles inland. The
landing of airborne troops took place with extremely
little loss and great accuracy.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So! Since I heard the news, about half past ten this
morning, I have been crying nearly all day. The awfulness of the event overwhelms me.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">At nine o’clock tonight the King broadcast. It was a
quiet speech. He said, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">This time the challenge is not to
fight to survive but to fight to win the final victory for the
good cause. Once again what is demanded from us all is
something more than courage and endurance; we need a
revival of spirit, a new unconquerable resolve.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">He went on to say, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">I desire solemnly to call my people
to prayer and dedication. We are not unmindful of our own
shortcomings, past and present. We shall not ask that
God may do our will, but that we may be enabled to do
the will of God; and we dare to believe that God has used
our nation and empire as an instrument for fulfilling his
high purpose. I hope that throughout the present crisis
of liberation of Europe there may be offered up earnest,
continuous, and widespread prayer. We who remain in
this land can most effectively enter into the sufferings of
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">subjugated Europe by prayer, whereby we can fortify the
determination of our soldiers, sailors, and airmen who go
forth to set the captives free. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">He ended: </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">If from every place of worship, from home
and factory, from men and women of all ages, and many
races and occupations, our intercessions rise, then, please,
God, both now and in a future not remote the predictions
of an ancient psalm may be fulfilled: ‘The Lord will give
strength unto his people: the Lord will give his people the
blessing of peace.’
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">After the broadcast the Archbishop of Canterbury
conducted a short service. There was grand singing of
the hymn. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Oh God your help in ages past. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Yes, we must pray. Pray. Pray. I do pray.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 7, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fighting in Caen.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 8, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Capture of Bayeux.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 9, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I have finished Mary Austen’s, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 600;">Experiences Facing
Death. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Mary Austin was a woman of genius. Reading her
I see what little tawdry talent is my own. Now I shall
never write the books I have always ached to write. I
am now too old, the necessary concentration and effort
is beyond my powers. I am a failing old woman. I know
it. I wish I were a better-educated one. If I had, had a
better education, and then if I had, had a different life,
then I ought to have written a few significant books. It
is too late now, too late. All I can do is carry on with my
reading and to console my frustration by cherishing a
deep hope that amongst my descendants there will be
one to whom I have passed that talent I have, and that </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">one may be able to do good work with it. I have been
miscast in the play I have to play. I have played my part,
dutifully, but I could have played a different part better,
and with zest. There is no zest in life for me, as I have to
live it. What a pity! There it is, and I can’t do anything
about it at this late date in my time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 10, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night I was dreaming again of Tenafly, and again
I was visiting in the Eason’s home. Ruth was showing
me through the house. It had been re-arranged since I
saw it last, and two extra stories had been added to it.
It was crowded with furniture, like a warehouse, and as
Ruth took me through the rooms I saw that they held
all the furniture we Thompson’s had ever possessed;
pieces which I had forgotten were there in the dream,
for my recognition; and at last, in the attic, there stood
our original round dining-table, with the marks of
the hot flat-iron which Katie Connelly scarred it with
still asserting themselves. This furniture was Ruth’s,
not mine any longer, and I didn’t care a damn, I was
only aware of feeling relief of being rid of it. It is easy
to interpret this dream, I think; it is a lumber dream,
and lumber of the old furniture stands for the lumber
of the mind. The different pieces stand for the different
hopes and theories, and ideas and beliefs, which in the
course of my life I have struggled for, attained, and then
discarded. This is quite obvious I think.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">What I intend to do, is make further discards from
my mind. What I intend to do is clear my mind and
protect it. The nights this week have been hellish, all
night the planes drone over incessantly. Sleep is almost
impossible for me but Ted sleeps all right. Sometimes
I feel I must scream if the noise doesn’t stop. I don’t of
course. I cry, I cry for the men in the planes, and for the </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">men upon whom the bombs will drop. I feel that I can’t
bear this war another minute. Of course I have to bear
it. I can’t pray. It seems as though only when I know I am
in danger myself that I can pray. So it is fear, personal
fear, which drives me to prayer, and nothing else. Once
or twice these nights I felt I was going mad, and had
to hold my mind in stillness forcibly by will. This is an
awful strain. About events, my mind is at a saturation
point. I listen to the news reports and they just wash
over me; when they are finished I can’t remember what
I have heard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I don’t want to hear or remember. What I want is
to preserve myself, preserve my serenity, my sanity.
So I think of Mrs. Eddy and her fool Christian Science
religion, because it works. Right thinking, that’s what
it is all about. The war is the result of wrong thinking,
that’s obvious. Well, individual right thinking won’t stop
the war but it will keep the individual. I wont think
the war thoughts. I wont be sucked into the mass war
hysteria. Christian Science does not deny war and world
disasters, for it is not that silly; what it does is teach
the mind to deal with disasters, how to keep calm, how
to refuse to be mind and soul shocked. To have and to
keep an un-fearing mental attitude, that is what belief
is in the spiritual touching of Mrs. Eddy induces. What
women know, they know, and no man, no doctrine no
outside authority, can falsify that knowledge. Men live
by theories, but women live by realities, interior realities
even more than by exterior realities.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 13, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There were three alerts in the night. I came
downstairs the first two times, but the third time I was
too tired to make the effort. Ted did not get up, he rarely
does, only when the raid is very close and very heavy, but </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">I cannot remain upstairs. News this morning that one
of the raiders was brought down on the Line near Stratford. I think we heard the crash. An Ilford man whom
Ted met this morning said he thought half of Ilford was
falling down. Presumably the poor Gerry still had all his
bombs aboard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We have been told that yesterday Mr. Churchill
visited the front in Normandy. He crossed in a battleship,
and then toured the beaches in a jeep. With him were
General Saints, General Eisenhower, and Field Marshall
Sir Alan Brooke. They were met and escorted by General
Montgomery. My reaction to this is, what damn foolery!
Churchill and his gang seem to regard the war as a game
and they watch from the grandstand. Silly, conceited old
buffer! I supposed he beamed around with his cigar and
his V sign. I wonder what the soldiers really think about
him. Roosevelt too, these old men who talk so much.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 14, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Churchill was taken to task in the Commons today
for his foolhardy unadvised trip to France. Asked, was
his journey really necessary?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This is the placard stuck up in tens of thousands of
our stations, trains, buses, and shops: “Is your journey
really necessary?”
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Churchill has acted for a long time as though he
regarded himself as God. Yet if he died, the war would
still go on.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 16, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A new torment has assailed us. England has been
bombarded from the air, not by the Luftwaffe, but by
rocket self propelled bombs from France! Soon after
eleven-thirty p.m. last night an alert was sounded, and
bombardment began. It did not stop until nine-thirty </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">a.m. this morning. Then at nine forty-five the alert was
given again and the all clear at eleven-twenty a.m. It
was frightful. They sounded like airplanes in trouble;
the noise stops, you think they have engine trouble, and
then comes the explosion. This is worked by radio location, “on a beam.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Several times I thought this house was hit, but it
wasn’t. However, Rush Green received most of them in
this neighborhood. The Isolation Hospital was hit, and
many houses down. So far we do not know what else yet,
but shall hear later. These “rockets” were fired from
Calais, and they hit us here. This is science, wonderful
science. The B.B.C. gives the news as, “Enemy activity
last night over the South of England, some damage was
done, and there are some casualties.” That’s all. What it
must have been on the coast God only knows. What the
total danger to the country is nobody knows, except a
few censors. All you know is what happens in your own
locality and can find out for yourself. It is senseless war,
made by senseless men.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">On the six o’clock news we were told that Mr.
Morrison made a statement in Parliament this morning
on last nights attacks. He said, “pilotless aircraft,” the
German’s promised devastating “secret weapon” made
them. He said the government, presumably had known
about them, and was taking steps to deal with them.
Meanwhile, he said, alerts would be sounded on their
approaches, and the public was warned to take shelter.
After the sound of the engine ceases, then, in from five
to fifteen seconds, their explosion will occur. They carry
two tons of bombs. He said last Thursday nights raid
was their first use against England. He said, so as not
to give any information to the enemy, they would only be
reported as enemy activity over Southern England, and </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Southern England would take in all the country from the
Wash to the Bristol Channel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We have been having alerts off and on all day, but
nothing has fallen in this neighborhood since this
morning. I had an appointment with Cecelia for a
shampoo and set for three-thirty this afternoon, I was
in two minds about keeping it but decided to risk it. I
decided if we are to endure continuous day light raids all
summer, like in nineteen-forty, I certainly shan’t go and
sit in a hairdresser’s, so had better get my hair washed
today, as arranged. I found the town noticeably empty,
especially remarkable for a Friday. No children about; I
expect mothers were too nervous to take their children
out today. It was Coburn Road where the plane fell on
the Line on Tuesday; forty-five people were killed there;
and there are reports of extensive damage at Woolwich.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 17, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is noon. It is my usual cooking morning. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">We had another bad night last night. The alert was
sounded at one in the morning; the all clear given at
two-thirty, but at two forty-five a.m. another alert was
given and the all clear did not come until half past six.
I then went up to bed for an hours sleep. The first raids
were terrifying, but the latter lot seemed to be a little
further away, so I was not quite so frightened. However
it was pretty bad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning I am putting all my books and papers
and scribbles away, for I can’t do anything with any of
them. In raids like last night’s I become pure primitive
female. I have no ideas or convictions about anything.
I have only fear. It seems to me that fear is the strongest emotion of any emotion we can ever feel; not nagging
mental fear about ones prospects or affairs, but fear of
danger, to be in fear of one’s life, and to be helpless to </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">do or make anything for safety. To be alone before the
unknown terror, there is nothing worse the mind can
ever endure. Regret? Anxiety? They are nothing. To be
helpless and in peril for one’s life, that is the worst thing
in the world. In those moments one doesn’t think; one
only calls on God, and the power of God, to protect us.
For there is nothing else. Who have I in heaven but Thee,
Oh God! Oh God, save us! Theology, doctrine, truth,
vanishes. There is only you, and your agony and peril,
and you flee to God. You throw yourself at his feet with
your terror and your helplessness and lo, he enfolds you,
underneath are his everlasting arms. Prayer. Prayer and
the mercy of God, who lays his hand on your anguished
mind, and Lo, you are serene, safe in his keeping; the
peace of God, which passes all understanding. This
happiness, you know this happiness, the power and the
presence of God, ultimately there is nothing else.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So why bother with arguments? You can’t bother
with arguments. Let the men say whatever they please.
I know what I know.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The King has visited France. He went yesterday to
visit the battle areas of Normandy. This must mean we
are absolutely secure there, or his Majesty would never
have been allowed to go.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is seven p.m. now and we had two daylight alerts
this afternoon between three-fifty and four fifty-five
p.m. I think these were for “strays” probably reconnaissance planes, trying to find out what damage they did
last night. No details whatever have been given on the
radio, nor, says Mr. Morrison, will be. Ted brought in
word at teatime that it was Woolwich last night that got
the worst of the attack; he says, “he hears” Woolwich has
been very severely hit. There are many casualties, much
destruction. There is a great racket of planes overhead
right now, but they are ours, going out on what is called </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">“a mission.” They were over Berlin again last night, we
are told. Oh my God, the idiocy of war!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Presently from the Albert Hall will be played
Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. I shall listen to it,
and with pleasure. At least we are sane enough not to
ban German music. It commences at seven-fifteen, so
Au-revoir.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 18, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was not in bed at all last night, though Ted remained
upstairs. I finally fell asleep on the sofa towards dawn,
but at seven Ted woke me up, opening windows. He was
getting ready for church. After he went out I set to before
I dressed and swept this dining room. I had to. It was
smothered in dust and scattered plaster, the surround of
the window frame, blown in by the blast.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 19, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am so tired I don’t know what to do with myself.
I went to fetch the newspaper this morning and could
hardly walk home. This is lack of sleep, and sleep in
bed. I am bone and muscle tired. Alerts have been on
and off all day. Collier Row has been hit, many houses
down, but nothing in Romford. We are told fighters are
bringing down great numbers of the pilot-less planes, the
flying bombs, over the sea, and over open country, a sort
of infernal sky tennis. We hear our coast towns have been
very badly hit, especially Portsmouth, Worthing, and
Bristol. That was in the first surprise attack of course.
Now our fighters wait in the air all day for these things.
It seems, once launched, they fly in a straight line, at
about three hundred and fifty miles an hour, so can be
predicted. They fly too low, for our ack-ack guns, so our
fighters go up and shoot them down.
</span></span><br />
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 20, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I spent a night in bed. There was an alert just before
midnight, so I came downstairs, but as all remained
quiet I went back to bed at one a.m. There were hundreds
of search lights out, and no all clear had been given, but
I felt I had to go to bed. I fell asleep, and slept until eight
this morning and so did Ted! He must have been tired
since he didn’t wake up for his sacred mass.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">It is theology, doctrines, arguments and dogmas. As
I sit alone here in the nights in the midst of the raids
I see the futility of religions just as clearly as I do that
of governments. Governments, politics, and religions
are human inventions, as simply as science is; some of
them are good, and some not so good; some are useful,
but some just don’t work. Of all of them, the church, it
seems to me is just dead lumber. It doesn’t work today. It
might have done once but does so no longer. The Church
showed up in the last war as a failure; it shows up in this
as a corpse. Christianity pays no more attention to the
teachings of Jesus today than it has ever done; it still
concerns itself only with the abracadabra of theology,
and not with the plain words of Christ. Christ said: </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Love
your enemies. Do good to them that hate you...
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The churches, all of them, are all for war, and the
clever theologians argue to justify it. This war is preached
as a Holy Crusade, and the pastors of all denominations
are settling with the politicians on how the enemy must
be made to pay and suffer “just retribution.” (A fine term
for hatred) Jesus said forgive, forgive, and forgive. Jesus
said God is Love. It is certain that only with love will
mankind ever right the world. That is the only way. Men
won’t follow it. No, they will go on producing more and
more words, that’s all; except they will insist that their
words are the words of God. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Thus said the Lord, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">as of old.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When Ted came in for lunch he told me what he has </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">seen this morning up at Collier Row. In Lodge Lane one
of the pilot-less airplanes exploded, with the result that
about one hundred houses are more or less destroyed,
some completely, but not all. Ted says it is a horrible
mess. That is only one bomb that caused this! No wonder
the Germans are gloating. I don’t suppose the damage
they do is as great as they claim it is, but I am damn sure
it is much greater then our government reporters will
admit. The news is muzzled. All you really know is what
you can see or suffer for yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I went out to the Town Hall this afternoon to collect
our new ration books and heard further reports of raid
damage. It is said that last night the city was badly hit
again. Bourne and Hollingsworth are destroyed and the
Law Courts severely damaged. The Royal Albert Docks
have been hit, and ten thousand tons of supplies on
the docks were destroyed. Fenchchurch Street also has
had it severely. Putney also has been badly raided. Also
Harrow. Our official reports make it sound as though the
damage inflicted is very small, in fact, nothing to worry
about. Who believes them? We know that the Germans
are quite as clever as we are, perhaps more so. Of course
when they bomb us they hit us where they want to, how
silly to make out they are only incompetents! Oh this
horrible war! How much longer is this world insanity to
run, I wonder! Shall we ever come out of this collective
madness? Will men ever return to their senses?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 21, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another bad night, one awful nearby explosion just after three this morning. This was at Hainault
Road. At three p.m. just as I was at the gate, starting out
to go shopping the alert went, and almost before I could
get back into the house, an explosion followed. I waited
half an hour, and then started off again. Going through </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Ive’s Garden I saw the little one legged Mrs. Thompson
who lives in Cottage Number Six. She said that two
women passing through had just told her the bomb fell
on Brentwood Road and Princes Road. Elsewhere in the
town I heard bombs had fallen at Helms Park, Abbs
Cross, and Hornchurch Station. I registered for my new
ration book. I have changed my tradesmen. I have registered with Metson for meat, and at Greene’s for all other
groceries and household supplies.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 22, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">After I have heard the news headlines at ten o’clock
I am going out to get some vegetables. We have been
through another terrible night. I have had no sleep at
all. I started off in bed at eleven o’clock, but the alert
went at midnight and I have been downstairs ever since.
One bomb around four-fifteen a.m. seemed to be falling
in our front garden. When Ted came back from church
he had heard the worst crash was in Massiter’s Walk.
When the little radio girl Joyce came in a few minutes
ago she said the White Hart was down, and many shop
windows out in South Street, especially near the station.
Perhaps that was the one we heard so near.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Coming home an alert sounded as I crossed South
Street. I did not know whether to go into a house for
shelter, or proceed up Western Road. I then decided to
continue walking home, as I must cook the lunch. I got
in an awful panic as I saw the damned bomb going over.
However, I managed to get into the house before it fell,
up Upminster Way.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted says he has seen the damage at Hainault Road
and it is indescribable. One of the killed at Collier Row
is a woman who was the mother of seven children, and
within two weeks of giving birth to yet another; nine of
them in that house killed. When the raids are on I think </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">most of the dying, and of those birthing, the women
in labor and of those who must stay beside them. You
couldn’t leave the dying, could you? Nor could you leave
a woman about to bring forth a child.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 23, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I went to bed last night at about eleven, and then the
warning came soon after midnight, so I came downstairs
and spent the rest of the night on my sofa. The pilot-less planes came over all night, at about half hour
intervals. The two nearest explosions occurred at four
a.m. and seven a.m. The seven o’clock one was the most
frightening. The damned thing went exactly over this
house, and exploded about a minute afterwards. It fell
in Pettit’s Lane, but luckily in a vacant field, so it hurt
nobody. At breakfast Ted said this mornings server saw
it fall whilst on his way to church. No houses on Pettit’s
Lane came down but all of the windows came out in all of
them. Another fell in Straight Road, a little further on,
but that has caused damage and death.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The B.B.C. reports the Americans are attacking
Cherbourg and are within the first zone of the defenses.
The slaughter there must be simply awful.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning I have been doing a little of the really
necessary sweeping and cleaning. Even if the house is
blown up tonight it must still be kept sweet and garnished
so long as ever it stands.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have written to Gladys to tell her not to come to
London this summer, as she had some thought of doing
so. We are London, so far as the war is concerned and
there is no doubt Gerry will continue to attack us from
now on until we have him finally beaten. In a speech at a
luncheon in the Mexican Embassy one day last week Mr.
Churchill said words to the affect that with continued
unremitting fortitude and endurance it looked likely that </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">in the fighting of the coming summer months we could
have the Nazi’s beaten. From such a doleful prophet and
cautious speaker as Churchill this was hearty encouragement, and practically a promise of imminent final
victory for our arms. Pray God that he is right. Anyhow
we can’t help allowing ourselves to think he is, for he has
never promised easy victory and a short war; he wouldn’t
change his tune now. Maybe victory is in sight, or in his
sight, anyhow, and he ought to know, and to be able to
see what’s coming, if any man could.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Rita came in this afternoon, straight from town.
Her train was held up at Maryland Point whilst a bomb
fell nearby. That was the three o’clock one. They have
been coming over at regular intervals all day; the three
o’clock one was the worst of the lot so far. Mrs. Thomson
and Joan from next door were here, seeking company in
distress, like as in nineteen-forty and forty-one.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 24, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It was a very bad night, the pilotless planes coming
over steadily. As before, the worst was at four a.m. This
fell in Pettit’s Lane. However this day has been free from
them, at any rate in this district we haven’t had one
since the one we had at seven a.m. The B.B.C. assures
us the R.A.F. is strafing their launching platforms, day
and night. I heard of this sad case today, told to me by
the vegetable man. A friend of his, who lives in Hainault
Road, has lost almost his entire family when a bomb
fell on his house this week. His wife and four children
were killed outright, and two other children are in the
hospital, so badly injured they are not expected to live.
The man himself was in the hospital wounded, back
from France. He begged the authorities to let him out to
go and look at his wife. When he saw her he went clear </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">out of his mind. He had to be put in a straight jacket and
now is in the lunatic asylum. This is one of the items of
war ... bombing ... Man’s inhumanity to man. Senseless
war.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 25,1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted is at church. Of course. It is a fine sunny day, but
has turned cloudy now and a strong wind has sprung
up. This will hold up the unloading on the Normandy
beaches. The battle for Cherbourg is in its last stages.
We had raids on and off all day.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">June 26, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another bad night, with flying bombs falling
every five minutes after each hour, four times. Also
coming intermittently all day. Some are worse than
others. We presume the attack is meant for London and
we are getting only the strays.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 27, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was news today of the fall of Cherbourg. The
flying bombs continue their assault without pause, night
and day. We had no sleep at all last night. Mrs. Canon
came this afternoon. She told me that Mr. Canon had
telephoned her at two o’clock to see if she was alright.
We had a very bad bomb here at one p.m. He told her that
it was bad in the city and that Mount Pleasant (the P.O.
where he works) had a very narrow escape at midday,
when two bombs fell, one on either side of it. He said
when they heard them coming all the men took up their
refuge stations. It was very bad.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">About a half hour ago we had a close shave here; one
of them sailed right over these houses, almost roof-top
height and exploded only two minutes afterword, don’t
know where, probably in Pettit’s Lane again. The thing </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">sounded like an express train on the roof. They’re terrifying. I opened the pantry door and stood close behind
that. We are warned to shield ourselves from windows,
because of the flying glass. I should hate to be in the
city. Presumably Hitler is having another try to destroy
London. We think the casualties must be heavy (they are
heavy here in Romford) but no information is given out
so that Hitler may not know what results he is getting.
We are told our fighters are shooting many of them
down, into the sea, and into the fields, and that our
bombers are attacking their starting ramps. Nevertheless, hundreds and hundreds of them are coming over
Southern England, mainly this London area. I guess the
only way to stop them is to land in Northern France, the
Calais section, and this we maybe able to do soon, now
that we have taken Cherbourg.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is bad, and has been rainy and cloudy
all day with a rising wind, but this evening the sky is
clearing so the things will be easier seen and deflected
and destroyed. There is one thing about these flying
bombs, they don’t stop the radio, so I hope to be able
to listen to a program presently, Charlie McCarthy,
and then the Brains Trust. It is impossible to read, or
to settle to anything, one is listening for the damned
things all the time.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 28, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night there were fewer bombs over this part of
Southern England, but nevertheless there were many.
I got some sleep, but was disturbed every hour by the
crashes. As usual an extra bad one came at four a.m. and
then another extra bad one about six-thirty a.m. I got up
and dressed and put the room to rights. All day today
they have been coming over though at less frequent </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">intervals than before. Presumably our R.A.F. has put
some of their launching platforms out of use.</span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is bad, cold and stormy, with over all
dark clouds. This is good for the attackers and bad for us
because the defenders can’t see the damned things. We
had a violent thunderstorm in the late afternoon, thunder
like guns. I suppose we shall never endure a thunder-
storm now for the rest of our lives without thinking
of war. Tonight we had a rainbow. It was beautiful. A
rainbow does convey a sense of eternity and of peace. It
is a mystic promise to our souls.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 29, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have been out between the showers and the warnings
to get some fresh books from the library. The weather is
improving, the sky clearing, temperatures rising. Maybe
our flyer's will be able to finish the launching ramps of
the flying bombs today and tonight we may be able to
get a little sleep. Last night was bad again, many flying
bombs coming over. It was also a very stormy night, cold
and rainy and big gusts of wind. Even the weather is
against us. Last week Pennsylvania suffered a hurricane
which killed many people and wrecked many homes.
This usual violence of nature, in unusual time and place,
is sort of frightening. It makes one think of Jehovah and
his devastating wraths.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have had a letter from Harold and it came yesterday.
I have not shared it with Ted; it would only call forth
his condemnations, so why ask for them? Here comes
another warning. </span></span><br />
</div>
</div>
</div>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-75365278594082537672014-12-17T18:09:00.003-05:002015-05-22T20:31:16.122-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 5-3-44 to 5-30-44 Planes passed overhead incessantly all night; our planes.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's:</span></a></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">May 3, 1944</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Our wedding anniversary, the
thirty-ninth, it was a Wednesday, too, the day we got married. My God! How long
ago!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 4, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Planes passed overhead incessantly all
night; our planes. I thought our invasion of Europe must have begun, at last.
