The story of a Birmingham wartime evacuee
Sep 19 2009 By Carl Chinn
FOLLOWING on from the recent article on the evacuation of school children from Birmingham just before the outbreak of the Second World War, Barry Fletcher has written in with his memories and with information about a group keeping alive such memories.
“In May 1939, just before my eighth birthday, my father died unexpectedly in hospital leaving Mom in great distress. My last memory of Dad was watching him dig the hole for the Anderson shelter in the back garden in April 1939.
A few months later my childhood received another serious setback the outbreak of war with Germany and my evacuation.
At Station Road Board School, Aston, I have since discovered, our evacuation was planned a year before the outbreak of war and on September 28, 1938, a meeting with parents was held at the school to arrange for the distribution of gas masks, the amount of hand luggage to be taken, and the need for one day’s supply of food.
In March 1939 the school knew in the event of evacuation our train number W507 was timed to leave Aston Station at 4.15pm. The destination was not disclosed, and the date not known.
The evacuation itself took place on Friday, September 1, 1939. It did not go entirely to plan – many mothers withdrew their crying children and returned home.
The remainder left in a long double file, marshalled by teachers and parents. Our route led across the Serpentine Ground famous for its visits from the Pat Collins Fair and along Lovers Walk, to the station.
Upon boarding the train at 4.15pm we were with other excited and nervous children bound for who knows where. In our case we later discovered it was Redditch. My friend, Trevor Clewley, by this time had already made a big mistake, and one he would regret for many years to come. To sustain him his mother had cut up a banana to make a sandwich. But he was not impressed with the brown mash. Disgusted, he threw the lot out of the train window. He did not realise it would be six years before bananas became available once again.
Upon arriving at Redditch our school party was split into three groups, Crabbs Cross, Headless Cross, or Feckenham. Each group boarded a bus to the respective destination. Around 40 of us found ourselves in Feckenham village hall sitting on benches either side of the hall facing inwards. Most of the boys were on the left, the girls on the right, with groups of anxious adults looking at us.
Excitement had now disappeared. We were clearly not at the seaside, bucket and spade were not likely to be needed. A billeting officer was hovering around, greeting people as they arrived encouraging them to select children, a process uncomfortable for all concerned.
The next few hours are difficult to describe, many of the girls were in floods of tears, clutching a doll or favourite toy, as we waited to be selected. Next to me was Harry Spalding, almost ten years-old, then came Fred and Bob Bower, Les Fisher, Trevor Clewley, and around 40 others sitting on the two benches.