But no, all we have been told today is that our aircraft were out over occupied
territory during the night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 5, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Mrs. Camus was here this morning. She
tells me that Bobbie (Roberta), her youngest daughter, barely sixteen, has
commenced as a probationer in a London Nursery Hospital, and that Beryl, the
elder, has volunteered to do Red Cross work, in her evenings, here at Old
Church Hospital. She says Old Church is absolutely empty of patients, but has
increased its staff of doctors and nurses, and that many foreign doctors are
there; American, Polish, Czech, etc. They are standing by waiting for invasion
casualties. Beryl has been warned to prepare herself for terrible sights, men
without legs, men without faces. War, damnable devilish war!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">In London a conference of Prime Ministers
is sitting on Wednesday dined with the King at Buckingham Palace. Mr. Fraser of
New Zealand, Mr. Curtain of Australia, Mr. Mackenzie King of Canada, General
Saints of South Africa, two Indians, the Maharajah of Kashmir and Sir Firoz Khan
Noon, and Sir Godfrey Higgins; and of course, Mr. Churchill. The old gang, they
have met, they say, “to examine afresh the main efforts and opportunities which
lie before their peoples in war and peace.” In effect, how to conduct the war,
how to make more men fight, work, and pay taxes, and how to pocket the
proceeds. Vile old men, on the spree. Old men who talk glibly about war and
glory. Rich old men who suffer none of the discomforts of war. Talkers; damned
talkers. Opportunists. Fools. Hateful old men. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 6, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">In the Catholic Herald of yesterday, is
printed this: “An allied woman who does not wish even her nationality disclosed
because the people she worked with might be arrested and put to death by the Nazi’s
talked to me in London about her experiences in Hungary. She escaped there from
one of the occupied countries and worked for some time in the underground
movement with others of her compatriots who have escaped. Two or three months
ago she managed to get to this country by way of Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey,
a great deal of the journey being done on foot although she managed to travel
on trains when she could board them away from the big towns. She arrived in
Hungary about March, 1943, and spent seven months there.” (Then there are a
couple of columns about what she saw, etc.) This is what caught my attention,
and what I wish to stress: “But” and this was said very sadly, “I sometimes
wonder if resistance to the Nazi’s does any good to a country. It is heroic and
noble, I know, to resist as the Poles have done, but what have they gained?
They have lost three and a half million of their people, not to speak of one
and half million deported to Russia, and their position is not going to be too
happy in peace. Big nations cannot understand the position of small nations who
have to live beside powerful neighbors. To resist them may only be folly. It
may only be abnormal. It is unfair to judge those who feel they are unable to
do so… Everyday some member of the underground movements in Europe gives up his
or her life for the course of freedom from the Nazi yoke. I wonder sometimes,
are we right? The end is not so rosy.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Exactly. What is the use of it all? Jesus
said: “Make peace with your adversary quickly.” War is madness, the most
colossal madness possible to mankind. It need never be. Men insist on making
war. Oh, I hate men, the old men who maneuver nations into war, for their own
ends. War fills me with furious anger, not against the poor young combatants,
who are forced to fight, but against the statesmen who bring it to pass. The
fool politicians.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 13, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Artie and Hilda moved into their house
today. We have combed this house to gather enough furniture so that they can
start on their own. Finally Bodger’s carried away a van load. New furniture is
absolutely unobtainable, but young couples starting up housekeeping, or folk
who have been blitzed out, can obtain from the government a book of coupons
permitting them to buy a certain limited amount of utility furniture. Artie
says he can not get his coupons until he has his premises, then he must fill in
forms, then he will be investigated (authorities will probably call here to
interview us, to find out if his new address is authentic, and so on) then he
will get his coupons, after that, then he must wait until the merchant procures
it, probably up to three months. What a game! So we’ve furnished him. This
makes me think of Mother furnishing homes for Eric out of surpluses of her
house. There is a heavy rainstorm this evening, and a big drop in the
temperature. We have had summer weather for a month past, maybe all the summer
we are going to get this year.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 17, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Artie and Hilda came today, in time for
lunch, and afterwards Artie laid the lino in the front bedroom, from which we
had let him take away the large blue carpet. Hilda looks very well. They tell
me they have received a card from Joan inviting them to spend the evening this
coming Friday with her in Hammersmith.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 18, 1944 Ascension Day</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Ascension into what? The stratosphere?
The Bomber Squadrons? The Spitfires? The Mosquito’s? The Flying Fortresses?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 19, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I am reading “The Sheltering Tree” which
is the autobiography of Netta Syrett, one of the popular novelists of my youth.
I quote, with agreement:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“The war years began for me on that
night, and it is only in retrospect that I realize how much more than the
actual four years of its duration it took out of the lives of women my age; of
most women my age, at any rate. In nineteen-fourteen we felt young, full of
energy, as ready for exertion and almost as unmindful of it as we were at
twenty-five. By nineteen-eighteen, even for those of us who like me led a quiet
existence and suffered no bereavement through the war, much of the “spirit’' of
youth had fled, and I fancy this was largely due to a prosaic physical cause;
undernourishment. It was, as I remember, only when by chance I had a good meal
that I realized how much I needed it, and loss of physical vigor meant a
corresponding loss of the feeling of youth, to my contemporaries and me. That
after all, is so little a thing compared with the terrible suffering of
thousands of other women as not worth mentioning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">It was a changed world into which women
of my age emerged after nineteen-eighteen, how greatly changed it took some
time to discover.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Yes. That is how it is today; we are
undernourished, we are filled but not fed. When this war began in nineteen
thirty-nine I felt well and in the prime of middle age, but for a long time now
I have definitely felt myself to be an old woman. All my spring has gone, all
my resilience. Everything has become a trouble to me, and I am always tired.
Every extra exertion fatigues me excessively. I regard the house with detestation;
I don’t want the trouble of looking after it. I don’t want to dust, I don’t
want to cook, and I don’t want to sew. In fact, I don’t want to do anything.
Above all, I don’t want to have to look after anybody, but I long to be looked
after. I am always hungry; not with the healthy hunger from emptiness, but with
a gnawing hunger which craves a satisfaction from something, it doesn’t know
what, but can’t find. I long for juicy meat, and for fruit, for real bread and
real butter. I am so disgusted with all the substitute and ersatz foods. I want
real fresh food, and plenty of it. I wonder, I really do, if when once again we
can get good food, shall I be able to recover my vigor on it, or shan’t I?
Shall I be beyond recovery? Oh, damn the war, damn the war!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 20, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Oh, but I am tired! Almost all night
long, airplanes have been droning overhead, our planes going out, and then
returning. There must have been thousands of them. Europe must be bombed now
more than we were in 1940. Civilization is committing suicide.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 22, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Just before ten this morning, as I was
beginning to put my fresh bandages on, the alert sounded, and we had a short
day light raid, the first day light one for some time. This mornings bombs
dropped somewhere, supposing they had dropped on me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">What has disturbed me right now is a
photograph from America, which I received on Saturday. It is a fine large
photograph of Eddie, holding his little son; the child looks adoringly up to
his father, and his father smiles out at the world. My eldest son and his
eldest son. My heart is pinched and bruised afresh. I long to see Eddie face to
face, I long to see all the little children. Of our seventeen grandchildren I
have only seen two. I have missed all of the pleasures of their adorable
infancy's. For what? So that Ted can live in England and go to mass daily.
Isn’t it absurd?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Artie came in at teatime without Hilda.
He said they had been shopping downtown and she was tired, so he had sent her
home ahead. I told him that I had expected them for lunch. He said, I hadn’t
said lunch, so they didn’t like to come in, because of rations, etc. His chief
news was that he is “starting” work tomorrow. He received his Army discharge
last week, so now is a civilian again, back in the family firm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 24, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">This morning I did a through cleaning job
of the top floor. Mrs. Whitbread wrote a month ago that she would have to give
up the job, as she did not feel well enough to work any longer. (I imagine she
is going to have a baby) I was sorry about this, as she was a very good char.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I had several visitors this afternoon.
Mrs.Fitch and Bertha, Mrs. James, and Elizabeth Coppen. We had another
daylight alert from four forty-five until five-twenty and only a little
gunfire. I suppose it was only a stray reconnaissance plane.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 27, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I am afraid I am perilously near what is
known as a complete nervous breakdown. I am so tired in body and exasperated in
mind I feel I can’t endure another minute. I was in such a state of nerves this
morning whilst cooking the dinner I felt I should break down and cry, and I did
not dare to let myself go in case I should never stop. I am sick to death of
cooking dinners, I am sick to death of the house and the housework, I am sick
to death of looking after a husband and I am sick to death of the war, this
infernal war. I am sick of myself, this miserable body. The weather has turned
very hot suddenly and consequently my legs are bad. It is torture to walk
about. It is worse I suppose because of all the heavy work I have done this
week. I really do feel on the verge of collapse. Ted is too silly for words. At
dinner just now he said if the war ended now he was afraid it would be too
soon, because we, England, hadn’t suffered enough. France had suffered, he
said, and Poland, and now very likely Germany was suffering, but we hadn’t
suffered enough. This is the religious maniac talking; also the safe old man.
It is true this country hasn’t suffered invasion, but it suffered the
expectation of invasion and still isn’t free of the dread of the threat of it.
It is Ted who doesn’t suffer, but he is an abnormal man. What about Artie? What
about Cuthi? What about me in my grief for them? What about all our millions of
young men fighting and dying in the air, on the sea, on the land, all over the
globe and all their families grieving for them? What about our blasted cities
and villages? What about our young women thrust into the factories and the
services? What about the demoralization of our juveniles? What about the
nightly air raids, the fires, the terror? What about the taxes, to put
something down to Ted’s comprehension? This war will never be paid for, even in
cash. All who survive will be impoverished for the rest of their days in mere
money, let alone in their affections.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">If Ted were a young man who had to go to
fight he might feel differently about the war. To say the least he would find
it inconvenient to have to leave his home, and to have to take orders from his
superiors. Isn’t it conceivable that millions of our men, especially the older
and the married ones, find Army life a suffering, long before they come to the
actual fighting and the danger? What about their wives and their mothers? Isn’t
it suffering for them to sit at home, or in their compulsory “directed” job,
alone? Partings, the breaking up of homes, infidelities, intolerable
loneliness, intolerable herding, insufficient money, restrictions! All these
miseries on top of blitzes, Foreign Service, wounds, blindness, and death. Then
Ted calmly says we haven’t yet suffered enough! I suppose he wants everybody to
be crucified like Jesus! Oh, he’s mad! It is true that the sea has saved us
from the boot of the invader, but it hasn’t saved us from anything else of war.
The air war has been and is terrible. There isn’t a family, scarcely a solitary
person, in this land, who hasn’t suffered because of this war, even Ted, though
he takes it lightly, yet one of his sons is a prisoner, and the other is
mutilated, and will be mutilated for the rest of his life, perhaps another
fifty years or more. What of the agony of body and of mind which Artie has
suffered? There are thousands like Artie, and will be thousands more. War.
Devilish, damnable war; yet men will war. I can’t understand it. I don’t think any
woman can understand it. Men are fools that’s what women understand, right
well. Ted Thompson is an intolerable fool. He’s mad!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 29, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">It is hotter than ever. The B.B.C.
reports temperatures of ninety-six degrees in the Straights of Dover.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">May 30, 1944</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Still hellishly hot. The B.B.C. reports
temperatures in the shade at Dover, seventy-nine degrees. The R.A.F. is out all
day and all night just the same; day flying planes return so hot that ground
crews have to spray them with water before they can touch them. This heat is
making me feel downright sick, as well as being bad for my legs. It makes me
feel cross also. Damn rotten world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 48px;">
<br /></div>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-84392177991547037822014-12-15T20:29:00.002-05:002015-05-23T14:37:48.553-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 4-1-44 to 4-30-44 We had no raiders over last night. This afternoon I managed to do a little writing. Ted took himself to the parlor and I had a couple of free hours. I wrote about ten pages, I think they are passably good. I have no interest right now in any of the countries of Europe, and as soon as the war is over I hope to get right away from it, and never see it nor hear of it again. It is like all the war books. I don’t want to read anything about the war. It is hell enough to endure it so why read about it? <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's Here:</span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 1,1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am frightfully tired now after cooking and clearing
away our dinner. I should like never to have to cook a </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">dinner again as long as I live, and never to have to tend
a fire, or dust a room, or be polite to the boring neighbors. I had a conversation with Miss Owlett this morning
about her Mother who is seriously ill, and after looking
at her plain, plain face; I came back into the house
remembering how nice looking Mother was. Mother kept
much beauty, right to the very end of her life. She was
a beautiful old lady. When I think of the old women on
either side of me, Mrs. Thomson with her Medusa grey
locks and her wrinkles and her make-up and thus Mrs.
Owlett with her almost bald head, and her daughter
with her reptilian eyes and neck and her scraggy grey
hair, oh, I think of the three witches in Macbeth, Hago,
all three of them! I hate the sight of all three. Do women
have to become so ugly? There is one think these old
hags make me darn sure about, and that is, hair. Hair is
a woman’s crowning glory, and I intend to have hair. I’ll
never have my hair cut again. I remember Mother’s hair;
it was beautiful. So could mine be, and it shall be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Au-revoir. If no visitors come in I can read undisturbed until teatime. I am too tired to do anything else.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 2, 1944, Palm Sunday
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had no raiders over last night. This afternoon I
managed to do a little writing. Ted took himself to the
parlor and I had a couple of free hours. I wrote about ten
pages. I think they are passably good. I have no interest
right now in any of the countries of Europe, and as soon
as the war is over I hope to get right away from it, and
never see it nor hear of it again. It is like all the war
books. I don’t want to read anything about the war. It is
hell enough to endure it so why read about it?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 3, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is rainy but warmer. I went to visit Miss Rosenberg </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">this morning and on the way home I went to Craddock’s
and bought some files, two singles and two doubles, also
some large envelopes and some rough scribbling paper. I
went through a package of various writings yesterday and
I saw that these oddments could be well knit together
into one good whole. It occurred to me if I “sorted” them
properly the work would be much easier, especially if I
kept portions separated, instead of lumped as now. Also
I decided to work in sections, as it were, as my fancy
moves me, and then piece the sections together afterwards. I halt myself because I want to work straightforwardly through a story, in historic sequence, and this
straightforwardness I can never achieve. If I write out
what comes to my mind when it comes, perhaps I could
join the pieces together artistically later, and so write a
book that way. It would be like knitting a multitude of
squares and then sewing them together to make a quilt,
or like collecting and preparing assorted ingredients
and then mixing them properly together to make a cake.
Anyhow I think I’ll see if I can write by that method. I
will try.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had no raiders last night. The B.B.C. reports that
last night Molotov officially announced in Moscow that
Russian troops have crossed the River Prut and entered
Romanian territory in several sectors. He also told
representatives of the foreign press that the Soviet had
no wish to acquire new territory or to alter the social
structure of Romania. The Red Army’s intention was to
pursue the German and satellite armies until their final
rout and capitulation. Well, we shall see.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In the postscript to the nine o’clock news last night
a press correspondent, a Mr. Moorhead, just back from
Italy, gave a description of occupied Europe, with an
admonition that we had better consider the future of
Europe after the war! He said that England was an oasis </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">of safety and plenty in comparison with occupied Europe,
and that we didn’t sufficiently realize the malignity of
the war. He said that Italy was a shambles, and all the
Italians wanted was food. Food! I didn’t care a hoot. I
don’t care if the Italians are suffering, or the French
either. I think, let’em suffer. I think: Europe wanted
war, now Europe has war. Very well, pay for it. No, I’ve no
tears for the poor Italians; no sob story about them is ever
going to stir my stony heart. This war need never have
been. It is a sure thing we English didn’t want it. Hitler
and Mussolini would have their war, and their Germans
and Italians were whole-heartedly behind them, but now
they are squealing. All right, let them squeal, but give
them a bellyful of war, their glorious war. I don’t care
if they starve to death. Hitler and Mussolini inflicted
Hell on the world and nobody raised a protest against
them; their people followed them like sheep. Well I am
not sorry for sheep. I am sick to death of Europe and all
Europeans, and I’ll never be sorry for one of them. Let’em
suffer and the more the better. They willed this war, now
they must endure it, and take the consequences. Devil
takes them all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 5, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">On Monday Ted received a letter from Artie saying
that the Medical Board had passed him grade C, and so
it looked as though he would be in uniform until the end
of the war, and asking his father to send to him a whole
list of his army belongings, which are still here. Bed,
shoes, pajamas, books, etc.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning Ted got a second letter from him, saying
that he couldn’t understand the War Office communication, and he couldn’t say definitely yet whether he was
remaining in the army or not, but to please send on the
things that he asked for, to Glasgow, in case he had to </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">report for duty. At lunchtime Ted said to me, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">I didn’t
tell you I had written to Artie, did I? I refused to send
on his things. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">(There was a sheet long list, and information where to find everything; how to pack it, and how
to forward.) </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">I told him, that when King Louis XIV got
tired of his court company he used to say, ‘If I were you
gentleman, if I was in your place, I should go home now,’
and that I was saying to him, if I was in your place I
should go home now. I told him that I hadn’t got time to
attend to all those things, and he had better come and
fetch them for himself, and also take a good look around
the house and see what else he wanted. I wasn’t going to
lug through that lot of work for him. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">He added</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">, It would
be a lot of work. Several things he asked for are in trunks,
under the bed, very hard to get at.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In Monday’s letter he gave the information, <span style="font-style: italic;">You will
be a grandpa in August. Hilda is very well, and hopes for
a boy. I should like twins, but expect that is too much
good luck to hope for.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In neither of these letters was there any reference to
me, not a word. As for the coming child, I can’t be glad.
I don’t want any grandchildren from this Scotch-Irish
Hilda Kane. I consider her a very inferior and third-
rate sort of person who will naturally produce third-rate
children. Well, I don’t want that kind, neither her nor
hers.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now evening. Ted has gone to play the organ
for the evening service. At tea-time he told me that he
walked up the road with an American soldier who was
on his way to visit the Story’s; said he must have been
one of the boys who has been here some time, because
he addressed him by name, and enquired after me. This
is the significant point of the story; the soldier said this
was the last night any American soldier was going to get
a sleeping out pass. So, it’s the invasion any day now.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 6, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Today the Postmaster General announces that the
public telephone service between Great Britain and all
parts of Ireland will be withdrawn immediately. The
telegraph service will be maintained, but subject to
strict censorship. This is to prevent any possible leakage
of vital information through Ireland.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">From America comes news of the defeat of Mr. Wendle
Wilkie in the Wisconsin primaries yesterday. He has
asked his friends not to present his name at the convention, in view of this defeat. The big vote went for Mr.
Dewey.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I received a card from Sket today, dated the Fifth of
January 1944. He writes:
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dear Folks, just to say I am o.k. I am glad that
Christmas Day and New Years are passed. It was a
depressing period. I had hoped to get my glasses by
Christmas but I suppose they are still in Switzerland. This
year there was no flood of Christmas cards from England
and strangely enough we have survived without them. I
send my respect, Sket.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Poor old Sket! These are weary years for him.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 13, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Soon after we got to bed last night we had an alert.
The raid lasted from eleven p.m. until nearly midnight.
The moon is waning so we expect raids every night until
we get moonlight again. At first it was the moonlit nights
that brought the raiders, now it is the moonless nights.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 14, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a raid in the night, between one-thirty and
two-fifteen a.m. The B.B.C. says we brought down two
of the raiders. I want to note this “letter” in this week’s
<span style="font-weight: 600;">Listener. </span>It is headlined, The Doctrine of Forgiveness. It </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">reads: </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">I am not much good at elegant streamlined phrases,
so please forgive my bluntness when I ask just what does
Mr. W.R. Childe mean by his ‘Philosophy of Christ? When
the Master said, ‘Love your enemies,’ he could not possibly
have meant by it a considered policy – when the power of
harming others has been taken away? There is no vitality
of love in a forgiveness of that sort. It makes me think of
a widow placing a nice wreath on her deceased husband’s
grave with the sentimental satisfaction of knowing he can
no longer torment her as he did when alive. ‘The key to the
healing of the nations’ is to be found in Christ himself; not
in any ‘Lo, here is Christ’ and ‘there is Christ’ philosophy.
Brigg. Mary Watkinson. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I note it for its touch about the
widow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It’s about a quarter of a century now since I noted
the first widow of my acquaintance began to bloom and
blossom. She was old Mrs. Norval. William Norval died
rather suddenly just before the last war started. He
was a good man and a good husband, and Martha was
devoted to him; but after he had been dead a little while
the change in Martha was obvious to all of Bayonne. She
has always been a serene and contented sort of person,
but my! After she was widowed she became a radiantly
happy one; she absolutely bloomed in her contentment
with her new single life. It was in watching her first of
all, and then others later, that I discovered that the only
happy women in the world are the widows with independent means. They are completely satisfied women. They
have known everything, and ultimately they are free, the
only truly free women in the world I think.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 15, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My dinner is all set. We are having a half shoulder
of lamb, potatoes, carrots, beetroot, broccoli tops and
a spicy rice pudding. We get one good dinner a week, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and this is it. This is our whole weeks ration of meat. I
am ravenously meat hungry. I miss meat more than any
other food.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had no raid last night, but I slept badly all the
same. I have suffered with insomnia ever since the beginning of the war. For one thing, I have to go to bed too
early. Ted retires about ten-thirty and I have to also, not
more than ten minutes later. Consequently I lay awake
for hours. When the alert went at one-thirty a.m. the
night before last I had not slept a minute. Naturally I am
what my mother would describe as a “night bird.” All of
us in our family were. Usually we didn’t have supper until
about ten, and never thought of retiring before midnight.
Anyhow, my brain is most active at night, which is when
I could write. I could write all night easily. So for me
to lie awake in bed is a sheer waste of time. Of course
I can’t read because I have no light. If I could go to bed
when I was ready for bed, that would be all right, but no,
that is not permitted. When Ted goes to bed I must go
to bed, that’s the rule. The household must pleasure the
husband, “the head of the house,” that is the inviolate
rule in England. Why do I put up with it? Why don’t I say,
no I don’t want to go to bed now, I want to listen to the
radio? I say nothing. I let him get away with it. I let him
get away with murder. I am certainly terribly tired of it,
deathly tired of it. As I lay awake last night I thought of
how sick I was of goodness and of being good. I thought
of all the fun I have missed in life, tagging along with
Ted Thompson. I should have burst out of bounds years
and years ago; I ought to have done so.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We got letters from Artie this afternoon, one to his
father, and one to me. This is it:
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">13th April 1944</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">
Dear Mother,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
I take it that Dad gives you all of my news so you will </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">know how I am doing all I can to get out of the army and
plan to come to Romford to settle down, and I expect you
also know I will be a “proud papa” in August. In the next
few days I am bringing Hilda to Romford and I would
like to bring her home but if you think it best that I do
not do so I will find somewhere else to go. I will telephone
from London, or Romford and then you can tell me. I
have also asked Dad. I may travel Saturday or Sunday or
even Monday, I don’t know yet. Anyway I look forward to
seeing you very soon, even if we don’t stay with you. All
my love, at all times. Fred.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well I do not understand these young people. That’s
all I can say. They haven’t even any sense of pride or
dignity for themselves! To go away as they did and then
to calmly arrange to walk in again, is beyond my idea of
behavior. However, I didn’t put them out, I never told
them to go. So, as a child looking to his parents for
hospitality, we will give it. I shan’t relish having them
here. In fact, I don’t really want to ever see either Artie
or Hilda again. In a sort of way Artie died for me last
December when he went away in the disagreeable way
he did go. My son vanished then and now I don’t want
him to reappear. It was not his going to Scotland that
hurt, for Hilda to want to go home was natural enough,
it was his nasty, secretive underhanded way of doing it
and then his ignoring me ever since.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For twenty-four years he loved me, and then at the
bidding of a stranger he repudiated me. Hilda is jealous
of me of course, that is obvious. She wants Artie to be
hers alone. She set herself against all his friends, and
most of all against me. Well that I can’t bother about. She
is an ignorant, ill-bred girl and I can’t change her. That
Artie should descend to her level! Artie knows better.
Artie knows what is right. He must know he behaved
badly to me and to his father. No, it is Artie I cannot </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">forgive. No, I don’t want to see him. Love and friendship
between us is dead and he destroyed it. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">All my love, at
all times? </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I don’t believe it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 16, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I spent most of the day writing letters. I wrote an
extra long one to Harold. When Artie and Hilda are here
again I shall not be able to do my writing whatsoever. I
wanted particularly to write to Harold, and have done so.
Happily for me there were no visitors today. I did not go
to church. It was a rainy morning so had myself excused.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 17, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mrs. Owlett died this morning. Miss Coffen was here
this afternoon. The lovebirds have not arrived.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 18, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My birthday. I am sixty today. Awful. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Old Mr. Holloway, the Owlett’s lodger, has spent most
of the day in the garden, hacking and coughing a lot. The
old lady called him “Ernest” and I always get the suspicion he was one of her old boyfriends. He is seventy-nine,
almost eighty, in good shape and active for his years,
but ... But! I hate old people. I hate the sight and the
sound of them. Ernest in his garden all day has gotten
on my nerves. I suppose he can’t stay in the house with
the corpse. I can’t be sorry for him, nor Miss Owlett, or
for the departed. I hate the sight of Miss Owlett too; she
is so ugly. Yes, I know this is hateful of me. I know if I
live long enough I too shall be decrepit and revolting
looking. All the same, I can’t bear old people. I simply
can’t bear them. It isn’t that I want young people either.
It is that I can’t tolerate the sight of the human being in
decay and a company of old people fills me with disgust.
The Resurrection of the Body. Which body? Will Mrs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Owlett resurrect as the woman she died, a hag of eighty?
Or as the girl she was at twenty, or the mature woman
she was at fifty?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am sixty today. Dreadful thought. I think of Mrs.
Muriel down the street. She is seventy-two and one of the
most ghastly looking women in this town. She is trying
to hang onto the appearance of youth, painted face, dyed
hair, youthful clothes, yet all her efforts serve only to
emphasize her hideous old age. No, I won’t fake like Mrs.
Muriel; on the other hand I won’t allow myself to be so
repulsively natural as Mrs. Owlett. There is no beauty
in old age. I think the utmost one can do when old, is
to keep away from the company of other old people. Two
old people together simply accentuate decay. I remember
once seeing the three old aunties and mother all together;
it was to me a revolting and frightening spectacle. Yes, I
hate old age.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is another day and no lovebirds. I received a
telegram from Artie at teatime, handed in at Glasgow at
five o’clock, <span style="font-style: italic;">Many happy returns and fondest love, Fred.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 19, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another raid here last night, between one and
two a.m. W & H’s office received a bomb, and is completely
gutted. Also Allen’s, the Brewery, The Cottons, Hale’s,
Cakebreads, Neumann’s, Knightsbridge Road, Waterloo
Road. Bert’s office is completely burned out. This is
the fourth fire there, once through Ritchie’s fault, once
through Dunne’s, and now twice from Gerry. The B.B.C.
reported at eight a.m. that we brought down ten of the
nights raiders, I should think at least half of them in
Romford. No details yet. I shall learn more when Ted
comes in for lunch.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now evening. Fourteen people were killed in
Waterloo Road and four at Seven Kings, where a plane </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">crashed on top of a house and killed the people inside.
Mrs. Wallace of Albion Terrace killed. Mrs. Shadforth,
wife of the chemist “missing.” A London hospital severely
damaged, one hundred and fifty three patients’ hurt,
seven of the staff killed. Allen’s is completely destroyed
and all the cars in the garage; but across the road in an
empty lot where scores of tanks were awaiting repairs,
nothing was touched, though several of the surrounding
houses are down. The B.B.C. reports we brought down
fourteen of the raiders.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 20, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A short raid last night before midnight, not bad in
this neighborhood, but bad enough to be frightening.
Mrs. Owlett was buried today. After the funeral, in the
afternoon, Mr. Holloway’s daughter in-law came to tell
him of the death of his son in Nairobi. This is a terrible
blow for the old fellow. I believe it was his only child. So
Miss Owlett and old Mr. Holloway have gone away for a
week or two, and Miss Owlett has asked us to keep an
eye on the house for them. Or course, I can’t understand
this going away so promptly after a funeral, but there
you are, different people act differently. If I suffered
bereavement I shouldn’t want to leave the house for a
long time, because if I did, it would be too hard to return
to it. Then, I never care about “going away” at any time.
I like best to stay on my own premises.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 23, 1944
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Artie and Hilda arrived at about one a.m. this
morning. Artie telephoned just before eleven that they
were at Euston. Ted and I went to bed, at eleven, in our
usual way, and Ted came down and let them in at about
one o’clock. I did not come down.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was an awkward meeting with Artie after </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">breakfast this morning. (Ted went and called them at
ten o’clock.) However, everything is all right. Artie filled
up with tears. Hilda did not come down. Artie said she
was sick; he wanted her to stay in bed, but he didn’t
think she would. He drank some coffee and went off to
mass. A little later I went upstairs, and, after tidying
our room, took an armful of clean linen, and knocked on
their bedroom door. Almost immediately Hilda opened
it. She was dressed (Ted had carried her a breakfast
tray) but near tears. However, she held out her hand, and
said, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">How do you do Mother</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">. The “mother” was a great
effort. So I kissed her and said a few words of welcome,
gave her a hug and said, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">Now, be happy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">She said, <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, I will.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span>I left her, and a little later she came back from church,
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and the two of them then went out into the garden to
talk to Ted.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So everything has started off well. The weather, too,
has been perfect. It has been just like a summers day.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 24, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Joan arrived at eight o’clock this morning, for the day.
Of course she was very surprised to find Artie and Hilda
here. Miss Coppen, the same, when she came this after-
noon. It is another perfect day. The B.B.C. announces
that the Government has decided that beginning next
Thursday, nobody may leave Great Britain, and this is
for security reasons.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 25, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The B.B.C. announces that Germany has isolated
Denmark; beginning today, nobody may either leave or
enter Denmark.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Old Bert has offered Artie a job in W. and H’s. This </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">he will take, if the London Exchange permits, and, of
course, if he gets his discharge from the army. He was at
the office this morning and saw young Bertie also, who
has twenty-four hours leave. This was really fortunate.
After all, when old Bert “drops out” it will be Bertie’s
business. They warn that Artie must go in at a low wage,
and the job may only be temporary, because of all the
young men Bert will have to take care of when they are
demobilized; young Green, Frank Grimwood, Albert
Harwood. Naturally, that’s the law. However, it does look
sensible for Artie to go back into the family business,
rather than into some other, and that is how the decision
stands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When he came into lunch Artie voiced what many
others have voiced regarding young Maurice Coppen.
There is Maurice, still in the office, busy about his own
affairs, and growing rich. Meanwhile, Green with a
young family, and an older man! Young Bertie, also an
older man, married and with two children! Harwood
who is married and delicate. These fellows are all swept
into the war, whilst Maurice, still a bachelor, is left free,
not even put on war work.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It’s not fair I can’t understand why Maurice gets out of
everything! Something funny about Maurice!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">He is considered an artful dodger, and his unpopularity increases. The feeling is that he has wangled
through the medical exam and obtained an exemption
from army service that he is not entitled to, and it is
exacerbated by the fact that he will not voluntarily do
any war work. He arranges to stay in Bert’s office with
the old men and to keep out of danger and discomfort
very nicely. Certainly he is not sick. There is nothing
the matter with Maurice. He can work very hard on his
own affairs, and also on his own pleasures, for he goes
to town to a theatre practically one night every week.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Bertie and Frank, and Albert and Artie and Green must
go to the war and Artie must lose his leg. Yes, there is
something fishy about Maurice.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I begin to feel I don’t care much for Maurice Coppen,
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">says Artie. Well, lots of other people have been saying
that too. The last one I heard say so was Mr. Skelton, the
morning after the raid. I met him on the street, and he
said, <span style="font-style: italic;">And of course that young Coppen wasn’t on the fire
watching job! No, he wouldn’t be!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Oh well! I don’t think Maurice will continue to feel
quite happy in the office, once the other fellows get back
to it.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">April 30, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Artie and Hilda just left for mass. Ted is out at the
Home Guard, the first Sunday since his accident. I have
the feeling Mother ought to walk in. The weather is
perfect. The week has passed much better than I anticipated. Artie and Hilda are obviously happy to be here,
Artie particularly so. I think Artie must have been very
unhappy in Glasgow. Twice I have heard Hilda say to
him,
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">You’re happy now; aren’t you? You’re happy here. </span>Once,
<span style="font-style: italic;">You were always grumbling in Glasgow. You grumbled
about everything.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well, I think to myself, Good! The boy has had a dose
of Glasgow, of the Scotch, of his in-laws, of the harsh
northern climate, and of giving in to the whims of his
wife. It’s a dose he won’t take again. Hilda has improved
in disposition quite a lot too. Ted says, <span style="font-style: italic;">I think those two
young people have learnt a lesson.”</span>Yes, I think so too.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have my “roast” dinner to cook today. Anyhow I
shall make no attempt to go to mass whilst Hilda and
Artie remain here. They are looking for a flat or a house
but accommodations are very scarce and hard to find.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">However if they keep hunting possibly they will find a
place in a week or two, and the sooner the better both for
us and for them. Young couples ought to be on their own </span><br />
</div>
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</div>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-84154184810111449132014-11-16T18:13:00.000-05:002015-05-25T17:32:25.927-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 3-1-44 to 3-31-44 There was a raid last night between two forty-five and three-thirty a.m. It was very terrifying. One bomb sounded as though it was surely going to land in our alley. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's :</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 1,1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">On the radio at seven fifty-five a.m. this week the
Reverend Bloomer, Vicar of Barking, is talking. I always
hear these “Lift up your Heart’s” talks, because I am
getting the breakfast, and have the radio turned on so as
not to miss the eight a.m. news. This man’s theme this
week, is forgiveness, which he extends to the world at
large and all people’s “becoming one.” Well! Not only am
I aware that I can’t forgive my enemies, I am even more
deeply aware that I don’t want to. As for the world being
one, I am aware that I don’t want to be “one,” not even
with our allies.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When I hear the “wonderful Chinese,” I am revolted.
I don’t care a damn about the Chinese. I certainly
don’t want us to go and fight the Japanese so as to help
China. Our boys will have done enough when they have
licked Hitler. Why should we throw them away against
the Japs? Let the yellow people settle their own affairs
betwixt themselves. For all the talking about the heroic
Chinese, and the establishment of our future with the
Chinese, it makes me sick. I don’t want anything at all
to do with yellow people, let alone make friends with
them. I remember the talk that went on in my childhood</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">about what my Father’s papers called “The Yellow Peril.”
The idea then was that yellow people would over run the
whites. What is happening is, that the whites are about
to be destroyed in “helping” one set of Asiatic exterminate another set of Asiatic. It is true that the Japs have
made war on the United States, and Americans will have
to conquer the Japs; but I don’t see why they, with us,
should proceed further against the Japanese in their
war against China. We kept out of it when the Japs began
against Manchuria, why be talked into that war now?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As a matter of fact I don’t believe in the goodness of
the Chinese. I can remember the Boxer Rebellion, when
the Chinese acted with the same cruelty of barbarism,
which is charged against the Japanese today. I can’t see
much to choose between yellow dog and yellow dog. I’m
positive I don’t want my country, whether it be England
or America, to have continuing alliance with China once
this world conflagration has died out. Why should we
fight China’s battles for her? I don’t like the Chinese
and no talker, no matter how clever or persuasive, will
ever be able to make me do so. No, I don’t want to be one
with the world, no, I certainly don’t.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">March 2, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was a raid last night between two forty-five
and three-thirty a.m. It was very terrifying. One bomb
sounded as though it was surely going to land in our
alley. When I went back upstairs to bed at the all clear, I
saw three distinct fires on the horizon in the direction of
London. The B.B.C. announced at eight a.m. that we had
brought down five of the raiders.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 5, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday the Americans bombed Berlin for their
first time. We will probably get a reprisal raid tonight.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 6, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I awakened about six this morning suffused with a
delicious languor feeling of desire. I was warm, the bed
was comfortable, I had a good sleep because Gerry didn’t
come, I had pleasant dreams, and if Ted had only turned
to me I could have loved him with passion, and it would
have been good. Early morning like this is when I feel
naturally most inclined to love, but nothing happened.
Why didn’t I take the initiative? I know better. He would
have repulsed me. I must never make the first move. I
learned this lesson with heartbreaks years ago. Love is
for when Ted desires, not when I do. Of course he had to
go to church! Damned idiot!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 7, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning Daisy White came in. She was after
some more of the Mrs. Henry Wood’s, which she enjoys
keenly. She took away two volumes. She happened to
have her business attaché case with her, and offered me
some soap, coupon free. She also had some real linen
tea towels, four of them, one coupon each. Those were
all she had and she let me buy them all. She says it is
the coupons that bother her business; with only twenty
coupons to spend to cover the entire clothes ration, people
can’t and won’t spend coupons for towels, handkerchiefs,
etc. Of course not. You must give up eighteen coupons for
a suit or a dress, seven for a pair of shoes, six for a vest,
so it goes, people simply can’t buy oddments like towels.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have sent off an order today to Harrods for ten pounds
of coffee. Dorrie Stanford told us there is a rumor going
around the hospital that coffee is about to be rationed,
so Ted said we’d better lay in a few pounds for a stand-by.
We use on the average about a pound a week. A food news
item on the radio today, stated that beginning in the new
four-week food ration period, cheese would be reduced </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">to two ounces per person per week, but milk would be
increased half a pint per week, and there would be no
change in the tea ration. Coffee was not mentioned, so I
hope our order goes through before a ban gets clamped
on it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 9, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Oh, What shall I do? What shall I do? This is what I
keep asking myself. I am so weary I don’t know what to
do. I feel that I shall have a nervous breakdown, along
with all the rest of the neurotics. I feel that I am on the
verge of madness, dangerously near. If circumstances
don’t change soon I am afraid my mind will crack. Anger
at trifles keeps rushing through me, and I want to start
screaming, but I don’t, because I am afraid that if I let
myself go I might not be able to take up controls again.
Everything bothers me: the war, the weather, the house,
my health, my family, and my husband.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a raid again last night. This morning is bleak
and grey and cold and miserable. I am in a state of antagonism to Ted, which is hateful. I don’t want to be that way
but he exasperated me to such a pitch I feel I can’t bear
him another minute. I have to bear him. It is a loath-
some marriage, how I hate it. In the night he loved me,
against all my will and inclination, only by great effort of
will did I make myself stay in the bed, my impulse was
to get up and rush away. I don’t consider this is love, it is
only animalistic, it is neither passion nor affection, only
mere beastliness, and I loathe it. It is doubly repulsive to
me because I know when six o’clock comes Ted will get
up and go off to mass, to another of his gratifications. To
love me without delight is horrible. Oh God, I am tired.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday at teatime Ted brought in two American
soldiers for coffee. One was from Albany, N.Y. and the
other from Olympia, Washington. They were ground staff </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">boys of the air force. Talk turned on what the Americans
are doing in Berlin now, and one of them, the Irish boy
from Albany, said he guessed they would have to do the
same to Rome, and that though he would like to see the
grand old monuments he guessed there would be none
left by the time they got there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">After the boys left Ted began talking to me about the
likely coming bombing of Rome, and whether it should
be bombed. Then he branched off into his disquisition
about life and art.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">After all, </span>he said, <span style="font-style: italic;">When you think of it what is life but
length of days? So if a man dies in war it only means he
has less length of days. What are days in comparison with
great works of art? I wouldn’t want to see Rome destroyed.
Some of those art treasures are irreplaceable. I think we
should make every effort to preserve them.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, </span>I said, <span style="font-style: italic;">and so are young lives irreplaceable, and
we should make every effort to preserve them. There is no
work of art that is worth more than a man’s life.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ah! </span>said Ted<span style="font-style: italic;">, I’d hate to see Rome damaged and as
I say, “life is only length of days, so if men give up some
of their length of days so that the glories of Rome may be
saved, I should think it would be worth it.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I let the conversation drop. I cannot talk with this
inhuman madman. Both our sons are now out of the
fighting, but suppose they weren’t, would he be satisfied
to have them throw away their lives to preserve stones?
If not our sons, whose sons? If the Germans insist on
fighting for Rome, Rome will be fought for, for I don’t
think the Allies will be so insane as to make the Germans
a present of it. What’s Rome? The Eternal City? There
are other eternal cities, Athens, London bombed and
shattered. The city is not its stones, its bricks and mortar.
A city is the idea and the work of men. The material city
can be knocked down, and it can be built up again, and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">even more beautiful than before, if the idea of the city
persists. The idea of Rome cannot be destroyed anymore
than the idea of London can be destroyed. Human life
can be destroyed, and no one can bring back the dead.
After all, our boys and the American boys haven’t gone
to war so as to save works of art; they have gone to war
to destroy the enemy and thereby to save civilization.
Here’s Ted moaning about Rome. Oh, he makes me sick.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 10, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The two American boys here this week upset me. I
like to show friendliness to American soldiers, but they
remind me too much of my lost American sons, and
inside I am disturbed. Then, too, I have been staggered
by Artie’s desertion. I try to forget it, but do not succeed
very well. Life is not the way I would have it and I do get
fretful. Yes, I know I ought not to, but knowing what is
right and being able to pursue it are two different things.
I think I am depressed by poor food, as well as by the
duration of the war. Some really good fresh food and a
little whiskey occasionally would cheer up my spirits
considerably, I’m quite certain.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 11, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am cooking the dinner. A miserable piece of middle
neck and scrap is our “roast” today, it is mostly waste,
but tomorrow the roasted bones will flavor some soup.
Our diet gets poorer and poorer. It keeps us alive, but
it is impossible to extract stamina from it. Everybody
complains of tiredness. Lack of sugar, lack of protein, too
much starch, poor bread, it’s something amiss. We all
keep going, but we all feel unduly exhausted.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday we were told that United States government had requested the government of Eire to close
down the German and Japanese Legations in Dublin, in </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">view of the very near approach of the Allies invasion of
Europe, and because it is known that the German’s draw
constant information of our affairs through the German
and Japanese Legations in Dublin. This morning we are
told that the Irish have refused the request. Naturally.
The Irish were all for Germany in the last war, and they
are the same in this. What an urgent need there must
be for this request for the Americans to make it! They
too must have known it would have been refused; surely,
yet they have asked it. De Valera has answered with the
explanations about the neutrality of Eire, etc. Well, we
know all about the neutrality of Eire. Eire has been a
positive and active friend to the Axis constantly from the
very beginning of the war. Because of Eire’s neutrality
thousands of our boys needlessly lie on the ocean floor.
God curse Ireland. He has done, and he will do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I would like to start writing again. I want to write
as a woman. I’m sick of men and their assumption
that this is entirely a man’s world, and that only men
have brains. I know quite a lot about men’s brains and I
don’t think much of them. I have a wonderful specimen
right here on the premises and more often than not I
regard it merely with derision. Men are such fools, such
fools! They think they are compact of all wisdom! Men
laying down the law, men expounding the mind of God,
oh, they make women groan. I bow to the geniuses, but
they are few and far to find. It is the ordinary man’s
eradicable conviction of his own superiority and his own
omniscience that infuriates me.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Women are much more humble minded. Women know
what they know, but they never pretend to know every-
thing. Women don’t have the expounding fervor of men.
I think most women know, or sooner or later come to
know that talk is useless, or that it only leads to trouble.
Women may chatter together over superficiality like a</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">flock of birds, but they don’t waste themselves in talk as
men do. Women act, when they see what to do, and know
what they can do, they do it, and without either explanations or excuses. That is woman’s practicality, and it is
of far greater use and value for creating a good life than
all men’s philosophy’s and idealism. You’ll never hear
women talking about “ideals” they have got too much
God-given sense. It is men’s ideals and men’s talk, which
has brought us to where we are today. Men talking, the
damn fools men.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Possibly if I had married “a big silent man,” “a
practical man,” I might now have a better opinion of men
and of mankind generally, but I had the misfortune to
marry a weakling Adonis and a voluble doctrinaire. I fell
in love with a stranger, made a romantic marriage, only
to find myself caught in a trap from which I can never
get free. After I had fallen for the bait of the handsome
lover I found myself behind the façade of romance and
what I was inextricably entangled with was not the man
of my dreams, nor certainly not. What I had drawn in the
lottery of marriage was merely a perpetually interfering
and domineering second rate schoolmaster who fancied
himself in the role of Petruchio. What luck, oh my God,
what luck!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yes, I am unfair to Ted. I know it. Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa. He is a good man, faithful and true, a good
provider. Certainly I cannot ever have been the sort of
wife he must have dreamed about. The trouble is I am
the one who has been compelled to live against the grain
all these years and I am so tired. These last seventeen
years especially have warped me. Now these awful war
years. It’s all too much. However, I do stay sane. These
books are my safety valves, herein I say what I think,
literally spill over. These books hold the worst of me.
Outwardly I toe the mark, speaking and acting in all </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">the required and expected ways; and so I shall go on
doing I expect, go on being, Oh so politely! Mrs. Edward
Thompson.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 13, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Joan arrived at eight a.m. and stayed for the day. This
is the first time I have seen her since December Twelfth.
Now that the longer days are coming she says she will
come to see me about once a month. She looks very well.
She told us of the recent bad blitzing in Hammersmith,
Kensington and Fulham. She said the King and Queen
came to look at the damage, and their visit was resented.
The unfortunates thought they were only showing
common curiosity. Churchill also visited the neighbor-
hood, and was resented. It was in the Broadway where
a bomb had fallen. Joan said they had nine bombs in
Hammersmith alone, that he waved his hand and called
out “It’s quite like old times!” This remark was not
well received, and one man who answered rudely, and
swearing, was taken away by the police. It turned out
that he was one of the unfortunates whose family had
to be dug out of ruins. Joan said Churchill’s cigar is so
deeply resented: “him and his two shilling cigar!” Well,
it would seem more political not to puff those cigars in
the faces of the poor and the blitz victims.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In the afternoon Mrs. Cannon came, her first visit this
year; and Elizabeth Coppen also. There was much talk
and laughter here this afternoon. Joan is an amusing
talker.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 14, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I received a parcel from Bumpus. A twelve-volume
edition of Shakespeare and a four-volume edition of
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">Middlemarch</span>. Nothing else. I am very pleased with these.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a raid last night between one a.m. and </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">one-thirty a.m. I came downstairs but Ted remained
up in bed. The figures for casualties in the air raids for
February have been given today. Civilian casualties due
to air raids in the United Kingdom during February were
nine hundred and sixty-one killed (or missing, believed
killed) and seventeen hundred and twelve injured and
detained in he the hospital. This is the highest total
since May 1941.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Churchill is speaking in Parliament today about the
ban on travel to and from Ireland. Last week the United
States Government, with the approval of our government, asked De Valera to expel the German and Japanese
representatives from Eire. The request was refused.
The reason for the request was severely practical. It
was to clear out the nests of espionage and plotting in
Dublin, and to free Allied Forces in Northern Ireland
from continuing danger. On Sunday it was announced
that because of Eire’s refusal to expel the Germans and
Japanese from Dublin, a ban on all travel between Eire
and the United Kingdom would come into effect at once
and further steps would be taken to isolate Southern
Ireland from the world, for reasons of military safety.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Among the reasons given by DeValera for his refusal
was the “forced partition” of Ireland. DeValera’s policy
in this war has clamped down partition. Ulster’s objections to the merger with Eire have been intensified.
DeValera has “missed the bus.” If at the beginning of
the war, he had offered collaboration with Britain and
the Empire, and British use of Irish ports, on the condition of national unity, Ulster leaders would have found
it difficult to justify continued partition, and the British
people would have welcomed a settlement on that basis.
The opportunity passed and will not return until there is
a change of heart in Southern Ireland. That, I think, will
be never. The Southern Irish simply will not be friendly </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">to Britain. Nay, and more than that, not only will they not
be friendly, they will insist on being positively unfriendly,
and that perpetually would not end. The lovely Irish!</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 15, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was a very heavy raid last night between
ten-fifteen and eleven forty-five p.m. The B.B.C. states
this morning that we brought down nine bombers. It
was most frightening. Even Ted showed nervousness. He
became very pale, and finally took his rosary out of his
pocket and began saying it. This is the first time I have
ever seen him do this. I didn’t pray. I couldn’t. Instead
I kept on with my reading, luckily a light book, Esther
Maxwell’s, Life of the Young Lincoln.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As the war goes on my “Christian” religion evaporates more and more. I can’t see what Jesus Christ and
the gospels have to do with this affair, and as for the
Blessed Virgin and the Saints, even less. As for mass,
nothing. My God is a spirit, and I worship him in spirit
and in truth as the human Jesus once told a woman to
do. This religion about Jesus I cannot swallow. I cannot
believe in a God who was an historical person. That is
why I like the Anglican Church so much, Jesus is in it, of
course, but much more so is God there; the God one can
find in the Old Testament, the God that declared that he
was not a man that he should repent him. I have to try to
have feelings about Jesus, and responses to him; it is all
artificial, a pretense. I don’t have to try to have feelings
about God, they are spontaneous, I can feel God in the
Old Testament, I can feel him in the sunshine, the moon
and stars, the grass, in my love for Ted in the night when
that can be spontaneous and true, in an infant, in an
eclipse, but I cannot feel God in the Christian religion.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The one o’clock news reported that we brought down
a total of thirteen German bombers last night.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Lily Hartnet came this morning. She brought a parcel,
which Gladys had directed, by mistake, to 78 Eastern
Road. This “Eastern” and “Western” is very confusing.
The packet was a pound of tea, most, most acceptable.
Lily stayed quite a long time. She tells me she will be
eighteen this October. I think of her only as the pretty
little child of four!
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another raid this evening, from nine-fifteen
p.m. until ten p.m. It is all quiet now, Ted has gone up
to bed and I am about to follow. I hope to have a quiet
night. Tonight’s raid was not as bad as last night’s but
bad enough.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 16, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had an alert at six-thirty this evening, before
dark. The raid lasted only a little over half an hour. It
was a small attack only. The weather is still very cold.
Winter is lasting long this year.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 21, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is the first official calendar day of spring but
the weather is most un-spring like. It is very cold. The
Government has published a ban today on all travel to
the coast, from The Wash to Lands End, and certain
portions of the Firth of Forth, to come into effect on April
First. All schools in the country were asked a few weeks
ago to close down by March Thirty-First, for the Easter
holidays, as no travel will be permitted after that date.
Is the Invasion about to begin at last?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 22, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is colder than ever. We had another very heavy
raid last night, over London and the S.E. coast. It began
here about twelve forty-five a.m. and went on until two
a.m. this morning. It was extremely bad. Several times </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I thought we should surely be hit, but no, here we are,
still intact. We are in the dark of the moon now, so many
expect several more raids during the next week or so.
There is a new moon on Friday. I wrote to Marjorie today,
and to Eddie last Sunday. I have received a card from
Sket, dated December Tenth. He writes:</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dear Folks, I had a parcel from you a few days ago.
I was pleased to get only what I asked for. It is hard
to realize that only in a month’s time I shall be twenty-
five years old. I hope that it is to be my last birthday in
captivity. Art has got out of the war pretty lightly so why
should he not be cheerful? I have no more to say. Sket. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Poor boy, poor child!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 23, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Something has happened to me. I had a letter from
Marjorie last Saturday, and because it was appealing, I
began to reply to it on Monday. I had to write it at intervals, but I finished it yesterday. It was a rather long letter
and I had written her only about a fortnight ago. I have
written a lot of letters lately to my children in America.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well, after I had finished writing to Marjorie
yesterday, I was overcome by the most dreadful feeling
of depression and dereliction that I have ever known.
Never before in my whole life have I ever felt so derelict
and forsaken. It was terrible. I did not know what to do
with myself. I could do nothing, nothing at all. It was
evening and Ted and I were sitting here in this little
dining room together. He was reading and happy as
usual. I could not read, I could not think, I could hardly
breathe. In my breast was an agony, not a physical pain,
but a torture of despair. It was complete mental agony,
utter dereliction of soul. I was sitting here by the table,
my eyes closed, in a state of suffocating suspense, then lo,
all at once my mind began to say the Hail Mary, and then </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">it went on into the Salve, Regina and then the Memorale.
Release, consolation, encouragement, and then, best of
all, conviction.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This went on for hours. It is still going on. I had to
get up in the night for an air raid, and it still went on. I
still have it. It is a conviction of the reality of the supernatural, which I have never experienced before. I felt
the reality and the presence of the Blessed Virgin, the
Mother of God. I felt her. I felt her as my mother, my
heavenly mother, surpassing my own earthly mother,
and in a different way altogether from the flesh. It was
supernatural. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Mary, the mother of God, and the mother
of me. All my mental distresses passed away. I have been
thinking for months past that I was definitely out of the
Catholic Church, and that I was making up my mind to
re-enroll myself in the Church of England. But no, it isn’t
so. God the father, Yes, but God the son, I cannot ever
see him, but Mary, yes. That woman, she I can see as a
Divine Person and now I have experienced her. I have.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 25, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was a very heavy raid last night. It began
about eleven p.m. and went on until after one o’clock
this morning. On today’s one o’clock news we were told
that whilst the Germans were bombing London, we were
bombing Berlin. The R.A.F. dropped twenty five hundred
tons of bombs on Berlin, during one half hour. Seventy-
three of our aircraft are missing from the thousand who
were sent to do the job. Over here we suffered damage
and casualties, but, as usual, details are not given us.
Most of it, of course, was in London. The only “fact” we
are given is the information that we brought down eight
of the enemy raiders.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The German’s have occupied Hungary. Vesuvius, which has been in violent eruption since </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">last Saturday was yesterday reported to be subsiding.
The streams of lava appear to have stopped and the other
activity of the volcano is on a declining scale, telegraphs
a “Times” correspondent. This has been a most violent
eruption, the worst since eighty years ago, many villages
buried, and thousands of people evacuated, their homes
lost forever. One of the very strange things during these
war years is the constant violence of nature. There have
been many serious earthquakes in this time, and now
Vesuvius has been pouring out relentless destruction.
One reporter broadcast from Italy that the destruction caused by the eruption was more awesome then
the fighting going on there. Of course. The eruption of
the volcano is an act of God; it cannot be stopped until
God stops it. War is the act of man, it need not be. War
is a deliberate madness, gigantic folly, and folly is not
awesome, it is enraging, it is heart breaking, but it is not
awesome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">March 31, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is very cold and we had frost in the
night. It was a bad night, a raid from three-thirty to four-thirty a.m., also much crossing over of our own aircraft,
back and forth. There was bad news on the one o’clock
bulletin, a report that the R.A.F. made a raid in great
strength over Nuremberg last night; and ninety-six of our
aircraft are missing. This is awful. This is the highest
loss in one night we have had yet. One night in February
we lost seventy-nine, but this is much worse. Poor boys.
One prays that they go straight to heaven. Poor boys.
When, oh when, will this damnable war end? </span><br />
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Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-66216957052870824902014-11-09T16:15:00.002-05:002015-05-28T20:58:43.575-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 2-1-44 to 2-29-44 “The Journal de Genève” reported yesterday (that would be January 29,) that Himmler had been relieved of his position as Minister of the Interior in Germany. “Possibly he has been executed,” added the report, which mentioned rumors that a “brutal elimination” of Hitler had been planned inside Germany. —B.U.P.” <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase London Blitz Diary's</span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 1, 1944 </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have just had a visit from Mrs. Peel, Doreen’s
mother. She explained why Doreen hasn’t been to see
me for such a long time. It is because she has a job in the
city, and now lives in town. All the same this doesvvn’t
explain why Doreen has never written to me. Oh, well.
The explanation is rather obvious, I think, now that
Artie is married, what is the point in a girl visiting here?
Nevertheless I had expected differently from Doreen
Peel, but here it is, another disappointment, somebody
else glittering but not gold.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When Miss Coppen visits me on Mondays she brings </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">me her Sunday papers, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 600;">The Sunday Times, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">and </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 600;">The
Observer. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Today there is one item worth noting. First,
this from </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 600;">The Observer</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 800;">: </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">The Journal De Genève reported
yesterday </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">(that would be January 29) </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">that Himmler had
been relieved of his position as Minister of the Interior
in Germany. Possibly he has been executed</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">, added the
report, which mentioned rumors that a </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">brutal elimination </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">of Hitler had been planned inside Germany. — B.U.P</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Lets hope all this is true, but I think it very unlikely.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 2, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Last night Ted went to the house of Mr. Hedge, in
Massiters Walk, to play the piano and to rehearse for
a band of Civil Defense Workers who are preparing a
Christ minstrel show. When he came home about eleven
he was full of laughter, because he had overheard Hedge
say to a newcomer whom he was admitting to the house.
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Come in, Mr. Thompson is here, a fine old man. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">It strikes
him as funny that the world now sees him as an old
man. Of course he is an old man. After all, he will be
sixty-five this year, and what is that but old age? He is
not very old, but old just the same. Several times this
winter he has told me how young people have got up and
given him their seat in the bus, occasionally have even
taken his arm across the road, so he must strike the
public as an old man. Of course his beard adds to the
impression. Quite early in the war he let his beard grow,
because he began to find the barbers too crowded, and
his impatience couldn’t wait long for a turn, well, his
beard is quite white, and so is his hair. Now his gait is
bad because of his broken ankle, so why wouldn’t the
world consider him old? Of course he is old and so am I.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is two p.m. and the dishes are out of the way and
I have a clear empty afternoon before me, so I ought
to begin to write the letters I owe, but am disinclined </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">to begin. Perhaps it is the general unsettlement of my
mind at the present, which makes me wary of writing
any statements to my friends and relations, no matter
how trivial. It doesn’t matter how often and how much
I go back on myself in a private record like this, in fact,
this is really how I sift over in my mind and sort out
its debris, but I think it would matter if I went back on
myself to my correspondents and perhaps not. Those who
love me, love me, I have to believe that. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Do I contradict
myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am huge. I
contain multitudes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">What else do I believe? That is what I am trying to
find out. That is found for myself and myself as a woman.
I repudiate men’s beliefs, most of them, for they are no
use to me. The longer I live the more I grow to look upon
men as fools. No, a man’s mind is not for a woman, she
never thinks his thoughts, she can’t, for not only are her
thoughts different from his, her whole nature is against
them. Look what men have made of the world today.
Women have to live in it and endure it, but their secret
minds and souls scorn it and reject it. Men seem to
regard war as a game; but women know it is lunatic hell,
and that it need never be. God almighty did not ordain
war; it is only men who will wage it.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Of course first of all above everything I believe in the
individual soul, but not the sort of theoretical general
masculine soul priests and parsons talk about. I believe
in my individual woman’s soul, and I hold that it contains
within itself its own recognition of validity and truth, and
its own surety and witness to its own value and its own
end. I am because I am, and know that I am. Morality,
therefore, for me, consists in my soul’s recognition of
right and wrong, and not in man’s words or dictates, nor
in the performance of any act either of custom or utility
or expedience. The justification of morality lays in my </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">inexpugnable sense of duty towards a personal, absolute
and above all, a good God. The God who made me is good
so I must be good. I must choose the good. I must. If I go
against it I suffer more than I can bear. That is why the
war is such suffering for me, and for all women. Women
know that war is the voluntary inexcusable wickedness
of men, and to think about it is to go mad.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">War, I think, is man’s prerogative, and so, I think, is
religion, or rather, not religion, but theology, along with
the churches. Religion is that living contact between
the soul and its maker, an experience of the spirit; but
theology is something very different from that. For men,
like as with war, theology is a game that they play, a game
that is mainly only word spinning, but one that can lead to
death and torture, if played hard enough. Comparatively
only a few men take their theology seriously nowadays.
The fanatics like my poor Ted. Mostly the churches are
dead. Then why am I bothering so about church?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Actually I think it is not church I am bothering about,
but Ted. Ah! Now I see, my problem is not a problem
about right belief, which is the true church etc, but it is
a problem about fidelity.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fidelity. To be faithful and true. Whose truth and
where is it? Am I to be true to myself, or true to Ted?
Perhaps it is only in being true to him that I can be
true to myself. Perhaps it is Artie’s lack of fidelity to me,
which has shocked me so horribly, his being faithless to
the relationship between us, which has cut me so deeply.
“To thine self be true.” Yes, but which self? You are an
awfully complicated sort of person when you happen to
be a married woman, particularly an old married woman.
Am I the sort of woman I once was, or the woman I have
become? What sort of woman have I become? What
sort am I tonight and tomorrow morning? Am I more
or less myself as now, when I sit quietly writing in an </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">empty house in a still afternoon or when I crouch in a
corn shaking and vomiting with fright when an enemy
raid flies over and around us? Who and what exactly
am I? Who and where is my true self and what is her
name? Am I still Ruby Side or have I become totally
Ruby Thompson? I don’t know. Not knowing, that is the
trouble. When my soul can recognize facts, the truth,
then I can act and then I am at peace. The trouble is,
sometimes I think I see the truth only to have it vanish.
My souls pretty much at sea in a dirty fog.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I wish my old subconscious would go to work for me,
and throw me up a solution in a dream some night and
some night soon. I am tired of this circling around, Do I
or don’t I? Shall I or shan’t I?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 4, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have been given an answer to my religious problem,
but not through the workings of the subconscious but
through the workings of Hitler. Between a quarter to
five and a quarter past six this morning we endured
another very bad air raid. It was frightful. Sitting in my
corner, retching, shaking, praying, I looked across at Ted
who was reclining on his sofa, and all at once I saw what
I had to do, and that is, stay in the Catholic Church, at
least “for the duration.” I thought, supposing I was to
get killed in one of these raids, what a distress it would
be for Ted if he couldn’t bury me as a Catholic! So, for
Ted’s sake, I must stay a Catholic. I am resolved to put
out of my mind all my irritations and disbelief's about
Catholicism, and all my attractions to Anglicanism. I
will believe what I can and all I can. I will meditate on
the fundamental doctrines of Christianity and ignore, as
far as I can, all those aceretionary dogmas, which float
my intelligence.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No authentic news of the raid yet. A big fire was </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">burning all morning across the tracks but I don’t know
exactly where. Ted has heard bombs were dropped
in Stanley Avenue, Hornchurch, and Dorset Avenue,
Hornchurch because people were in the office looking for
houses. There are reports of them falling in Upminster
and Chelmsford and also on Fords at Dagenham, though
Ted said he heard they only struck the car park, not the
works. The salvage man, who came at breakfast time,
said he was out fire-watching last night, and he saw three
Gerry’s brought down at Upminster. There must have
been hundreds over here, by the sound they made; it
was ceaseless, like as in 1940-1941. This terrible world!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 6, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is all quiet, no raids yesterday, nor last night.
Miss White and Daisy came today, and told us that last
Thursday a whole street behind the cinema at Upminster was demolished, and many houses at Great Nessing,
near Chelmsford. I have not been to church. I guess my
resolution is not so much to remain a Catholic, as not to
become an Anglican.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 7, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">A letter from Artie to his father, acknowledging the
receipt of a parcel with battle-dress and shoe, and a letter
from Eddie which Ted had forwarded. He said Eddie’s
letter gave no family news. At the end of his letter he
wrote: </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Fondest love to you and to Mother. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">This is the first
mention he has made of me since he went away. I suspect
Eddie must have said something about me in his letter
to Artie, and thus pricked Artie’s conscience. However
I do not feel pleased at all. Artie has been silent too
long, repudiated me too thoroughly, I do not feel I want
his love anymore it has proved rather a worthless love I
think. I think the boy has no filial principles. Suppose </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Hilda did dislike me, what of it? She is at liberty to
dislike me. That he should go away, behind my back, as
he did, with no word of farewell, and then to treat me
with silence. I am afraid he is an expediency man. Why
didn’t he stand up to Hilda, and say, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">No, I don’t treat my
Mother like that. I will take you back to Scotland, since
you wish it so much, but not underhandedly. Not sneaking
away. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Why doesn’t he say to Hilda: </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Alright, dislike my
mother if you must, but you can’t stop me loving her. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Artie
has behaved abominably towards me. He has treated me
with disdain, or as though I were dead, and it makes me
feel as though he had died. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">My fondest love to Mother. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">I
don’t think it means anything. It’s just a phrase. I don’t
believe it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 11, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mrs. Whitbread was here, so I went out shopping
as well as to the library this morning. At Forster’s the
chemists, Mr. Forster produced a roll of Selo Film, which
he said he was saving for Artie. This I have made up into
a small parcel, with a few Chesterfield cigarettes, and a
very short note, and posted off to Glasgow. I had thought
I would never write to Artie until he had first written to
me, however, perhaps it is necessary for me to break the
ice, so I have done so.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 12, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a raid last night between seven-thirty and
eight-thirty p.m. Southeast England, and the London
area. Reports the B.B.C. bombs dropped in several
places and “some” casualties reported. I was sick with
fright, as usual, and shook so uncontrollably that I am
still tired from it today. I feel as though I have been
beaten. Oh this blasted war! When are the lunatic men </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">going to stop it? The weather continues bright, cold and
frosty, very healthy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now ten p.m. and we had a raid between nine
and nine-thirty p.m. All quiet again now and pray God
we have a quiet night.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 14, 1944 </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">St. Valentine’s Day</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am just back from town. I went to get Ted’s newspaper
and to draw some money out of the post office bank. I
withdrew three pounds and will withdraw another three
pounds tomorrow. With what I have on hand this will give
me a total of ten pounds to take to town on Wednesday.
Perhaps I shall spend it all, and perhaps I shan’t. What
I don’t spend if any I will redeposit on Thursday. I am
determined to get myself the Wordsworth and the Shakespeare. Money in the bank is only good to be spent these
days I think, we may be dead tomorrow, anyone of us.
Last night we had a most awful raid, lasting from eight
thirty p.m. until ten o’clock. It was awful.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">This morning the B.B.C. laconically reports: </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">We
brought down four bombers last night, out of a more
numerous lot than have been sent over during the last three
or four raids. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Idiotic! We know they </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">were more numerous
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">all right!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">During the raid Ted kept saying. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Well, I’d rather them
come now, early, than after I had gone to bed. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">How convenient for slumber! The milk boy this morning said he
saw one brought down at Havering. It fell in a field, three
men in it killed, but one man escaped by parachute. Poor
boys, poor German boys! They were only doing their
duty, the same as our boys over Germany. I grieve for
all the young men destroyed horribly in this bestial war,
whether friend or foe. Poor lads, they didn’t start the
war, they only have to fight it. Oh lunacy, lunacy! Bestial </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">hellish madness! It does not bear thinking on, that way
madness lies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So I shall buy myself the books I desire, and anything
else I may discover to help my mental defense. Anyhow
these raids make me so ill, I think I might die of sickness
if I have to suffer them continuously. I felt last night as
though I were dying, and this morning I feel as though I
had been kicked around, my ribs are sore from so much
retching, and my thighs ache as though I had climbed a
mountain, from the effort to hold my limbs still from the
destroying trembling. Yes, I think incessant raids could
kill me, without a bomb having to fall on the house.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 16, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My mother’s birthday, had she lived she would have
been eighty-one today.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I am too ill to go to town. I think perhaps I’ve got a
touch of pleurisy, because of constant pain at the top of
my ribs; or it maybe simply soreness from coughing. Ted
is really concerned about me and says, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Get the doctor. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I
don’t want to do that. The doctor would only send me to
bed, and I don’t want to go to bed. The bedroom is cold,
and there is no one here to do anything in the house.
There is no help obtainable any more for anybody. I’m
better off fully dressed and sitting downstairs by the fire.
My breathing is very bad. This was Mother’s complaint,
shortness of breath, bronchitis. I am growing like her in
a lot of ways, and it seems I am even going to copy her
sickness too. What I need is drinks of hot whiskey, but
there isn’t any whiskey. There isn’t anything. No beef for
beef tea, no chickens for chicken broth, no milk, no eggs.
Oh this damned war! If you are sick you can just die.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was shocking news at one o’clock. The B.B.C.
said we were out over Berlin last night, and made the
heaviest air attack ever on any objective in this war yet.
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Over twenty five hundred tons of bombs were dropped
on Berlin, commencing at nine o’clock in the evening.
Of over a thousand of our planes sent out we have lost
forty-five. Also yesterday we bombed the Monastery of
Monte Cassino, in relays of one hundred Lancaster’s and
Fortresses at a time, and the Monastery is completely
destroyed. The Germans had been using it as a fortress
for some time, until finally we decided we must attack it.
The Abbot of Downside spoke a few words about it at the
end of the news. He deplored its loss, but said he had
full confidence in our military leaders judgments, and
so the attack was a case of military necessity. He added
that the loss of the great abbey was another crime to be
charged against the Germans. He also said he deplored
the loss of brave young lives, but he considered the life of
even one man more valuable than any building, no matter
how beautiful, historic, or venerable. Good for him! He
said the war must go on until the curse of Nazism is
purged utterly from the earth. Also we have been given
the figures of our casualties in Italy. Since September
3, until February 12, they amount to over thirty-six
thousand, roughly seven thousand killed, twenty-three
thousand wounded, the rest missing. My God My God!
This weary weight of this entire unintelligible world!
Where is the end of all this lunacy?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 17, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I had a letter from Eddie yesterday, written in
January, in reply to my last letter to him in which I told
him dad wanted me to make a will, and asked him if
there was anything particular he would like left to him.
He writes, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">It amazes me to hear you talk about legacies
(either of you), I hope you and Dad enjoy yourselves and
don’t leave a dime to anyone. I think I’m safe in saying
that all of us over here would prefer you to enjoy whatever </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">you have, all of it. Hell, it’s yours! If you and Dad ever
have any thought of leaving any money, don’t. Spend it
and enjoy it, and the easiest way is an annuity. Turn your
money into an annuity for yourself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well, I’m spending my own money for my own
luxuries, not Teds. I do feel that whilst life is so unsafe
and chancy it is only merely sensible to give ourselves
whatever innocent pleasures we can, before Hitler
possibly destroys us. What a world we live in! What a
hateful world! The war has been going on for four and a
half years now, and the Germans are nothing like licked.
They are a most powerful enemy and I should think it’s
quite likely that they have power and resources enough
to go on for another four and a half years. Of course,
ultimately they will be licked, but until then and after
then, what agonies lie before us! Oh God, save us!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 19, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a bad raid last night between one and two
a.m. The B.B.C. says more raiders than usual got through
to London, but no details are given yet. There was news
yesterday from Russia of the annihilation of the encircled
German divisions in the Dieppe Bend, and the capture
of Nikopol. This was the trapped German Eighth Army.
Stalin announces fifty-two thousand Germans killed
and eleven thousand taken prisoner. It is said that the
Germans were issued with triple doses of rum and told
to try and cut themselves out, and ordered to commit
suicide rather than surrender to the Russians, Hitler’s
orders. Do young German’s still think it glorious to die
for Hitler? I wonder! Oh God! When will men return to
their senses?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In Italy we are only just holding our ground. This
week we have destroyed the Monastery of Monte Cassino.
Questions have been asked in Parliament about the </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">destruction of ancient monuments, and there has been
an awful lot of gabble about it, in fact, this question of
the preservation of historic buildings has been turned
into a burning war issue. People talk about the value of
civilization of the great architectural monuments of the
past, but not those who have sons and brothers, husbands
and lovers, doing the fighting. We are not giving our men
so that they may save the manifestations of civilization,
but so that they may save civilization it self. Civilization
ultimately survives in the minds of men, not in bricks
and mortar, oil and canvas, print and parchment, and
the survival of civilization depends on the civilization of
civilized men. In war civilized men die. We cannot afford
to lose our civilized men for material things. Things
can be replaced. What man has made once he can make
again. Europe is too cluttered anyhow with the tangible
remains of the past. Let us destroy the destroyer. That
is the task, and when he is destroyed we can rebuild
Monte Cassino if we want to. What man has done, man
can do again to satisfy the spiritual and artistic needs of
his soul. Creation, destruction, creation; that has been
the law of life. It may cease to be the law if the creative
force itself, civilized man, perishes. I would not throw
away the life of one man to save one historic building, no
matter how grand or beautiful. I want to bring near the
end of this hellish war, and if the German’s want to fight
in the Vatican, all right, let the Vatican perish along with
the Germans. Why be tender to monuments? It is our
young men we must save, not old marbles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">We received a letter from Artie to his father. In it
he says, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">It was kind of Mother to send me the film, and I
much appreciate the cigarettes. I will get her a P.O. for the
film and send it later. T</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">hat was all, no</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"> word of love. No
direct word to me. I shall never write to him again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a raid early this evening, not too bad.
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 20, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The weather is still uncomfortably cold. Of course I
made the attempt to go out. I am still quite ill, though
slowly improving now I think. I spent the day writing
letters. Sorting out my drawer I find I owe eighteen
letters. What a task before me! Anyhow I will write them
all. I wrote three long ones today, one to Gladys, one to
Harold, and one to Johnnie. Johnnie and Harold’s birthdays are this week; Johnnie will be thirty-four tomorrow,
and Harold thirty-six on the twenty-fifth.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a bad raid this evening, lasting from nine-
twenty p.m. until ten-forty five p.m. The B.B.C. says we
were out over Leipzig last night “in great strength.” We
lost seventy-nine bombers.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">February 21, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">There was another raid during the night, lasting
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">from two-thirty a.m. until three-fifteen a.m.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 22, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is Washington’s Birthday. It is extremely cold.
Some snow fell this morning, but blew away. We had a
raid in the night between three and three-thirty a.m.,
less noisy then the previous nights.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Elizabeth Coppen came this morning and brought
me an egg, straight from the hen. She made me promise
not to make pancakes with it! It seems this is Shrove
Tuesday, Pancake Day, but I hadn’t realized it. I shall
boil it for my tea, and eat it with thankfulness. For Ted
I will boil some leeks. This diet question is an awful
business. Everyone is craving fresh food, and there
isn’t any. I crave fresh fruit, fresh meat, and some real
bread. The National Bread gets worse and worse, and it
is horribly indigestible. However, we survive it.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We are increasing terrifically the weight of our </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">bombing over Germany. Two thousand allied aircraft,
including a very large force of heavy bombers, made a
daylight attack on Sunday; following a night attack of
nearly a thousand R.A.F. bombers the previous night, on
Leipzig. They were out in force again yesterday; and all
this morning I heard droves of planes flying over. Tonight
I expect the Germans will come back at us. Will there be
any world left at all? What is so appalling is how we have
all come to take destruction for granted. Oh God, when
will this awful war end?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 23,1944 Ash Wednesday
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted came back from church with his nice black mark
right in the middle of his forehead. This is preposterous
really. The childishness and the rank materialism of
the Roman Catholic religion have to be lived with and
experienced to be believed. It is a religion for morons.
What has all this got to do with today, with the war?
A silly game of make believe, that is what the Catholic
religion is, and all it is.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another bad raid last night. It was just midnight
when I came downstairs at one-thirty a.m. when the all
clear went. It was a terrible raid. I thought one bomb
was falling in our side alley, but no, it wasn’t. When I
went back to bed I saw from the bathroom window a big
fire blazing across the tracks, Victoria Road or Brent-
wood again, I suppose. At eight a.m. the B.B.C. said we
brought down six bombers during the night.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday Churchill spoke in Parliament reviewing
the war. He says our attacks on Europe will increase
all during spring and summer and we must expect
increasing retaliation. Naturally, but the complacency
with which men, men who don’t have to fight, talk about
war, infuriates me. God, how I hate old men! I think “our
elder statesmen” enjoy themselves over the war. Blast </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">them! Shall we ever know a natural life again? I wonder.
I am miserable. I don’t know what to do with myself.
Existence is almost unbearable. Weather is abominable.
The house is gloomy, I am tired from lack of sleep, and I
had bad cramps last night in my left thigh, to add to my
troubles. Churchill’s speech is most depressing. The war
stretches forward indefinitely. Hell, hell, hell!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I hear that in the neighborhood last night the
Germans started fires at Upminster, Chadwell Heath,
Ochenden, Brentwood, and Gidea Park Railway station.
At one o’clock the B.B.C. reported that we brought down
ten bombers last night. Churchill gave a lot of figures
yesterday. Amongst others he said, that excluding
Dominion and Allied Squadrons working with the Royal
Air Force, the British Islanders have lost thirty-eight
thousand three hundred pilots and aircrews killed
and ten thousand four hundred missing, and over ten
thousand aircraft, that is, since the beginning of the
war, and they have made nearly nine hundred thousand
sorties into the North European theatre. Cheers, the
house gave cheers. Cheers for the dead. What good does
that do them? Any thing more futile and lunatic than
war I can’t imagine. Oh when will this misery end? Why
do I rave? Why rave? It’s silly to let myself come so near
to the edge of madness. I’ve got to control my mind. I’ve
got to and I will.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 24, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I just got back from another quick trip to the library
and feeling better for the outing. There is heavy frost on
everything and all the little puddles are iced, but the
sky is clear and the sun shining; good healthy weather.
I am feeling better, but not yet well. I have a cold still in
my head and in my chest. Anyhow, I feel better, so that’s
good. We had a small sharp raid between eighty-thirty </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">and nine-fifteen this morning; the first day light raid for
a long time. I distinctly saw two of the Gerry’s fly right
over this house.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a bad raid again last night. It began at ten
p.m. and went on until eleven-thirty p.m. This was the
fourth successive night. However, we had not gone to
bed, so were at least comfortable with our clothes on.
When it started I felt I wanted to cry. Really I feel I can’t
stand much more of this war. If it doesn’t stop soon I feel
I will go mad. I made myself read the Wordsworth book,
Herford’s, but really couldn’t take any pleasure in it. Yet
I force myself to read while a raid is on, endurance is a
little easier. I find I don’t pray anymore, or if I do it is
because my resistance is cracking. Prayer now seems to
intensify the sense of danger rather than alleviate it.
Prayer it seems, like other experiences, love, religion,
hunger, even fear, comes to an end. Apropos of love, and
the insatiable appetite of men. Concupiscence and the
insatiable sex hunger of men. Presumably because a bad
raid was finished and we had a sense of being able to
spend the rest of the night in peace, and because the bed
was warm, and because my coughing had ceased, and
because he felt like it, Ted “loved” me before settling
down to his sleep. This was the climax of his Ash
Wednesday. What is this? It isn’t love, it certainly isn’t
passion, and it is not my idea of desire, it is simply the
simple basic nature of a simple man. It is the nature of a
man to be unromantic, unrefined, and unimportant as
a simple bellyache. Yet it is inescapable, fundamental,
the rock bottom base of a man, of all men.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well! Well, is it possible to respect a man, to believe
in this notion? I don’t think so. An old maid might, or
any sex ignorant person, but certainly emphatically not
an old wife.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted this morning, up bright and early, and out to </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">his mass and Holy Communion. Such goings on deflates
religion in me absolutely. For me, “holy communion”
is the intimate union of the man and wife in the bed;
what “communion” can possibly be closer and deeper
than that? Except the union of the child in the womb
with it’s mother. Of course I am physically better for the
nights experience, my body responds to what is naturally
good for it, and I realize that I am fortunate that at our
ages such experiences are still possible whenever they
offer. For they cleanse my mind as well as my body of its
humours, and they keep me the woman, well and in good
health, as well as the man, but they certainly take me
down to earth, out of the heady atmosphere of the brain
and all illusions. Why did Jesus have so many women
friends? I think it was because he didn’t ask sex of them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 25, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another raid last night, from nine-thirty
p.m. until ten p.m. It was not so heavy as before in this
neighborhood, but have heard today it was the other
side of London that got the worst of it, bombers brought
down at Wembley and Ealing. Mrs. Whitbread was here
today. She tells me a one thousand ton bomb fell in the
middle of Hainault Road one night this week; nobody
was killed, but there was much damage to the property.
It is Harold’s thirty-sixth birthday today.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 27, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had no raiders last night. It is two-fifteen p.m.
now, and a most peculiar darkness has fallen over us.
It is not fog, nor yet darkness like night, but a green-
yellowy blight, obscuring everything. It began soon after
one o’clock, whilst we were at dinner, and has gotten
worse and worse. If I turn out the electric light the room
is as black as a coal hole. Ted has just gone out “to walk </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">around the block” for curiosity. Not a sound to be heard.
It is most weird. It makes us think of that day in May
when France fell, and a similar peculiar darkness fell
over England. It makes me wonder: What is happening
right now? Has the invasion begun? Has France broken
into open revolution? Has Hitler been assassinated? One
can’t help feeling that this worst peculiar, most unnatural, most frightening atmosphere and darkness are an
omen from Heaven of some great world gloom and doom.
What is it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February 28, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No raiders over last night.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">On Saturday Ted received a letter from Artie, with an
enclosure for me. This is it:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">23, February 1944. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dear Mother, It was very kind of
you to purchase a film for me at Forster’s and send it on.
I had it on order and they are so hard to get. The Chester-
fields too were more than welcome and I was pleased to
have them. I am sending you the money with this to cover
the film. I hope you are feeling better and not disturbed by
the raids. Love and prayers, Fred.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">That’s all.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted wrote him last night, so I enclosed an equally
short note. I told him it was not the raids which had
made me ill, but a serious chill and that I had been
very ill and was now getting better and I hoped he also
was progressing. I sent my compliments to Mr. and Mrs.
Kane, and also to Hilda and with love to him remained
his affectionate mother.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">That was all I wrote. I feel I have nothing to say to
Artie any more. He has repudiated me. Things must stay
that way. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">February 29, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is leap year, which I had forgotten. We had another
quiet night. I had a good deep undisturbed sleep and
feel much better for it. Ted the same.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have had a letter from Joan, written Sunday. She
writes:
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Three times last week I tried to phone you but the queue
of people waiting to use the phone was so long that I gave
up as a bad job each time. We have had it very badly in
Hinsmith, and all around us too, we have had oil bombs
dropped here in each of the raids last week. On Wednesday
night when I got back from the shelter I found this house
had been blasted again, the front door was blown in and
the window in this sitting room was blown complete with
the frame out of the wall, and yet not a bit of glass broken.
In Mother’s bedroom some of the ceiling was down and the
whole house was covered with fine black and white dust.
On Thursday men came and put the window back and saw
to the front door, I cleared the mess up and once more I
am clean and tidy.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">One night the fires were so bad I was afraid to go to
bed for hours after the all clear had sounded; the smoke
of the fires came into the house. A number of houses on
this road have lost their windows again and the same in
King’s Street. I will not tell you where all the bombs fell
in Hammersmith, but whole roads of houses have gone
this time, and the reason why we have had it so badly is
because General Montgomery has his Headquarters in St.
Paul’s Boy’s School in Kensington; all around there is in a
mess: as a matter of fact West London has had a packet
full. I go over to the shelter as soon as the warning goes
and hope for the best. I am very jittery, but thank goodness
the desire to run away is no longer with me, so I suppose
my nerves are standing up to the strain. Don’t you drag all
this way over here to see me, especially just now when the</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">line is up between here and Liverpool Street. It took Eric
an hour to get from Paddington to Hinsmith yesterday.
He took me out for a drink at lunchtime today. He is being
moved to Wales next week. Except for the raids, life with
me goes on very much as usual, and except for my back,
which troubles me a bit, I am very well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Except for the raids. Yes, except for the raids!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had a raid this evening between nine-twenty p.m.
and ten-fifteen p.m. Guns sounded further off than of
late, and we did not hear anything, which seemed to be
falling in this neighborhood. Oh, what a weariness! </span></span><br />
</div>
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Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-25641519288108173362014-11-01T12:37:00.001-04:002015-05-31T16:36:06.869-04:00Letter to Bill Berry 4-26-43 (Friend of Ruby Thompson living in the USA)<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> 78 Western Road</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Romford, Essex</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Easter Monday, April 26, 1943</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My dear Bill,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I have been writing to all the boys these last few days and now I feel I shouldn't stop before writing to you also, who seem to have become a sort of adopted child of the Thompson clan. I can't leave you out when I think of my American family. So here's a spiel from Grandma.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">First of all I think I must say thank-you for a parcel from Macy's which came to hand in March. It contained two jars of turkey and 3 bars of chocolate. There was no clue at all as to who was the sender, but I think it must be either from you or from Johnnie. Anyhow, my most warm thanks to the sender, whoever he was. We are going to eat the second jar of turkey for dinner today, accompanied by a small bottle of Invalid Port which my brother in law, old Herbert, sent for my special consolation, because he thought I was so dreadfully knocked over by the bad news we received about Artie last week. This was so sweet of him, though booze isn't my idea of consolation. Still it was awfully nice of him to give it to me, and his brother Ted will sure appreciate it! Oh, I am afraid this sounds horrid. It was a nice thought and a nice gift of Herbert's and I shall drink Artie's health in it presently, and the health of all my boys and all whom I love. Artie, now a lieutenant in the Reconnaissance Corps, was sent to North Africa last March. We had a couple of letters from him, according to which he was thoroughly enjoying himself, swimming in warm ocean water, doing p.t. on the sands, and glutting himself with oranges after a three years absence from them. He was happy and well. Then last week we got a telegram from the War Office, stating that he had been wounded in action on 10th of April, and a letter would follow shortly. No letter has come so far, but neither has any other communication, so we take comfort from this, concluding he can't be worse, and must be recovering somewhere. There was an awful battle around the 16th of three boys in this neighborhood whom we know were there, 2 have been reported killed, and one as having lost an eye. So it goes, damnation all around and Hitler not licked yet. My prayer is that Artie's eyes are alright. It seems to me it would be easier for a man to live minus a limb than minus his eyes. We have no idea where Artie is wounded. We only know it must be serious or we shouldn't have been notified. Also, he can't be worse, because if so, we should have been notified of that also. I'm very sorry for his wife. Young love grieves so terribly. When you are young you think every disaster is the end of the world; you don't know what you can get over. She is a nice young girl. I like her very much. She is a Scotch girl whom he met when he went to Scotland for his O.C.T.U. She is a W.A.A.F. at an action station in Scotland. Poor thing, she has no private place to hide her grief, which may be as well. I know what it is to make yourself ill with weeping and it doesn't do the slightest bit of good. After all the tears everything is exactly as it was before, so why weep? There you are, women do. Yes, Bill, we are awful fools.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fancy you dreaming of joining the navy!The navy ties with the R.A.F. for first place in public affection over here. We have so many hero's in this war and we need them all, God knows. It is strange I hear nothing of my U.S.A. boys having to go into a uniform. Is it because they have all got children? What about Dick? Is he still civilian also? The only boy I have heard of is the one you have told me about, The Harp, and whose house you are renting. By the way, is The Harp, an American yet, or is he still an Irishman? No family? </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Thanks for telling me about Chili's Lynne and Charlie. I hear my sister also considers them the best brought up kids in the family. Well, both Marjorie and Chili are fine people, they should produce nice children. I wish I could see them though, all of them. I hear there are two more grandchildren to come to town this month. Have you heard of any arrivals yet? Tell me, Bill, what have you heard about poor Harold's children? I had a letter from Harold a few days ago in which he said he might ultimately have to put his two youngest into a Catholic orphanage. This idea puts me into a frenzy.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Harold wrote that on March 16 so he must have made some arrangements for his family long before this. Poor Harold! Poor Kay! Poor children! I feel so keenly that I ought to still be in Tenafly, so that I could take the children, all four of them, until poor Kay can be straightened out again. Bill, whatever went wrong there? Do you know? I hadn't heard from Kay since Susan was born, but of course I thought she was just too busy to write. We had a short non-newsy letter from Harold a little later, but no Christmas letter. Harold is not a good correspondent at the best of times, so I did not think much of that. Now last week comes this awful shocking letter, telling us Harold has had to have Kay put away for awhile. This is too awful for words and has shocked me even more than the news about Artie. After all, one's mind is prepared for bad news from the front, but never for this sort of news. My poor children! I feel so utterly useless, that makes it even harder to take. How is Harold? Do you know? You know Bill, Harold can get just as moody as Eddie, only he isn't so noisy about it. Johnny is the most steady based boy of the family; then perhaps Jimmy; then Charlie. That's the way they used to be. Maybe they have changed now like everything else. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is very interesting to hear your nephew is so like your father. Your mother wrote me the same thing. I have often noticed more resemblances between grandchildren and grandparents than between parents and children. It is as though likeness skips a generation, sometimes two, for when Sheila was over here, only 2 years old, she was far more like my mother (her great-grandmother) than she was like anyone else in the family and showed many of my mother's characteristics markedly. I always thought Eddie showed very much of my father in him. Can you see me, as you know me, in any of my grandchildren? Sometimes I think I see my face in some of their snapshots, but maybe that's only my fond imagination. The persistence of family likeness is a certain thing, and I think it must feel awfully queer to see oneself being reproduced visibly in ones descendants. It works the other way, too. As I have grown older there have been occasions when I have sort of startled myself by recognizing an ancestor peeping out of my mundane ordinariness and asserting themselves most definitely almost violently. "Good gracious!" I think "that's Dad!" or "that's Aunt Marla!" or somebody of other, and usually the most far from perfect ones. Queer, but interesting. Interesting is what we crave, isn't it? Or it is what I do. You know, Bill, how bored I can get. I can still get bored. My God, do I get bored! Ted thinks it is some sort of failing on my part. Very likely. Unhappily I have got a lot of failings I can't do a darn thing about, except suffer 'em. Why is it, I wonder, that the virtuous invariably think the non-virtuous revel in their vices? I'm sure we suffer as much from our failings as everyone else does.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
Do I ever want to be bored? Yet sometimes boredom will just swamp me like the sea, and I drown into anguish. I recover. Oh, yes, I recover. I'm like my mother, so tough nothing ever really drowns me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
Thanks for the little snapshot of the Wyoming Chapel. I'll tell you about what I have done with that. I have had it enlarged and formalized into a design suitable for embroidery. Last year I took up embroidery again, and I find it a fine anodyne in trouble, and a good pastime in loneliness.I am not doing useful things;I am splurging out into pictures. I cannot find any commercial designs that were of the slightest interest to me, so I commissioned an artist to make me some designs, all landscapes. I am doing one now which I call my Van Gogh. It is a road going up a hill, with a group of houses on one side, and a church and churchyard and ploughed field, on the other, and tall poplars blowing in the wind. It's really very French Impressionistic. That's the way I work, I'm not earthly good at anything exact, neat, and dainty. The result is really very effective "even though I do say so myself." Even Ted approves and likes it. We found a funny title for this picture last night. I hung it over the sofa-back as to get a good look at it. Near the church, which is yellow with a rust roof, are three grey figures. "What are those?" says Ted: "the three first families?" Yes, and so the Three First Families it is. I thought your snapshot would make an excellent picture. I've had it drawn out about 22 x 32 inches and I shall begin on it very soon. Maybe someday your Jean might like it, for an over-mantle, if it turns out any good. Yes, foolish work, most of it a waste of time. Yet I am sure it helps to keep me sane. When I can't read and often nowadays I can't read, I can keep myself from getting broody by this useless, senseless distraction. If this comes to fail me, then heaven help me! Now Au-revoir, dear Bill. Please convey my greetings and compliments to Jean, my love to yourself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
Yours affectionately,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ruby Thompson</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-74617791932808543282014-10-25T14:39:00.000-04:002015-05-31T16:50:12.624-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 1-2-44 to 1-31-44 No word from Artie. Last week we forwarded him, by telegram and mail, a notification, which came for him from Roehampton, directing him to present himself at the hospital there, at two p.m. January 4, to receive his artificial leg. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Buy Diary's:</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 2, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No, It can’t be done. I can’t conform. I can’t live as a
practicing Catholic, which has become absolutely impossible for me. If I was in a strange town I might attend
mass, or in the city I could go and pray in Westminster Cathedral, but to go and sit through mass in our
Romford Church, no, I simply cannot do it. I can’t be
one of Father Bishop’s parishioners, no, I cannot. Go to
confession again? I never shall. As a Catholic I’m finished
absolutely finished. I’m through, really through.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If I can’t go to mass, at least I can refrain from
definitely linking myself with the Church of England, or
can I? I don’t know. All I know, the pull back is terrific.
Sixty years ago, in January 1884, I was still in my
mother’s womb, and I must have quickened by January.
What I should like to do, is to put myself openly back
in the Church of England this coming April, soon after
my birthday- about the time of my christening. I should
like to be duly born again into my true religious life, and
begin it again this year, a new year one. That is what I
should like to do, and so I would do if I had only myself
to consider. But there is Ted. What am I going to do about
him? Oh, this marriage business, what a nuisance it is!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 4, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No word from Artie. Last week we forwarded him, by
telegram and mail, a notification, which came for him </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">from Roehampton, directing him to present himself at
the hospital there, at two p.m. January 4, to receive his
artificial leg. So he must have come down from Glasgow
in time for that. Also, he has an examination before a
medical board set for January Fourteenth. I thought
perhaps he might have been traveling yesterday, and
would have come in late last night. He did not come,
nor is there any word from him this morning. Perhaps
he traveled last night, and will go straight through to
Roehampton this morning, I don’t know, but even so, he
could and he should have notified us what he was doing,
unless he has cut loose from us altogether. Maybe he’s
done that. Maybe Hilda hates us so much not only is she
not going to come here anymore, she is not going to let
him come either. Quite likely, for she comes from the
class of people who behave like that. She definitely has
no class. What a fool it makes Artie! Well perhaps he
is a fool, really, certainly there is something lacking in
Artie’s mentality that he could ever have chosen such a
girl for a wife. Certainly the adage is proved in Artie’s
case, “A son is a son until he takes a wife.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am not going to think about him, or rather, I am not
going to worry about him. He deliberately and underhandedly and slyly left home. He went of his own accord,
he must return of his own accord. I shall never ask him to
come back. It is I who shall lie on his conscience, not he
on mine. Anyhow I am not going to worry about anything.
I intend to kill my grief, not be killed by them. I intend
to keep myself alive in health and strength as along as
possible, and to do that I intend not only to take care of
my body but also to take care of my mind. I intend not
only to endure what can’t be cured, but also to forget it.
So, if Artie has repudiated me, all right, that’s his affair,
I can live without Artie.
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 10, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is the twin’s birthday. They are twenty-five today.
Cuthie is still a prisoner in Germany, Artie, I don’t know
where. Artie should have reported to Roehampton last
Tuesday the Fourth, but whether he did I don’t know. No
letters from him, or word of any kind.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 11, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A letter has come from Artie. It was addressed to his
father, and came from Scotland, written on the Ninth.
He said, “You will be glad to know I now have two legs
again.” He added the information that he was remaining
in Glasgow, would attend the limb-fitting center there,
and had arranged to have his medical board exam there.
He said he was well and happy and Hilda sent her love.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">That was all. My name wasn’t mentioned. He neither
inquired for me, nor sent me his love. As the letter stands
I might be long dead and quite forgotten. So this is what
a disliking daughter-in-law can do to you. Goodbye Artie.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 14, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is St. Hilary’s Day and Charlie’s birthday. He is
thirty today. The day he was born was so cold that the gas
was frozen in the meter, and we had no light but candle-light. In the big front four windowed bedroom in Avenue
A the hot-air furnace made hardly any impression at all,
so in addition we had two oil stoves burning. In passing
some cotton wool across the bed to the doctor, a candle
was knocked over, setting light to the wool and the bed,
so that Charlie was born in a small conflagration. Thirty
years ago! Now Charlie is the owner of a country house
with four acres of ground and a barn, himself, and the
father of a family.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is cold and frosty here today, but not too bad. The
weather in Italy is reported to be very bad, and has been </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">so for weeks, holding up the fighting. By the way, Ciano
and DeBono were “tried” by the Germans in Verona last
week, and executed there this Monday. Two of the double
crosser’s crossed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This infernal war goes on and on. On Tuesday we were
told that the American’s had made a big daylight raid over
Germany, but no facts were given, which was ominous,
and portended a failure of some sort. This morning
“corrected” figures were given out. We lost sixty bombers
out of a company of seven hundred sent out, and five
fighters; for a loss of one hundred and fifty-two fighters
to the Germans, and some other “probable’s” brought
down by the lost sixty, but not reported. Report says we
hit our targets successfully and destroyed three large
aircraft plants and other objectives. The attacks were
on the Focke-Wulf factory at Oschersleben, the Junkers
plant at Halberstatdt, and the Messerschmidt factory at
Brunswick. General Arnold, Chief of the U.S.A.A.F. has
stated that the huge air battle over Germany inflicted
one of the hardest blows yet struck against the German
Air Force, at a cost of approximately five percent of the
American aircraft making the attack. I can’t see how
sixty out of seven-hundred is only five percent, but there
you are, reporting. Probably all the escorting fighters are
counted in, and we are not told how many of these were
sent out. War, damnable war. It is intolerable, and yet
the fool world of men goes on with it.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had an alert here last night, the first one in eight
nights, luckily it came about eight in the evening and the
all clear came before nine. Somehow it is more endurable
then when it is in the dead of night, though it upsets my
stomach just the same. Oh, when, when will it cease!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When Ted came in at lunch time he said he had met
Mrs. Dennis on the street, and, without him asking any
questions, he had received the information that Hilda </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">had written to Mrs. Dennis this week and asked her
to forward Hilda’s ration book (which she was holding
with ours) to Glasgow. No comments, and why should
there be any? It is natural enough for the neighbors and
storekeepers to assume that the young people have gone
to stay with the other parents for a while, as they have
done, of course. My feeling is that I hope to never have
to see Hilda again, never so long as I live, and as for
Artie maybe I don’t want to see him either, certainly I
don’t want to see him for some long time to come, or if
ever, I don’t know. Artie dealt me a little death, such a
grievous blow as he without any cause whatever takes
a lot of getting over, and maybe I’ll never get over it.
What I want to do is not to think of him, not to think of
either of them. I said something of this to Ted at lunch-time. He said, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Funny, isn’t it? It is you who are the relent-
less parent, not me, as it ought to be according to the
melodramas. I don’t mind, Lady. I agree they’ve behaved
very badly but don’t let them know that you are hurt.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Don’t worry, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I said, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">I’ve not the slightest intention of
communicating with them.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No, why should you? Don’t let the information get
round to them in anyway that they have hurt you. Don’t
give the little cat that satisfaction, or any satisfaction, no
matter how indirect.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">That’s Ted, championing me for once. Usually Ted’s
charity goes to the outside party, but he too has been
hurt by Hilda’s bad behavior and Artie's ingratitude, he
has been wounded in his fatherhood as I have been in
my motherhood, together we are disappointed in a son.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have been thinking about people’s characters
recently and now again today; and it is my conclusion,
after about forty years of observation, that Catholicism
does not produce fine characters. Catholicism does
seem to train people in deceit and insincerity even in </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">downright lying. Catholics are untrustworthy. I’ve seen
this over and over again. They’re liars, very often. I was
thinking about Mrs. Harvey last night, remembering
her goodness and her loveliness, it struck me that I have
never met a Catholic person whose goodness razed out
all around them, as her’s did,for instance. I’ve never met
a Catholic person whose innate goodness was unmistakable, goodness palpable and unhidden. I’ve met many
Protestant people who made you feel their goodness at
once. I don’t mean that they were pious, or talked of God,
but they were so indelibly good, through and through,
that you knew it at once, and loved and revered them for
it. Like Mrs. Harvey, Oh, how good she was! How kind
and clever and jolly and how I loved her!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Now I’ve met Catholics by the score who talked
religion, like Mrs. Jude, but they’ve always seemed to
me all façade with no premises behind them. Their
words carry no conviction; they are merely talkers, piety-
mongers; when it comes to good actions, they don’t act.
I don’t call going to mass, reciting rosaries, collecting
relics, going on pilgrimages, etc. goodness. Such people
never do anything for others; they are much too busy
saving their souls ever to do an act of practical kindness
for anyone. Yes, I’ve known such pious Catholics by the
score. Their religion is nothing but a colossal selfishness, a greedy self seeking coaxing bargains out of the
saints, and so on. The Catholics who do show character
and goodness are the converts, like Ted, and Blanche
Sivell, who, being born and brought up as Protestants,
have indestructible Protestant characters in their
deepest being, which they cannot eradicate, no matter
what overlays of Catholicism they put on.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As for nuns, of whom I’ve known plenty, they are hard
women. They have a peculiar nun mentality hard to
cope with. Technically living lives of perfection, vowed </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">to observe special codes of goodness, there is a certain
ruthlessness about nuns that is downright chilling. No,
it is anything but palpable goodness which streams out
of nuns. It is the same with priests. They are good men,
vowed to goodness but you don’t feel it when you come
in contact with them. They are correct, yes; austere,
yes, fulfilling their vocations, yes, but they are not
human. There have been a few priests in my life that
I have admired and have trusted, but never in any one
of them have I felt such human warmth and sympathy
and downright goodness as, for instance, people could
sense at once in Grandpa Searle. Why? I think it is the
Catholic religion, a safety first religion. It is the Catholic
who wants to know he is saved, not the Evangelical, not
the Protestant. A man like Grandpa Searle, a woman like
Mrs. Harvey, simply never bothered about herself; it was
you they wanted to help and save, you, they cared about.
Catholics don’t love like Protestants love, not in carelessness and unforgotten, simply loving, no, they can’t, their
precious souls are always in the way and moreover, if you
happen to be a Protestant, well you might as well not be
on the earth for all a Catholic will do for you; and that
is why they deceive you and trick you, I suppose, for you
are merely one of the heathen, so why should they worry
about you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Oh why did Ted ever join the Catholic Church?
Anyhow he wasn’t born a Catholic, thank God!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 17, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was a bad railway accident at Ilford last
night. The express from Norwich ran into the back of
the Yarmouth train, which was stationary. Nine people
were killed, and over thirty seriously injured, nearly all
of them service people, squadron leaders and men from
Bomber Command and many of them Americans too.
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The accident was due to the fog, of course, which was
the very worst one of the winter. We have had too much
fog this year, no snow or deep cold, but constant fogs.
How exasperating to the fliers it must be to suffer death
and mutilation in a railway smash, instead of in the air,
doing their jobs. There it is, no man knows where his
death awaits him. Poor fellows, may their souls rest in
peace!
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 18, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We received another letter from Artie in Glasgow, to
his father, in which my name is not mentioned in any
way at all. We also received a letter from Eddie, a good
letter.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 19, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Here came a knock on the door and I opened it to an
American Air force man. He introduced himself. He said
he was from “Home,” Knickerbocker Road, Tenafly and
Johnnie had given him our address. His name, he said,
was Stevie Clarke. For a moment this meant nothing to
me, then light dawned, it was Dr. Clarke’s boy, of course,
young Stevie, whose birth I remember as waiting for. He
is now twenty-one. Here he is, one of the American boys
in England. My clearest memories of him are of his being
a bouncing two year old in a perambulator in the charge
of his grandmother, Mrs. Lemon, and of her sitting
on the beach with me under our maple tree whilst we
chatted, and he amused himself in the baby carriage.
After his sister Lydia was born I did not see much more
of Stevie, though I was always hearing about him from
our boys, especially our Johnnie, who was very fond of
the Clarke’s and spent much time over in their house.
When I was in Tenafly in 1933 their house had been
pulled down, and the family had moved up to Cornwall,</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Connecticut. Johnnie paid them a visit whilst I was there
and the twins visited them when they were over here in
1938. Lydia is in college, and Stevie was in his third
year of college when the war called him. Doctor Clarke
died last year. Billie is running the farm at Cornwell.
Billie married a girl from Poughkeepsie, N.Y. and lives
in the farmhouse proper. Mrs. Clarke lives in the big
house with the lady doctor, Dr. Ebbarts, as companion
and housemate. Mrs. Clarke has taken up painting as a
hobby. She began with pastels, but now works in oils. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">She
paints the darnedest things, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">says Stevie. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Not a landscape
like any other painter. Oh no! Just a lop-sided tree that
she’ll pick out to paint, or if she wants to paint a room, she
doesn’t do the whole room, only just a corner of it! </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">Sounds
like Cezanne or VanGogh to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Mrs. Clarke must be about my age, so must have
taken up this painting rather late in life. What a lovely
story to hear. I think it is thrilling to hear of things
like this. Always to be able to find an interest in life,
the Clarke’s certainly had the technique. Telling of his
father, Stevie said Doctor Clarke had a bad heart, but
the family didn’t know it, only Dr. Ebbart’s who lived
with them, knew it. It was a stroke that killed him. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">He
died happy, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">said Stevie. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">He was sitting taking a drink,
and had the glass in his hand, and he was laughing at
a joke, in fact, he was laughing so much it was actually
his laughter that killed him. Dr. Ebbart’s knew about his
heart, of course. Anyhow he died happy, and I’m darn
glad about that.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">He was seventy-four; an old man, really though I
cannot think of him as old, he was always so vigorous. Of
course he was a man about fifty when we first knew him,
that year we went to Tenafly. He had recently married
his second wife, and she was waiting for her first baby,
this same Stevie. Billie, born in 1911, was the child of </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">his first wife. Our Johnnie, born in 1910, became Billie’s
inseparable pal and they’re still pals. Now here’s young
Stevie in England. Oh, I am so pleased to see him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 21, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Stevie Clarke stayed overnight, and left us about
ten-thirty yesterday morning. He had made a special trip
from Nottingham, on a forty-eight hour leave, especially
to see us. We had a very happy time together.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night the R.A.F. made another very heavy raid
on Berlin, thirty-five bombers were lost. I ought to be in
the middle of my children and grand children, instead of
which, I am thousands of miles away from them, living
alone with Ted in a poky English Street and that is not
enough for me. Ted alone can’t satisfy me, pacify me. I
want life and more life, young life, the world of tomorrow
swirling around me, not Ted’s world of yesterday and all
the pieties of yesterday.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 22, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am cooking the dinner. It is a blowy stormy day
outside. Last night we had a very bad raid. It was like one
of the old blitzes of 1940 and 1941. It lasted two hours,
from eight-thirty to ten-thirty p.m. and planes going over
all the time, and very heavy gunfire. Sometimes Gerry
seemed right on top of us. I do not know what damage has
been done in Romford, though several times we heard
the bombs fall. Our radio is out of order, and was taken
away by Stanley’s for repairs yesterday, so we shall be
without the immediate news for a week or so. The milk
boy said this morning that the Brewery, on High Street
was hit, and was still burning. Ted may bring in more
news when he comes to lunch. The papers won’t have
much news because it would have been too late for them.
I expect London got it badly. Anyhow this was expected </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">before, seeing how heavily we are bombing Berlin and
boasting about doing so. God! How I hate the boasting!
The war in itself is horrible enough and I know it must
go on but the bragging about it is sickening.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We had another alarm about four-thirty this morning,
and a lot more bombing and gunfire, going on until
quarter to six this morning, though it was not quite so
bad as the evening one. It was much heavier than any
night raid we have had for a long time, and bad enough
to bring Ted downstairs. I always come downstairs when
the alert is given during the night, because I am too
nervous to stay upstairs but Ted hates to leave his bed, so
remains in it, and takes a chance on the house being hit.
Anyhow, he came down last night, everything seemed
very close, sometimes directly overhead, and was very
frightening. When is the world going to recover from this
hellish craziness?
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now two p.m. and the B.B.C. says ninety German
bombers were over here last night, and we brought down
nine of them. That is ten percent. Here in Romford,
houses on Albert Road and Shaftsbury Road were hit,
one man killed. This was Fulcher, the oil man, known
to everybody in town until a couple of years ago, when
he could no longer get supplies, he used to come around
with a van, peddling soaps, oil, brushes, etc. Bombs also
fell in South Hornchurch and in Rainham, but no other
casualties reported. There is a rumor that in London,
Westminster Hall was hit again, but there is no authentic
news about this yet.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 23, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A report that yesterday allied troops made another
landing in Italy, at a place named Netinho, thirty-two
miles south of Rome. The enemy was taken by surprise, </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">and the report says it was two hours before he fired a
shot at our troops.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 24, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday was one of my bad days, a very bad day. As
it was stormy in the morning I made no attempt to go
out, nor did I go out in the afternoon. By evening I was
swamped in melancholy, and aching, aching, for my boys.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I thought of Artie. Artie who went away behind my
back, who never said farewell, who never writes to me,
or even mentions me in the letters. He has written to his
father. Artie, who has disowned me.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yes it was a miserable Sunday, and as the radio has
been taken away I could not even find any music to
solace myself with. I couldn’t read, I couldn’t sew, and
I couldn’t do anything. Yesterday was a terrible day of
boredom and aloneness.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is now evening and Ted brought in news of the
damage done in this neighborhood on Friday night. On
Victoria Road a public house was hit, and all around it
many incendiaries through the houses, it is reckoned
about fifteen hundred in just that small section. No
bad fires resulted as all were taken out in time, but
house roofs have been holed like pepper pots, and in
the gardens Ted saw many pieces of furniture standing
about, sofas, chairs, cots, those pieces which had caught
the sticks.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At Rainham two hundred houses have been destroyed,
but casualties not stated. At Warley, landmines were
dropped. At the Brewery, great destruction in the bottling
section, but the shelter, thought only a wall away, was
not touched. This is a large public shelter, and is used as
a sleeping place by many of the American Soldiers when
they are on leave in this town. Had that received the
bomb, the casualties would have been high. Only thirty </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">of the bombers got through to London, and most of the
damage done there was in Chelsea. We say now that we
brought down twelve bombers, fourteen percent of their
ninety.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<div class="column">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 25, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am feeling rather ill today. My stomach has been
upset ever since the night of the raid, and now I have
diarrhea and also am feeling very nauseated. Probably
something has disagreed with me, most likely the bread,
which gets more and more peculiar. What a treat it will
be to have a piece of real wheaten bread, spread with
some real butter. I’m terribly tired, unnaturally tired. I
hope I am not coming down with the influenza. Outside
the day is cold and blowy, very blowy, lots of low clouds,
and no sun shining, in fact, a very disagreeable day.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;">January 26, 1944</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The Air Ministry and Ministry of Home Security
stated last night that it is now known that a fourteenth
enemy aircraft was destroyed during raids on this
country last Friday night.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 29, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">An alert sounded last night just as we were going up
to bed, about ten-thirty p.m. Ted went up, I stayed down,
until the all clear came, about an hour later. Gunfire in
the distance only, not in the immediate neighborhood,
very alarming just the same, as you know it may come
closer at any moment. After I got to bed Ted was very
loving. I regarded this as a nuisance. I felt too tired to be
bothered, but he was set to love, so he loved. I thought;
this! This! I thought, what is the use of bothering about
philosophy or religion or politics or anything, when this
is the only thing that matters to man! Oh, I’m tired, tired </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">of love and marriage, tired of thinking, tired of working,
tired of England, tired of winter, tired of the war... Now
I’m cooking the dinner, and I’m tired of housekeeping.
I’m tired of everything and everybody.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 30, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night we had a most awful raid, it began about
eight-thirty, and went on for two hours. It was worse
than the one a week ago. It was sickening. I found myself
praying like mad, the Catholic prayers, calling on the
Virgin, begging for protection. When it was all over and
we were still safe, I offered prayers of thankfulness, and
I said, I will go to mass tomorrow. So, I have been but
I really don’t know what good it has been, either to the
church or me. I thought last night the Catholic prayers
had a sort of authenticity, but in the church this morning
I couldn’t feel it. The Church was crowded, as usual, of
course, but the crowd oppressed me. It was so predominantly Irish, so foreign, it alienated me and I do not
belong with these people. The only thing that pleased
me was the collect for the day, the fourth Sunday after
the Epiphany. I know that it is fear, and nothing but fear,
which drives me to any intense realization of God. When
I am afraid I call upon my God. It is atavism. I despise
it, but I act it, suffer it all the same. I cannot help myself.
In these awful raids, when we are in danger of destruction, when an awful death may strike us any moment,
when we can do nothing what ever to help ourselves, or
help anybody, when we are sick with terror, when all
superficiality vanish, then our souls, our primitive
souls, cry out from their depths, oh God, save us! God be
merciful to me, a sinner! Our father who art in heaven,
save us, save us! Jesus, save us! Mary save us! Oh God
be merciful to me, a sinner! Deliver us from evil, deliver </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;">us from evil! He does save us, and we say Thank God!
Thank God! Thank God!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">January 31, 1944</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It was a quiet night. No raids. Today is very overcast.
The sort of weather which is very favorable to Gerry’s hit
and run raids. If it does not clear I expect we shall have
another heavy raid again tonight. I do not know what
damage was done on Saturday night because our radio is
still away being repaired. Presently I shall go and fetch
the newspaper, and that may tell something, though, of
course, the papers never give details.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The Times reports: </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;">Over two hundred German fighters
were destroyed by American bombers and fighters in their
attacks on Germany on Saturday and yesterday. One
hundred and two were claimed after Saturday’s attack
on Frankfurt, in which fifteen hundred aircraft collaborated, and the following report of yesterday’s operations
adds ninety-one more. The R.A.F. destroyed sixteen in
the offensive over France. The allied losses were ninety-six
bombers, twenty-five fighters, and three intruder aircraft.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My God! </span></span><br />
</div>
</div>
</div>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-1281440746771545122014-10-17T07:21:00.001-04:002015-06-04T19:36:32.765-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 12-1-43 to 12-30-43 Last night we had a fairly heavy raid in this section, between eight and nine in the evening.<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Purchase Diary's:</span></a></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">December 1, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is the first
anniversary of Artie’s wedding. I was in hope the pair of them would go out
somewhere to celebrate, but no, here they stuck. I wished them to blazes. Hilda
gets on my nerves more rather than less as time progresses. Last night Ted said
there was a rumor that a certain flat on the Brentwood Road was likely soon to
become vacant, and perhaps Artie would like it, if it fell into the market.
Artie said, yes, but he couldn’t plan anything until after his next medical board,
in January. He might not be discharged from the Army; therefore he wouldn’t
furnish now. Quite right. It might pay him to pay the rent just the same, to
hold it, in case he was going to be free to live a civil life very shortly.
After all, it would only be a few weeks, and anyhow the flat isn’t even vacant
yet, and may not become so, this is only a rumor of possible vacancy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I,
too, am impatiently waiting for January and the decision of the Army Medical
Board. Some decision will be made then about Artie’s future, and what ever it
is I hope it will take him away from this house. If he is to remain in the army
he will have to go to some military depot, if it is civil life he will have to
find a job. In either case he could leave these premises, and I certainly
wouldn’t keep Hilda here without him. If he remains in the Army most likely she
would go back into the W.A.A.F’s; and if it is civil life, he will have to rent
a place for himself somewhere or other. If he was alone he could stay here
indefinitely, but married, and to this dull boring girl, he can’t remain
indefinitely, for I simply can’t tolerate this girl. She suits him all right.
She doesn’t suit me, and she never will. I can’t stand her about the place.
Heighho!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">December 8, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last night I had another
of those instructing, illuminating, warning and guiding dreams. I hope I never
forget it. The facts, which induced it, I think, are there. These last few days
I have been working again on my, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This Heroine,</i></b> story. I have written
a whole chapter on Angel Road, and of course this means I have had my mother
continually at the bottom of my mind. Then here in this house there has been
discomfort because of Hilda, who will not be genial or pleasant. I also spent
yesterday writing to Eddie, which makes me terribly homesick for America and I
wrote him of my dream and intention of returning to the States once the war is
over, and staying there, Dad or no Dad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well
in my dream I was in America, staying as a guest with Ruth Eason. I was in her
house, yet it had our porte-cochere, and was filled with our furniture. None of
my sons came into the dream even for a minute. Two elderly ladies came to visit
Ruth, and somehow I was made to know that not only was I an unwanted guest, but
I was a positive nuisance. Ruth refrained from introducing me to her guests,
with whom she was effusively welcoming, and I found myself relegated to a sort
of charwoman who was expected to tidy the dining room and then wash up the
dishes. I found myself out on the porch, shaking the tablecloth, and suffering
poignantly. “I am not wanted,” went my thoughts. "I am in the way. What
can I do? I’ve spent all my money, and I can’t get anymore, so I can’t go away.
I should have saved some money, enough for passage money, but I didn’t, so now
I must stay here, and she doesn’t want me. Oh what a fool I’ve been! I want to
go home, back to Ted, and I can’t go home. Misery, misery.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well,
that was the dream, very clear and plain, warning me not to be a fool. My
mother would never go and live with any of her children, and she was right. She
remained her own mistress on her own premises all her life, and so will I do
the same. I’ll never go to America to live with a son. I’ll visit my sons, but
never will I be persuaded to make a home with any one of them. Always before
when I’ve gone back to America, my own house was there. In nineteen
thirty-three we still owned Five Twenty-Three Knickerbocker Road, and I resumed
residence as its chatelaine. That house has been sold, and there is no home of my
own in America. If I go there I must visit in my sons homes. Well, visits of
which the terminations can be seen are all right, but visits of indeterminate
time are the very devil. So, I will not go back to America to live unless my
funds will be sufficient to establish me in a house or apartment of my own.
Look at the disagreeableness here with Hilda. She is an unmannerly girl who
cannot accommodate herself to being a visitor in this house. She is not amiable
and is rude, chafing, no doubt, to get away into a home of her own. Suppose
this was her house and I was a visitor in it, what a hell of a time she would
give me! It is obvious this girl doesn’t like me, and never intends to, nor
even try to. She has put Artie in her pocket, and to such an extent that it is
impossible to see Artie alone ever for three minutes. She is the possessive
type, and consequently because I’m his mother she is ready to oust me in every
possible way she can think of. No thank-you I do not wish to live with any of
my daughters in law. I will always live in my own house even if it means I have
to reside permanently in England. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
am glad my dream was so clear, reminding me so vividly of realities, or I might
have gone on indulging day dreams, say of life with Eddie in Washington. Eddie
maybe can go on loving me whilst I remain three thousand miles away from him,
but he might stop very quickly if I sat down permanently in his premises. So, I
shan’t try it. I will keep my own home, myself, always.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">December 11, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
</b>It is ten-thirty a.m.
and I am cooking the dinner. I have a very disagreeable<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>incident to record. Extremely disagreeable,
but here it is. On Thursday morning at breakfast time things reached a climax
in the house. It was a cold, dark morning, but nothing unusual in that,
considering this time of year, but when Artie and Hilda came down they
complained of the weather as though that too was my fault. That was the last
straw, and I exploded. I told Hilda that what she wanted was exercise, she
should go out and take a walk around the block to make her blood circulate, and
blow her cobwebs away. I pointed out that she went out even less than I did,
and that she stuck too close to Artie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then
she replied, that she couldn’t go out with Artie, and walking with him was too
slow. “I can’t walk quickly with a crippled husband.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
could have felled her. To allude to Artie, in front of him like that, and in
the tone of voice she used, was unforgivable. She voiced what must lie in her
secret heart a resentment of Artie’s loss of limb. I flared. She turned to
Artie, who was saying nothing, and said, “You! Can’t you say anything? Are you
going to let her talk to me like that!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Poor
Artie still said nothing, but did put his arm around the back of her chair. I
was sorry at once, and rose at once to leave the room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“Oh,
never mind,” I said, “get on with your breakfast. I’ll go and dress,” and went
upstairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then
I found myself in such a state of exasperation, I thought, I can’t stay in this
house today. I’ll go and see Joan, and when I get home this evening we shall
all feel better. So I dressed for the street. I concluded all the necessary
preparations for lunch, and worked out things for tea. I also put out a hoarded
box of chocolate candies for them. I told them of all this, asked them to tell
Dad I had gone to see Joan, said goodbye, and left in time to catch the
eleven-fifty train. I had a pleasant visit with Joan, and as the moon was
almost at the full I remained until evening. I got home soon after nine
o’clock, St. Edwards Church clock striking the hour as I walked up this road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In
the house I found only Ted, but I thought perhaps Artie and Hilda were out at
the movies. I got myself a snack meal, and then Ted said, “Well Lady, you’ve
got your wish. The lovebirds have flown. They gave me my dinner all right<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but told me I should have to get my own tea
as they were leaving for Scotland. However when I get back at teatime they were
still here, delayed, I suppose, by Hilda taking the usual hour to do her hair.
Anyhow they had to wait nearly an hour for a taxi, and then went off about five
-thirty, with a couple of valises. I presume they are traveling all night. What
a night for the journey! I must say the house feels better already without
them; that awful oppression has lifted. Yes, I had a short talk with Artie. He
was quite friendly with me, but said they couldn’t stick it here any longer. I
told him I thought he was acting very foolishly, but of course he could do, as
he liked. He said he would write, and I told him to tell me if he wanted me to
still get him a house or flat, otherwise I should do nothing further in that
matter. I also told him that I thought you were in the right and that Hilda did
not behave well towards you. I also told him of her very bad habits of whispering
in company, and of her petting in public, and said he ought publicly to stop
her, that such things weren’t done in polite society, and were in extremely bad
taste. He agreed. Poor Artie! Poor fellow! Anyhow he’s gone, Lady, and he left
this for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“This”
was my empty cigarette box, on the top flap of paper he had written in blue
pencil, “Mother, all my love” on the under flap,” I’ll write.” In the box a
florin, with another message, “For laundry.” That was all. No goodbye, no
signature, nothing else. I felt sick. I felt as though the boy had died. He has
died, for this isn’t my Artie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When
Artie came home from Africa in July, he was happy and gay, in spite of his lost
leg. He was his usual cheerful, careless, happy self. He was happy to be home
alive, and he was happy with us, as he always was. From the first week that
Hilda joined him he began to change. She is one of the most possessive, over
powering women I have ever known or ever heard about. This would be all right
if she made him happy but she doesn’t. The Scotch word “dour” exactly describes
her. She won’t mingle and she won’t smile. She won’t be friendly and outgoing.
For weeks past now I have only seen her at meals. They have lived up in their
bedroom, only showing up at mealtimes. As soon as the meal was eaten and
disposed of, they again retired upstairs, until the next one came along. In
short, they lived here, not as though they were at home, in the family, but as
though they were two strangers in a boarding house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dad
gave them total hospitality, and I did all the work for them, but they held
aloof and treated us with disdain. In fact, an ordinary boarding house keeper
would have received more courtesy than they gave me. As for Ted, he says he has
never had five minutes alone with Artie since Hilda got here, and if you wanted
two minutes conversation with him about private matters, you had to stage a
conspiracy to arrange for it. Ted says she is like a great fat spider that has
gobbled him up. Ted also says of her, that he’d hate to introduce her to any
decent people, the Utard’s, for instance, and he’d hate to introduce her as a
daughter-in-law. That’s Ted, not me, but Ted, who can find excuses for anybody,
and has an excess of charity. This girl is impossible. She is a Catholic too!
For Ted can forgive practically anything for a Catholic. This girl does get on
his nerves; he can’t like her, though he does try. It is her unfortunate
nature. Her ignorance, her lack of good breeding, the fact that she comes from
a slum, could all be overlooked, if only she was good tempered and good
natured, but in Ted’s words, “She is a pill.” That’s Artie’s wife. This is the
woman he is tied to for life. Ted says, “He did it himself. What can you do for
him?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The
worst about it to me is Artie’s secretiveness, so great that it amounts to
deception. Why didn’t he tell me they were thinking of going to Scotland? He
found out he won’t get his leg until early in January, why didn’t he tell me?
What is more natural than she would wish to visit her Mother? Why not say so?
To pack up and go away behind my back, and with never a word of explanation, or
of farewell! This is horrible for Artie to injure me, and here in our own home,
and after receiving all these months of hospitality for both himself and his
wife. She resents me I know, but to make Artie resent me too, what a power she
must have over him, a bad power. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last night we had a fairly heavy raid in this
section, between eight and nine in the evening. Rita Pullan was here and waited
for the all clear before departing. She said it was like Nineteen-Forty when
you had to run home between the raids. The B.B.C. this morning reported four
bombers down, three falling to one pilot, some damage and some casualties in
the Greater London area. I guess we were the area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted
has just gone out to get me a library book. We have been enjoying a very happy
afternoon over the fire. I remarked, “Isn’t it queer how you know when a house
is empty? You know there is nobody upstairs today, you feel it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“Yes,”
he replied, “Thank goodness. I felt Hilda as a positive evil in the house. Of
course it is sad that one should feel happiness at the departure of a child,
and yet I am glad that they have gone, damned glad. I am glad Artie left of his
own accord. I am glad I never asked him to pay us any money. We’ve nothing to
regret. Now in her home, where they are poor people, he’ll have to pay his way,
and it will be good for him to find out what expenses are. It’s nice to have
the place to ourselves again, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
agree. “Let’s forget it,” Ted said finally. “They left us of their own accord,
and in a nasty way. It was a blow for you. It’s all over now; lets put it
behind us and forget it. It’s no use worrying over them. They are a couple of
young fools. Only let us be sure to be very nice to Artie. When he writes,
write him very nice letters, extra nice letters. Make him see that we are
always sane, always polite, always reasonable, and always kind. Let him know we
will always do anything we can to help him. Finally he may come to see that Hilda
is the unreasonable one and then he’ll promptly teach her a lesson and improve
her. Don’t worry, Lady. They’ll learn sense eventually.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yes,
I hope so. It is nice to have the place to us once more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">December 14, 1943</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have just come in from
a walk around town. As I turned down this street I passed the visiting priest
whom I’ve seen taking the mass at St. Edward’s. Of course he did not know me so
no acknowledgement passed between us. I was glad, for his appearance disgusts
me. He is an elderly man, chockfull of all the signs of good living, paunchy
and with a toper’s complexion. He was wearing an expensive overcoat and a silk
muffler, and he paused to light himself a cigar. I thought he is exactly the
type of the prosperous priest, a stuffed pig, and a cleric who makes a derision
of the religion he stands for. I thought there is nothing spiritual about him,
so how can he expound or show forth the spiritual life? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
thought could any woman go to confession to this priest? Of course not. Such a man
could not have anything to say to anyone that would be of the slightest use.
This sort of specimen of a priest should be kept out of the public view, for
the mere sight of him is a scandal to his cloth. I remembered Miss Radenacher,
back in the old Bayonne days, telling us how her mother used to advise her
children not to get socially acquainted with their parish priest, as a personal
acquaintance ship would prove a mistake. “After all,” she’d say, “priests are
only men, but if you get to know them as men you will lose your respect for
them and then possibly lose your religion also. So let the priest stay in his
place, in church, don’t ask him into the house, never make a friend of him.
Friendship with a priest is fatal to your religion." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">She
must have had the fat and smug ones in her mind, though I think she meant all
priests were to be socially evaded. Well, I guess she was right. The mere sight
of today’s specimen passing on the street is sufficient to damn the entire
priesthood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">December 18, 1943</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Love, after sleep, deep
in the night. This is how and when I like it, when I can best respond to it.
Today, I am serene in my mind, and well in my body, content and happy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">December 20, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We were up twice in the
night for raids. We heard one bomb fall which sounded fairly near; we have
heard this afternoon that the railway line was hit between Stratford and
Bethnal Green, nobody killed but several linesmen injured, traffic stopped all
morning, but has resumed again now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Influenza
is rather serious just now, quite an epidemic, last week there were eleven
hundred and forty eight deaths from it in England alone. However this is the
first really bad health of the war. This is Ted’s Home-Guard night, so I am
going to take my tea now, and read awhile in cozy solitude. So Au-Revoir.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">December 27, 1943 —
Boxing Day</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mrs. White and Daisy
called this afternoon and were our only Christmas callers. This year Christmas
is less like Christmas than any of the last years yet. We had news at midday that
we sunk the battleship “Scharnhorst” yesterday, somewhere in the Arctic Circle.
So that’s disposed of at last. No word from Artie, not even a Christmas card.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">December 30, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I remain very serene,
calm, and shall I say, “happy”? News the R.A.F. bombed Berlin again last night.
I am sorry about that. I know the warring has to be resumed, but I wish our
authorities had felt they could let the Christmas respite last a little longer.
However… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Presently
I am going out to the post office to deposit my last money of the year. It is a
beautiful afternoon, clear and sunny so I shall enjoy the walk. I have been
extra busy this morning, cooking soup and pudding for tomorrow, for Eric has
telephoned that he will come out on Friday and bring Malvin and Karina with
him. I have made a plum pudding especially for Eric, who dotes on them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My
God, I may be a rank rotten Catholic, but I can’t be anything else. I want to
stay with Ted. To agree with him, that is more important to me than anything
else. I can’t be heroic and independent, and stand up for my private conscience
as against his. Actually I find I don’t care a damn for my private conscience.
What I want is to live peacefully and amicably with my husband, and if that
entails acting like a conforming Catholic, very well, it does, and that’s all
about it. I can’t agree with Ted. Life is much too short, and becoming shorter,
and there’s no going backwards in it. I took Ted for better or worse, till
death do us part and I guess I took the Catholic Church in the same way. So
there it is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I’m
not going to worry myself any more about the rights or wrongs of religions and
churches, and the sorts of people one does or doesn’t find in them. I don’t
intend to give another rap about the whole caboodle. Nor do I intend to make
myself “believe.” I will believe as much as I can, as heretofore, and let the
rest go hang. If I were a free and financially independent woman, living alone,
I might do otherwise. I might do all sorts of things, which I don’t do now. I
am not free and independent, so there it is. I hope I’ve settled with this
worry for the rest of time. I’ll go to Mass on Sundays as required, and keep my
mouth shut, also my mind. Religion has been a constant curse to me for a
lifetime but I am not going to let it be so any longer. I’ll conform. I’ll
conform to Ted, who is more important to me than anyone else in the universe,
dead or living, so since he expects me to be a Catholic, a Catholic I’ll be. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-90658284413437560572014-10-12T20:52:00.002-04:002014-10-31T18:30:11.049-04:006-11-42 Letter to Bill and Jean Berry (Friends in the U.S.) From Ruby Thompson <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">78 Western Road</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Romford, Essex</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Thursday, June 11, 1942</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">My
dear Bill and Jean,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> I've had a letter from Eddie in which he tells me a parcel of ham
and butter which I received, wordless, direct from Macy's last Winter, and
which I attributed to his kindness, came instead from you. So please accept my
very belated thanks for the same. I saved these goodies for when Artie came
home on leave, and believe me every bit was enjoyed to the last atom. Good food
is extremely scarce these days. We are all getting quite enough to eat, but the
rationing, though absolutely fair, works out very meagerly for the small
households. Naturally the more you are in a family the better you can cater. If
you spend 10/- worth of meat coupons, why, you can get a steak, or perhaps a
sirloin, and then there is the makings of at least one good tasting meal for
everybody. But when I can spend only 2/-per week for two people-why-what can
you buy? My stand-by (this is especially for Jean's interest- supposing she's
interested) is a piece of fresh brisket, which is only 10d. per lb. But - do
you know brisket? I bet you don't! It's like thin streaky bacon, a strip of
lean, then an equal strip of fat. The meat is poor and flavorless, but it will
provide two dinners - and - what is really worth more - a jar of good dripping.
In ordinary times I should never dream of buying brisket- and you may be sure,
once the war is over, I shall never buy it again as long as I live- or until
there is another war-which God forbid! As for ham! -that's quite forgotten. Our
butter, 2 Oz's. per week per person-we save for Sundays. Butter deprivation is
serious. It seems that butter carries a special vitamin which keeps our eyes
healthy: so there are a lot of sore eyes about, because of this lack. The
margarine we get - 4 Oz's. per week per person - is excellent- but it is not
butter, and will not do the work of butter. However, it is palatable, and
certainly very much improved on the margarine of pre-war days. Thousands of the
English poor never have eaten any "butter" except margarine, because
real butter was always too expensive. A charwoman I once had once told me she
only bought butter for herself in her family, because neither her husband nor
her children would eat it; they preferred margarine as having more taste. We
mainly eat our margarine hot on toast, when it tastes really nice. As for
eggs, that's a joke. Our egg ration has been two per person per month. When we
get them we make a dinner of them. Well, one day this Spring a friend from the
country bought us three honest-to-goodness real new-laid eggs. We decided to
celebrate with a high tea. Ted enjoyed his egg fine; so did I mine; but it gave
me an attack of indigestion! I tasted sulphur all night, and until after lunch
the next day. My stomach had forgotten how to handle an egg. I have heard of
other people having the same trouble. Some folks claim it is something peculiar
in the eggs, due to the very eccentric food the hens get nowadays. Maybe but
there you are - we can no longer digest fresh eggs. Probably we'll have
forgotten how to handle other foods also - but we will try our luck just the
same, whenever we get any. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Now note: I sit down to write a letter and what do I write about?
Food. Isn't it awful! Whenever people get together nowadays invariably the talk
turns to food. Where you can get what, what ques you stood in, what wasn't
worth waiting for, and the cost- the awful mounting cost. The unrationed foods
soar until the government steps in and regulates prices, but then the item
disappears. This is a joke. We just laugh. If you could be here you would be
surprised how good-tempered the British are. The English still confine their
grumbles to the weather. The war disagreeableness is accepted
uncomplainingly-or they bring down the house handed out as vaudeville jokes.
Yes, we are queer people. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I haven't any particular news to write. We are well and hope to
keep so. Mr. Thompson is a Lance/Corporal in the Home Guard. He goes on duty
three nights a week, and Sunday mornings. Artie has his commission in the
Reconnaissance Corps. Cuth has been shifted to a new camp and should now be
addressed at Stulag Luft 3. He writes cheerfully enough, but this week he told
us that all the men of his crew have now perished. Poor lads! We were able to
sleep in our beds all this past winter, but now since the raid on Cologne
trouble is stirring again and I expect right now we shall have to abandon
the upper floor. My young brother was in Singapore. From there he got to
Colombo, and now my mother has received a cable from Capetown, saying he
is on his way home. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">We have just been told tonight of the visit of Molotov to London
and Berlin. Bill, I have often thought of your visit to Russia, back in the
30's. This must help you to visualize the Russian front quite a lot, and I
think you must be more glad than ever now that you made that trip. Do you know
what strikes me most about the trend of events? It's this: The
Russian idea is going to win the world in the end, without directly campaigning
for it. When daily every state becomes more and more totalitarian, and when you
listen to the talk on what is to be done to Society after the war- why-
Bolshevism walks in as a matter of course- doesn't it? Funny I think. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Now,Au-revoir. Keep on praying for us and keep us in your
affectionate remembrances. Ted sends greetings, compliments, regards. I send my
thanks and love. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Yours,</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Ruby A. Thompson </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-11919769195798952082014-10-06T21:17:00.004-04:002015-06-08T20:17:39.559-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 11-6-43 to 11-29-43 Today the Russians have retaken Kiev. The Germans captured it in September 1941. The B.B.C. broke into program at eleven this morning to broadcast the news. <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: magenta;">Purchase Diary's:</span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>November 6, 1943</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />
Today the Russians have
retaken Kiev. The Germans captured it in September Nineteen Forty-One. The
B.B.C. broke into program at eleven this morning to broadcast the news.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>November 8, 1943</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In the night Ted’s voice
whispering, “Feeling?” and my voice replying, “A little.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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did not say a little what feeling. I did not say it was vexation, annoyance,
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do and let me go to sleep. Nor presently, when my inner woman was shrieking,
oh, oh, oh let me get out of here! Did I make a sound? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then
when he slept I lay wakeful a long time, my body assuaged in spite of myself,
my mind crystal clear. I asked myself, what in the world made me go to mass
this morning? Men are beasts. This is what man is, this creature here beside
me, this body, this body, which ultimately seeks its satisfaction, and always
the same satisfaction. What difference does the rosary under the pillow make?
Or the early morning rising to go to communion? What is that communion but a
game, a game man plays with himself. This is the real communion, which has just
happened, this and nothing else, the co-mingling of the flesh, the most
intimate act of union possible to the will and the flesh. A man “knowing” his
woman, his wife.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>November 9, 1943<br />
</b>A bad raid in the night,
and also two on Sunday night. On Sunday a dance hall was struck, a milk-bar,
and two cinemas, and the crowds of young people on the streets in the vicinity.
It was London, though we may not have been told exactly where, probably the
Tottenham Court Road. We have raids now practically every night. Only a few
bombers come over, but they do a lot of damage. It is only sixteen minutes
flying time from the airdromes in France over to London, as Gerry can make
quick dashes and get away again almost before we are aware of him. Hitler made
a speech in Munich last night, urging loyalty on his Germans and promising
vengeance on the British. It is true the R.A.F. now does more damage to Germany
than the Luftwaffe did to us, but who started this business? Germany has to be
licked, and licked forever, but at what frightful price! Oh God, let the war
end soon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I’m
tired, dreadfully tired. I want a goodnights sleep for one thing and I want a
rest in my mind for another. I want to get through with my resentment once and
for all. How? That’s the question? It seems as though they have to run their
course, like any child’s disease, and only then comes the end of them.
Recognizing them, and their injustices, and their futilities, isn’t enough to
scotch them, that’s one great sure thing. Can’t a woman ever be philosophically
detached? I don’t know. It certainly doesn’t seem so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>November 21, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A hell of a row this
morning at the breakfast table, precipitated by Artie saying he had begun,
whilst in the army, to read the Old Testament, but could not get far with it as
it disgusted him. God and the Jews had a continual bribing match. At once Ted
was up in arms and practically told Artie to shut up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“You
must think again, " he said. “You ought to know better, but of course with
your mother, she’s hopeless; but I won’t listen to you, Artie, talking about
things you know nothing at all about. You are a very ignorant young man, but
your mother does know what’s right, only she won’t acknowledge it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Naturally
conversation dried up, but when the young people went upstairs Ted turned on me
again. “I wasn’t going to have you talking about Abraham, sneering! I make
allowances for you, you can’t help yourself. I wasn’t going to have you
contaminating those two. You, and your crooked ideas. Look at the results in
Harold, the first of your sons to leave his wife! All because of you and your
infidelities. If Harold loses his religion, because of you, of course he can’t
live right…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So
it went. I was dumb founded. So it’s my fault that Harold leaves Kay! “The
first of my sons to leave his wife.” Does Ted expect any of the rest to do like
wise? He went on and on, winding up with, “Well I hope in your secret heart you
haven’t worse sins than the sins of Abraham to repent of, worse thoughts and
acts, than the acts and thoughts of his." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
answered, “Yes, I do have secret thoughts and special acts of my life to repent
of, but they are not in the least what you might suppose.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then
I went upstairs and got ready for the street. It was a filthy foggy morning,
but I went out nevertheless. I felt I could not stay in this house with Ted
Thompson another minute. How he hates me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So
I went to St Andrews, on St. Andrews Road. I met the Pryor’s on the way, and
the Darby’s of this road sat in the pew behind me. St. Andrews proved a
disappointment. It is the local High Church. The service proved to be what they
term sung Eucharist, actually it was a poor imitation of the Latin mass, and
the parson even called it mass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>November 28, 1943 —
Advent Sunday</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The B.B.C. tells us that
during the past eight days the R.A.F. have bombed Berlin five times, dropping
in all six thousand tons of bombs on the city. This is awful. It makes me weep.
I weep for Berlin as well as for us, and for all the dead, the dead in Berlin,
and our boys who will never return. War, damned ghastly fiendish war! Is this
the only way men can settle the affairs of he world? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">One
wry joke comes in. The B.B.C. reports that a spokesman on the German air told
the Germans that Berlin was carrying on in the debris, life as usual, including
even the theaters, and listed two of the plays still running as, <b><i>Queen
of the Night,</i></b> and <b><i>Love’s Glamour Over All</i></b>. What irony!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>November 29, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It’s a year today since
Mother died. We have had fogs throughout this November like last year's. It was
the fog that killed mother, and this year too it is killing the old. I’m
feeling homesick for Angel Road, Mother’s home. Of course in actuality Joan has
annihilated it, she “has got rid of” the greater part of Mother’s belongings,
and what she has retained she has rearranged in strangeness. Instead of the
crowded and cozy Victorian home Mother kept, Joan has made a cold, forbidding,
sparsely furnished barracks. Joan is strictly utilitarian and the house is now
ugly and cheerless; a place that would give Mother the shivers as much as it
does me, and from which she is so banished that it is almost impossible to
remember her in it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
was thinking today I have never been really at home in the world since I left
Angel Road. None of the homes I have made with Ted have been homes to me. Maybe
they have meant home to my children, I hope so, but they have never meant home
to me. Home was Number Six Angel Road, and no place else. Perhaps that is what
home is, the house where one lives with one’s parents, where one is a child
supported by love, by love and discipline. I don’t know how men feel about
this, but I know a husband has never given me “home” in the way my parents did.
I felt at home in Angel Road, no matter what the tumult, and I felt to be
myself there, but I have never felt at home with Ted, never felt, either, to be
my true full self with him. To go home, no, no more can I ever do that. Perhaps
that is why those who love God can feel about death that it is going home. Oh,
I wished I lived alone and could do as I pleased. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-9281247478083686422014-09-28T08:06:00.002-04:002015-06-15T08:16:38.289-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 10-4-43 to 10-25-43 We have had air raids every night since Sunday. Last night’s was the heaviest yet. Two bombs dropped on the Golf Links. I actually went outside to look at the sky and saw a Gerry caught in the searchlights. <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: magenta;">Purchase Diary's:</span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 4, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is old Herbert’s
birthday, he is seventy-five today. I was talking to Hilda at breakfast about
history. She does not know even her own Scottish history. I asked about Mary
Queen of Scots, her answers showed that she confused Mary with Elizabeth! She
thought they were the same person! She knew nothing at all about Darnley,
Rizzio, or Bothwell, all she knew was that Queen Mary was to be regarded as a
martyr. She thought the English called her, “Good Queen Bess.” The depth of
this girl’s ignorance is in-computable. So I asked her what school did she go
to? A Catholic Church school? And she said, yes, then a Catholic High School?
She replied, no. In fact, she has been to no high school at all, but she isn’t
going to say so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This
girl was born in Glasgow of an Irish father and a Lancashire mother. The mother
was a convert after marriage. The father is an ardent Catholic, presumably the
usual fanatical ignoramus. The children are made to go to mass, and to the
Catholic elementary school. Hilda is one of the expected products. She can read
and write and is familiar with elementary arithmetic, but that is apparently
the complete sum of her education. She knows neither the geography nor the
history of her own country, Scotland, though she has a few hazy notions about
it. I suppose she knows Mary was beheaded; but why, she has no idea. Mary was a
martyr, that’s all she knows. I suppose the nuns who taught school couldn’t
possibly mention Darnley or Rizzio because they were “lovers” or Bothwell because
he was a “Protestant.” Perhaps even the nuns themselves were ignorant of these
persons and events. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As
for Hilda she doesn’t want to know anything. She has no hunger for knowledge,
so she will never seek it. She isn’t a natural fool, but simply a colossally
ignorant person. Nor has she an accomplishment of any sort at all. She can
neither sing nor play, she can’t sew, she doesn’t even knit, or even play
cards. What Artie is going to do with her as time goes on, I’m sure I don’t
know, but I’m sure when his love-fever burns itself out, he is going to be a
very bored husband. I think he is going to be ashamed, too, for her ignorance
of all rules of politeness, of etiquette, of good manners, is on a par with her
ignorance of the usual school subjects. She isn’t vulgar or rude, she’s just
blank. She knows enough to say please and thank-you at the table, but not
enough to say goodbye when she goes out, or goodnight when she goes to bed. She
treats this house like a hotel. She doesn’t show disrespect to Ted or me, but
she certainly doesn’t show respect. She exists only for herself. Courtesy, she
has none. That she should have regard for the other person apparently has never
dawned on her. She is one of the most unlikable persons we have ever met. Ted
feels the same way about her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 8, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was dreaming of my own
book. My dream was of Hamlet House, which merged into the Knickerbocker Road
House, and of Grandma Searle, who became Mrs. Currie, then Mrs. Cecilia Perry
of this road. Oh, how I want to get down to my writing! I am sleeping badly,
because my mind is too active for sleep. I want to think and to write, not
sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We
have had air raids every night since Sunday. Last night’s was the heaviest yet.
Two bombs dropped on the Golf Links. I actually went outside to look at the sky
and saw a Gerry caught in the searchlights. The moon up, the stars shining, the
lights criss-crossing, colored flares dropping, it is a beautiful night, but
what a devil’s beauty. During the evening Ted wrote me two checks, one for my
hats, the other to cover Jo Tibb’s dressmaking bill. I duly thanked him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 12, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The Devil to Pay. Last
night there was a hell of a row here over Hilda. I say curse Hilda. This girl
behaves towards me absolutely insolently and she goes in and out of the house
as nonchalantly as she would go in and out of a cinema or a restaurant. She
never says good-by or hello. She comes down to breakfast and never says good
morning. She goes up to bed and never says goodnight. She sits up in her room,
or in the parlor, until a meal is ready, then comes to the table when she is
called. I resent this. She ignores me more than she would ignore a servant.
This house is not a hotel, nor do I live for the pleasure of cooking her meals.
This is a home, where she is receiving complete free hospitality and I expect
her to pay the due courtesies of a home. I expect her to cooperate a trifle in
the chores, and I expect her to smile and be pleasant and friendly. She is
disagreeable and a dour unlikable person. All she wants is admiration and
adulation and to be waited on, and for why? Simply for her pretty face. She is
one of the most ignorant girls to be found in the kingdom, she knows nothing,
and she does nothing. All she wants is to go to the movies everyday, and
presumably, to look like a movie heroine. She is rude to all the people who
come into the house, whether they are Artie’s friends or mine. She simply won’t
cooperate about anything. She’s sly and underhanded. There is much of the usual
deceit of the born Irish Catholic about her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Well,
Sunday night I spilled over. She had done nothing in the house all day except
feed her face, and most of the evening she spent in the parlor with Ted and
Artie. I stay alone here in the dining room, but quite content to be alone. Ted
came in at nine o’clock to hear the news, and then returned again to the
parlor. A little later Artie came in, and crossed the room to kiss me
goodnight. Hilda stayed out in the hall, awaiting him. She never said a word.
She did not even come to the door and smile a goodnight. Well, I boiled over. I
waited until the pair of them was upstairs, but then went through to Ted and
exploded at her bad manners. She’s not my daughter, and I don’t count it a
privilege to work for her, but seeing that she’s living on the premises I think
the least she can do is to treat me with ordinary politeness. She doesn’t. So I
exploded, and called her a little cat, and a blasted bitch, and meant it too.
Unfortunately in my anger I didn’t stop to close the parlor door behind me, so
my words carried upstairs and she heard them. I didn’t mean for her to hear
them, but there you are! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So
yesterday, of course, there was trouble with Artie, and general gloom's all
around. Sulks. Well, I hate sulks, so at teatime I spoke out and said, “Hilda,
I want a few words with you before you go to bed tonight. I think we need to
come to an understanding.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">She
looked frightened, but went off upstairs, where she and Artie stayed all
evening. Early in the evening Doreen Peel came in, and stayed until after ten.
When she had gone Artie came down, in his bathrobe, and said “I have come to
say goodnight, and to say goodnight for Hilda.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
jumped. I said, “Oh, isn’t she going to face me? Or is she too tired? If so we
can have our talk tomorrow morning.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Artie
said, “No, I won’t let her. She’s my wife and I won’t have her bothered.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then
we talked for half an hour, both Ted and I pointing out her faults and annoying
actions, and Artie, in true bridegroom fashion, excusing her. Naturally. I’m
sorry for Artie, for he’s between two women, his wife and his mother. I don’t
want to hurt Artie, on the other hand, I don’t want to be hurt myself, and I’ve
had three months of the girl’s barbarities and uncouthness, and I can’t stand
any more of her. This girl is poison to me, and if she doesn’t either change or
get out, I shall have a nervous breakdown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Now
this morning she is still in the sulks. She wouldn’t come to breakfast, nor let
Artie have any either! Then he took her out to lunch. Half an hour ago he
suddenly appeared in the room, looking for his writing case. They had both come
back into the house noiselessly, something very hard to do, considering Artie’s
crutches and sneaked away upstairs. Now, I’m not going to bite the girl! If
accepting our hospitality, she doesn’t want to behave with the normal courtesy
of a guest, then we no longer wish to extend our hospitality towards her, and
she must leave. The same goes for Artie. After all, this is my home, and I will
not be treated as less than a servant in it. She acts as though she is here by
right divine and it is my natural business to attend to her necessities. No,
it’s not good enough, and I can’t stand any more of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Of
course she nags Artie. Yes, she’s been a very skillful little slum miss, and
she’s landed herself a husband, and now she’s going to collect all the
benefits, very smart and very nasty. Artie’s made a disastrous pick, but at
present, of course, he’s in love. That will wear off, and then he’ll realize
the bed he’s made for himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
feel sick about Artie. As usual I laid awake a long while after I had gone to
bed last night, and I thought, I’ve said goodbye to Artie. I had that queer
feeling which I sometimes have about Ted, that he’s a stranger. I feel, Artie
isn’t my son, there is nothing of me in him, and we don’t belong together. I
remembered something Mrs. Renacre said about him last Friday, “You know,
Freddie wasn’t straight, Mrs. Thompson. There was a lot of deception. You
wouldn’t know, but there was.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
have known. In different instances in the past I have known Artie tricky,
deceptive, unreliable, not to be trusted. Not an outright liar, too clever for
that, but tricky in ways I haven’t liked. Right here about this Hilda Kane he
deceived me from the beginning. He knew she had no education, no decent family
to show, he knew all that, but very carefully kept the knowledge to himself. He
only produced her photograph and said merely, “She was a nice kid.” He knew we
wouldn’t approve of her as a wife for him, so he fooled us. Well, he’ll pay for
his choice, but he was deceitful about it just the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
feel terribly let down about Artie. When I think that this kind of girl
satisfies him, I wonder where is his judgment! There is nothing to this girl,
except her pretty face, and all of the bloom of that comes out of bottles! I
think Artie is an empty head to be pleased with such an empty head, and such a
nonentity. This girl doesn’t even want to know anything. All she wants is a man
and lovey-dovey. It’s deplorable. Artie is another letdown, a write off. So it
is goodbye Artie. Queer how one feels about one’s children, isn’t it? I think,
in the long run, those people who never have children at all are the best off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It
is now eleven p.m. and when Artie and Hilda returned from the movies half an
hour ago they both came into this room. Ted was here. We spoke this evening,
asked if it was a good show, yes, and was it a fine night? Yes. Was the moon
shining? “I didn’t notice,” said Artie, then to Hilda: “Was it?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“I
don’t know,” she said very grumpily. Then Artie crossed over to me and kissed
me goodnight, and then he kissed his father goodnight. Hilda, still standing
only in the doorway, gave a twisted smile to Ted and said, “Goodnight, Mrs.
Thompson.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
said, “Goodnight, Hilda,” and they went upstairs. One inning to me. I had told
Artie she never gave me a name, and that it was heathenish to address people
with out a name, you should use names occasionally.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 13, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is Arthur Thompson’s
birthday. Had he lived I suppose he would have been fifty-seven or fifty-eight
by now. When Hilda came downstairs she actually addressed me first, and said,
“Good morning, Mrs. Thompson.” Good! Maybe she’ll practice manners yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A
letter from Kay this morning to Ted and me. "Dear Mother and Dad,"
she addresses us. It is a shocking letter. It is written August 17. She wrote
that she came home June 23, and was met by Harold with the request that he
would give her a divorce, as he wanted to marry a slut in the office. She adds,
"Harold can sleep with a different woman every night if he wants to, but I
am married to him for life" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">She
tells us that whilst she was away, Harold took eleven hundred dollars, which
her brother had sent her from New Guinea to help with expenses, and spent it
all on women in New York. She says he left Sheila and Dickey alone nights, all
night. She also says he brought in a married woman who slept in her bed. She
implores us to write to her. She says she is quite recovered, and is determined
to stick by her children. She says Harold is heartless. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If
all this is true, then Harold is heartless. I think it must be Kay’s delusions.
I cannot imagine that Harold would behave like this. He might go off on a bat,
yes, to forget his troubles; but he wouldn’t desert his wife and four children
for some other woman. I don’t believe it. I think Kay must still be mad. What
her original trouble was with Harold of course we don’t know; but something is
radically wrong, that’s absolutely certain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">After
reading the letter Ted turned on me. It's all my fault, of course. I didn’t
bring the boys up right. They’ve lost their religion, so what else can you
expect? Ever since we had children whatever they did wrong was my fault. I
don’t try to rebut this anymore. If Ted wants to believe this, he must believe
it. What I think is, if they all sunk it would be our fault, for leaving them
as we did in 1927. Our desertion of them was a criminal action against those
young men. That they have turned out good husbands and fathers and good
citizens is a fluke. If Harold is a failure, then it is Ted who is to blame
rather than me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted
went on and on about my religion and lack of religion. “Ours might have been a
mixed marriage,”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he said. “How could the
boys ever know where they were with you in and out of the church, the way you
carried on.” So on and so on. I made no replies, but inside I felt sunk. I
thought, its no good, I’ll have to stick in the Catholic Church, willy-nilly,
so long as ever Ted lives. I can’t break away again. I simply can’t face it. I
don’t believe it anymore than I ever did, I’ve simply got to conform to it.
Next Sunday I must go back to mass. Sincerity is not for me; the conditions of
my life with Ted will not permit it. He compels me to present all the appearances
of Catholicity. Damn him! Damn him! Anyhow, I shan't go to confession. I think
that is beyond my powers of compliance forevermore.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 14, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is a rainy day. I
spent it with Joan. She read out to me parts of Aileen’s last letter. Aileen
writes, that she judges two out of three of my boys are neurotics, but does not
specify which. Charlie, she prefers to the others. She says he is kind,
affectionate, sincere, and very Boy Scout. She says Johnnie is the handsomest
and cleverest of the boys, but is bogged down in domesticity, and that you feel
that inwardly he is very unhappy. She says that Harold has the least brains of
any of them, that he is “terribly confused,” that Ted has confused him further
with the curse of conscience, but that he is kind and good and very high
principled. This contradicts Kay’s accusations, so probably my guess is right,
and Kay is still slightly mental. Aileen says that although my boys are good
normal Americans, still they are disappointing to her, they have too much of
Ted in them and too little of me, that they lack the Side family vividness and
aggressiveness and wit, and that Ted has confused all of them with his ideas
and his religion, and she says, “Again, say, curse, religion!” She finishes, “To
see them makes me sad, they are only dim reflections of Ruby in a receding
mirror.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
feel that too. For long I have felt that my sons are but strangers to me. I
lost them when they lost me. When Ted wrenched me away from them it was a
living death he imposed upon the family. Ted destroyed the family. Ted
destroyed me, but he flourishes. Yes, our family history is a tragedy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 18, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was a very heavy
raid again last night. Rockingham Avenue, about a mile or a mile and a half
from here, got a direct hit, ten houses down and six people killed outright,
several others injured and taken to the hospital.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 19, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was a raid again
last night. It’s moonlight of course. Nothing fell here, thank God. Yet
somewhere else got the bombs. Oh, when will this damn war finish! What
frightful times we are living in! What infuriating ones, for none of the
world’s troubles need be. Men have made the world the way it is. Men destroy
society and civilization. Fool men. Wicked men. Goddamn men! God does damn men.
We are all damned.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 20, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am very restless and
very tired. Another raid last night so we are all losing sleep, and that’s
making us all cranky. Ted is on my nerves excessively. I do think him a fool. He
fusses about nothing and too pious for words. I loathe his piety. Why oh why
can’t he be a normal man? I think he is a maniac, and I am so tired of him I do
not know how to go on living with him any longer. He’s good and he means well,
but the fact is, I can’t bear him. I’ve had too much of him. Marriage last too
long. I hate marriage. One night soon, perhaps tonight, he will want his
pleasure, and he’ll take it. Will he say his prayers over that? Of course not.
In the morning he’ll be up and off to mass, as per usual. Habit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 21, 1943
— Trafalgar Day </b></span><b style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Salute to Nelson </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">We had
another very bad raid last night, between one and two this morning. I trembled
so incessantly that this morning my limbs ache as though I had climbed a
mountain and even my arms ache. I retched so much I am feeling my ribs are
bruised, as though somebody kicked them. I am so tired from lack of sleep my
eyes are smarting. During a raid like last nights it is easy to understand how
human beings can die of shock and fear. Once I held my breath thinking the
house was surely hit, but it wasn’t, nor anywhere immediately near, so far as I
know. War. This fiendish war, the sport of men.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<b style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">October 22, 1943</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was a raid again
last night, between two and three a.m. and another this evening about half past
seven until nearly nine. This evening was a very heavy one. The Gerry’s have
got through to London every night now for a week, but it was the last quarter
of the moon yesterday, so we may hope for quieter nights next week. We are all
very tired. Since Gerry came early this evening we hope for an undisturbed
night tonight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 23, 1943</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Tonight’s news is that
today David Lloyd George married at a registry office near Guildford, a Miss
Stevenson who has been his private secretary for thirty years. The bride is
fifty-five, whilst Lloyd-George is something over eighty. His first wife, Dame
Margaret Lloyd-George died in nineteen forty-one. Late this afternoon Mr. and
Mrs. Lloyd-George left Chart for an undisclosed location. The honeymoon couple!
My God! What a silly old goat! What a glaring<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>instance this is that men do not love women and they only love
themselves. A man must have his pleasure. His pleasure. Oh God, how I hate men!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 24, 1943</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We have now had nine
consecutive nights of bombing again. It is most wearing. Oh this damn war, this
lunacy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 25, 1943</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At bedtime last night I
said when I opened the window before getting into bed, “The stars are shining,
though not very many of them.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“Is
it moonlight?” asked Ted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“No”
I said, “No moon.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“Not
visible, you mean. The moon hasn’t ceased to be. It is not visible. Why can’t
you speak properly and say what you mean? Is it against your principals to
speak clearly and to tell the truth?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Now
I ask you? Of course I said no more, but as I lay down in bed I smiled to
myself and nearly laughed aloud. What a fool of a man I’ve got! Even abed and
half asleep he has to correct my errors of speech and reprimand me, and by
obliquity condemn my morals and assert his own self-approval. Really, I think
he’s a fool, and a most boring garrulous old man. He is a fool, an ignorant
boring fool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-20461844167654907902014-09-21T18:34:00.001-04:002014-11-16T18:16:54.268-05:00World War ll London Blitz: 9-1-43 Four years today since Hitler attacked Poland and started the World War.<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: magenta;">Purchase Diary's:</span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">September 1, 1943</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Four years today since Hitler attacked Poland and started the World War. The Pope announced last week that he would make a broadcast “to the world” today. So far have heard nothing from Rome, but shall probably do so this evening. Yet what can the Pope say that anyone will pay attention to? Hiherto he has always condoned his Italians: condoned war. The non-Italian and non-Catholic world, I think, will turn a very deaf ear today to his holiness the Pope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />Last night Churchill broadcast a speech from Quebec. It sent me to sleep. He uttered nothing but platitudes and compliments, the chief idea seem to be to keep the Russians buttered up so that they keep on fighting. Do we really care for the Russians? I don’t think so.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />The Pope’s broadcast was an appeal for peace. Coming now this is farcical, also presumptuous and impertinent. When Mussolini raped Abyssinia and later Albania (and that on a Good Friday too!) the last Pope said nothing. This Pope, Pacelli, is a Roman aristocrat, he has never rebuked Mussolini for any of his war crimes, never pleaded with the King of Italy for peace and justice, never urged the Italian people to disobey their corrupt government. Sometimes he has given out a lot of general rhetorical words, but he has never said to Mussolini, not to the Italians “Thou art the man.” He has never preached Christ the peacemaker and peace bringer. No, he is merely another Machevelli. So long as Italy was attacking her neighbors, think what she has done to Greece! And winning, the Pope uttered no single word of protest, let alone dissuasion; but now that Italy herself is being attacked, and losing, the Pope cries out to the world for peace. Wonderful! Who does he think he is going to get to pay any attention to him? He could have talked the Italians out of the Axis in the beginning, if he had wished to do so. He didn’t. I suppose, like the rest of the clever and tricky Italians, he thought Hitler was going to win the war. By now he has found out differently, so he appeals to the world for peace. Bah! Another rat. Another Italia diplomat, another schemer, that’s all he is. Peace indeed! We are all sick of the war, but we shall carry on with it until the Axis is beaten. The Pope knows the terms for peace for his Italy, unconditional surrender. This war is hell, but we didn’t start it. We shall finish it, and we shall be the victors.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />September 3, 1943</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />The fourth anniversary of our entry into the war, today the fifth year of the war begins. It begins well, for us, for it is announced that at four-thirty this morning British and Canada made a successful landing on the toe of Italy. The allied invasion of the continent of Europe has begun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />September 8, 1943</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />Italy has surrendered. At half past five this evening General Eisenhower broadcast from Algiers, that our armistice terms have been agreed to, without reservations and the Italians having laid down their arms, fighting against Italy has ceased, the armistice commencing at once. So Italy is out of the war. Eisenhower also added a promise to the effect that if Italy is attacked by any other power, we, the United Nations, will help her fight her attacker. This, presumably, is for the benefit of the Germans. Will the Germans round on Italy? Quite possibly. They signed a peace pact with Russia in 1939, but that didn’t prevent them from invading and attacking Russia in 1941.So what next?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">September 16, 1943</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />The Germans were over this area again last night, and dropped bombs in three different London areas. Nothing dropped here, but it might have done. What’s the use of money in the bank to a dead woman? So I went and bought two new hats and very becoming ones at that. At least I’ll look all right, even if I don’t feel it. Now I have got to cook this afternoon. Mushrooms to be fixed for tea, and I suppose I had better do something about the pastry. What a life!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />September 18, 1943</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />At dinner yesterday the B.B.C. broadcast an announcement of the calling in of all five-point value clothes coupons because of a big theft of these coupons somewhere. So both Hilda and Artie said they would have to return some they had, and what a nuisance. Then there was further talk about coupons, and how few we got, and so on. Thence to the subject of stockings, now, ever since coupons were instituted most girls have complained about no coupons for stockings. Stockings are two coupons per pair, and we have only two coupons to last six months. “How many pairs of stockings did you buy ordinarily before coupons?” I asked her. “ “A pair a week?” (Thinking that a lot). “Oh no,” she said: “a pair a day.” Ted exclaimed at that. “Oh yes.” She said, “”but they weren’t expensive ones.” “And you bought a pair a day?” asked Ted, very incredulous. “Oh, Yes, I had to.” “Why?” “Well they laddered.” “Couldn’t you mend them?” “Oh, no. I couldn’t wear a mended stocking, and when your boyfriend took you out, of course you had to have nice stockings.” “Well what do you do with the old ones?” “Oh, my mother would wear them to do her work in.” Ted shut up, but he gave Artie a long look. After Ted had gone back to the office the conversation still went on about clothes coupons. Hilda said the worst problems were shoes and stockings. I said, “How often did you buy new shoes? “Once a month,” she said. She laughed, and then went on. “Well that wasn’t so bad. You see, I was working in a shoe shop, and my boss was my pal, my boyfriend; and we used to get a bonus once a month, so he used to let me have bargains, so usually I’d buy a pair of shoes with my bonus, or sometimes I’d buy a dress."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">September 21, 1943</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />It is the first day of autumn and the re-opening of Parliament. There was a long speech from Mr. Churchill, who returned from America on Sunday. He said that the bloodiest part of the war is yet to come.</span><br />
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Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-6908375748248924812014-09-14T08:01:00.002-04:002015-06-21T20:52:41.722-04:00World War ll London Blitz: 7-5-43 to 7-17-43 General Sikorsky was killed last night in an accident, taking off from Gibraltar. Everyone else in the plane was also killed, except the pilot, who is severely injured. The plane was a Liberator bomber, in which he was returning to London from the Middle East. I suppose this is another of those very convenient “accidents”. <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: magenta;">Purchase Diary's :</span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 5, 1943</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">General Sikorsky was
killed last night in an accident, taking off from Gibraltar. Everyone else in
the plane was also killed, except the pilot, who is severely injured. The plane
was a Liberator bomber, in which he was returning to London from the Middle
East. I suppose this is another of those very convenient “accidents”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 7, 1943</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have a guess that our
invasion of Europe began last night, though nothing has been mentioned on the
radio this morning. The B.B.C. did not even report that our bombers were out
over Germany last night! Ted says, “of course not!” They’ve got to cook up the
reports first. Nevertheless the air activities over this neighborhood last
night were tremendous. We were wakened about midnight by planes directly
overhead, and the zooming intensified and went on and on until about
three-thirty this morning. Literally thousands of planes must have passed over
us. Our planes, for there was no alarm, and no gunfire. The sky as far as we
could see, was ablaze with searchlights. They ranged in orderly placing like
great shook's of wheat or corn all over the heavens and above them, clear skies,
and the multitudes of the stars. It was a beautiful but fearsome sight. It
affected me physically of course. I trembled, and my legs cramped, and my
stomach turned over and I retched so much that this morning my ribs are sore. I
am so tired from nerves and lack of sleep. I’m ready to weep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Of
course, all the flying might have been simply practice; air maneuvers yet I
don’t really think so. The Germans opened their long promised, but long
delayed, attack on Russia on Monday, so probably we have opened on them with
the dreaded Second Front. We’ll know later of course but when there have been
practices of night flying in big formation before, the B.B.C. has always
informed us it was so the next morning. This morning the B.B.C. was absolutely
mum. As Ted says, they’re cooking up what they will say to us. Oh, this damned
war! I grow angrier and angrier about it. Not angry with the Germans but angry
with all men, and the stupidity of war enrages me. It is a mad world all right.
Yet it need not be. That is the awful tragedy of it. Oh God, when will sanity
and peace return to us?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <b>July 8, 1943</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No information about
Tuesday night, so we conclude our flyer's were simply practicing maneuvers
against searchlights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 10, 1943</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">News first thing this
morning that the Allies have made successful landings in Sicily; English,
American and Canadian troops making the invasion; and General Eisenhower has
broadcast from Algiers to the French of Metropolitan France to keep calm,
assuring them that the first step in the invasion of Europe has taken place,
and liberation is coming to them in due course, but meanwhile to do nothing rash,
they will be duly informed what to do when there is anything they can do, but
for the moment they must make no rash acts, but keep calm, keep calm! President
Roosevelt has sent a letter to the Pope, giving assurance that the Allies will
effect the liberation of Italy from the Fascists, and that the safety and
neutrality of Vatican State will be strictly observed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 13, 1943</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was an alert in
the night, so came downstairs just before three a.m. Before that we had heard
an enormous flock of our planes going out. At one today we were told our
home-based bombers had made a large raid on Turin last night. So I suppose it
was some of them we heard passing over. The moon is now in her second quarter,
so I expect we shall have raids every night now for the next two weeks. B.B.C.
Says a town in the Southeast was bombed last night, causing damage and
casualties but of course they do not say where. We had a bad day light raid
last Friday. The alert came whilst we were at tea, about five-fifteen p.m. The
worst of that one was on Croydon, where a cinema got a direct hit. It was full
of children, who had gone in straight after school hours, and also many
W.A.A.F. girls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
have many letters to write. We had bad news from Charlie last week. Marjorie’s ex-rays
show a bad patch on her left lung and the doctor has ordered her into a
sanatorium for six months. This is serious, but I have a secret idea it isn’t
so bad as it sounds, for Americans take their health very seriously indeed, and
rush off to sanatoriums and hospitals for indisposition the ordinary English
person would ignore or forget. The Americans always struck me, as verging on
the hypochondriac, and that was why Christian Science had such success with
them, for it is easy to cure what doesn’t really exist. Marjorie is a trained
nurse, apt to always be on a hunt for symptoms. Anyhow Marjorie is going to go
to a sanatorium for six months, so she’ll have a holiday, and Charlie will have
a deuce of a time, running house and family, and paying the bills. I guess I am
unsympathetic. Anyhow I’m sure, I’m no hypochondriac. I like Marjorie, very
much, but I have an incontrovertible conviction that she isn’t so sick as she
thinks she is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 14, 1943</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was awakened by
gunfire about three-thirty this morning, and came downstairs, where I remained
until five o’clock. Ted remained in bed, as always, but I cannot stay upstairs
once the alert is given, or the guns begin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
was very wakeful and did a lot of thinking. I found myself involuntarily reciting
the memorare, and with belief. This is instinctive faith. Is it fear, which
creates religion? Or is it necessary for people of today to experience fear, so
as to be driven to God, to the experience of God? I don’t know, I only know
that it is so. Fear and beauty, these are the two great incontrovertible
compulsions which drive us directly to God. Then if to God, I thought why not
to church? To the only Church, the Catholic, the Roman Catholic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
had fallen asleep peevish against Ted, in fact, really angry. He had insisted
upon opening the window in the little room, which I had closed on my way back
from the bathroom, and I had resented his insistence. Yes, I thought, his way,
what ever this man desires he must and will have. Even the opening and closing
of a window must be according to his likening. I felt again my awful weariness
of this old husband.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Of
course when the gunfire awakened me my annoyance had passed away in my sleep,
but some solution of lost love had evidently been thrown up, for I found myself
thinking in the early morning of this everlasting problem of the conflict of
the sexes and its strain. It is like this I thought: the most important thing
in the world to man is the gratification of his sexuality, the most important
thing in the world to a woman is marriage with its security and support, but in
marriage a woman wishes to be loved for herself alone, for her personality, not
her body, for her mind and soul, not her womb, and, after satiety, a man become
tired of the economic responsibilities of a wife. Keeping a wife is a luxury
men would like to dispose of; thence comes the strife and the natural
disappointment and dissatisfaction. Legality holds, religion, law, and society
hold man and wife together till death does them part, and this is a good thing,
it is the wisdom of the ages, luckily for both of them. So they adjust
themselves to the harness, ease them as best they can to the gall of it, they
accommodate to each other, and that is the successful marriage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No
wonder we turn to God, men and women alike, for God our creator is the only
being who knows us, loves us, and endures us. Back we come to agree with the
statements of the saints.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I
associate the Church with the Irish, and hate it because I dislike them so
much. The Irish Catholics, the Irish, how I despise them! Why don’t I think of
the French, and French Catholicism? Catholicism in Ireland is the religion of
the ignorant and superstitious peasant, but Catholicism in France is the
religion of the educated and the intellectual. Ireland has contributed nothing
to the world except strife, no art, no literature, and no saints. France has
contributed much beauty, reason, great art, music, architecture, poetry,
sculpture, science, great people, and great saints. I thought of my very special
two, Chantal and Francis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The
B.B.C. has reported speeches made today at Claridge's, made at a luncheon given
to Sir Basil Brooke, the new Prime Minister of Northern Ireland. Sir Basil said
that the Border created no differences it merely recognized them. Eire was
neutral and Ulster was at war. One of the many results of this was that the
bases in the South, which might have saved lives and shortened the struggle in
the long and terrible Battle of the Atlantic, has been denied to the Allied
fighting forces … but it was Ulster’s proud privilege that her ports and her
airfields should be used by the armed forces of the Allies. … Mr. Morrison
said, in the light of the relationship between Ireland and this country in this
war, it was bound to have a permanently modifying affect on many people’s
opinions in this country … You cannot avoid the fact that in the North, there
has been a positive loyalty and cooperation with Great Britain. It is not only
that, the great thing is that in the North there has been a positive and
courageous loyalty to the cause of human freedom and for the destruction of a
menace to our freedom and liberties. Southern Ireland has preferred to stay
neutral, the tragic thing is that Eire, a country which has fought many battles
for what it conceived to be the cause of liberty in one way or another, should
have stood aside neutral and indifferent to this, one of the most dramatic and
fateful struggles in the history of all mankind. That does not stand us too
well in the history of the nations.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Exactly.
The Catholic Irish again, doing all they can to harm the English. For a long
time now our sailors have nicknamed Eire, Traitors Island. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 15, 1943</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It was a quiet night. I
received this morning from Watson Sons and Room, a check for my share of the
legacies under mother’s will. This afternoon I took it down to the post office
and put it in the savings bank. This money I shall save to spend in America.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 16, 1943</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am very tired. An
alert sounded soon after midnight and the all clear at one forty-five a.m.
There was a new alert at two a.m. and no all clear until after three o’clock. I
spent practically the whole time downstairs. I did not go back to bed after the
first all clear, but came down stairs again almost immediately afterwards. I
was very wakeful, because all a simmer with anger against Ted, so I kept the
light on all the time and tried to divert myself with reading. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ted
had been very ill mannered when I went up to bed at eleven. Rain had started,
so of course I closed the slip-room window, but before I could get into the
bathroom Ted came bounding out of bed and into the slip room, and opened the
window again. He was violently angry. He pulled his hand along the ledge, and
then made me feel it on my face, to prove that the rain was not coming in, and
of course he passed sarcastic remarks. I was speechless, and when I got into
the bathroom I found I could hardly breathe. His rudeness astounds me, but his
pettiness I despise. So when I got to bed I could not sleep, I felt in a state
of sort of suspension, and ready to be sick, like as in the raids. This man, I
felt, was unendurable, and my longing to be free of him surged into my breast
into a positive physical pain. Greater than my longing for God, greater than my
longing for America, greater even than my longing for the end of the war, was,
and is my longing to be free of Ted Thompson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The
other day, when serving him his dinner I gave him new potatoes, boiled in their
skins, and explaining why, I began to say “You must peel your potatoes for
yourself” but he was up in the air in a moment, I had dared to utter the word
“must” to him. I ought to have said, Please peel your potatoes, or, do you mind
peeling your potatoes? Really it is impossible to know how to speak to this
man. Joan has told me on various occasions she has seen mother crying over me,
after her return from a visit here, because of the way in which Ted spoke to
me. Once, years ago, way back in the Bayonne days, once Blanche Sivell followed
me into the kitchen, crying, for my sake, and she said, “Oh, Ruby, no man ought
to speak to anybody the way Ted speaks to you” Ted’s scorpion tongue. Yes, I am
tired of it, and I’ve been tired of it for nearly forty years. Oh God, I’m
tired!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">July 17, 1943</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It is Ted’s birthday,
and a lovely day. Ted is sixty-four today. He is at the office now and I am
cooking the dinner, meat in the oven, all vegetables prepared, and now a
breathing space until it is time to start the vegetables. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday
Churchill and Roosevelt; to capitulate, to save them, and not to continue to
die for Hitler, to throw over Mussolini and his Fascist Government, broadcast
appeals to the Italian people. How can they? In Sicily over twenty thousand
Italians have surrendered, but they are soldiers, what can the people of Italy
do?</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3898337367540434606.post-35274962120140369932014-09-07T08:53:00.002-04:002015-02-17T20:28:42.871-05:00World War ll London Blitz: 6-24-43 The R.A.F. is bombing Europe both day and night. <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1664" target="_blank"><span style="color: magenta;">Purchase Diary's :</span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">June 24, 1943<br /><br />Joan came and spent the day with us last Tuesday; the first time I have seen her in a couple of months. She tells me bombs have destroyed Hampshire Hog House. (Another part of my youth gone.) We have been having raids practically every night these past three weeks. I come downstairs, but Ted remains in bed. The war is awful, worse and worse. The R.A.F. is bombing Europe both day and night. Yesterday the B.B.C. told us that during the past twenty-four hours we had two thousand bombers over Germany. The Americans go by day; the R.A.F. by night and still it goes on!</span>Well London Blitz Diarieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12471980439271464955noreply@blogger.com0