The bomber will always get through.

So said Stanley Baldwin, British Prime Minister, 1935 to 1937, and many leading experts at the time.

At the age of five I saw my first warplane, it was an RAF seaplane with a dummy orange bomb attached to its undercarriage, on show near Hastings pier, part of the British government's propaganda campaign to bolster morale just before the war started. A short while later, I saw my first anti-aircraft gun – it looked brand new with its shiny dark green coating. It was first situated in Warrior Square Gardens, Hastings, for display purposes, but then later moved to the beach opposite to perform a more active role. Due to my young age and lack of knowledge, I assumed it would shoot down any enemy aircraft which dared to trespass over our skies...how time would prove me wrong.

   

For a few months after that, life went on as normal. I attended St Paul's primary school in St Leonards and enjoyed the life most children had at that time. Then shortly after, I was conscious of a change, for in the area I lived, Hollington, there were billeted many Londoners and their children, part of the first wave of evacuees from cities and towns during 1939.

In June 1940 came the reality of war as my eldest stepbrother was rescued from Dunkirk, along with some 300,000 other soldiers. He described in visual detail his rescue and related how he saw a Junkers Ju 87 dive bomber (Stuka) release its bomb, only for it to travel down a Royal Navy destroyer’s funnel with dire results. With the British forces in retreat, the country now awaited the German invasion which was named Operation Sea Lion.

   

Not long after, my parents and I were walking down King's Road, St Leonards (an area of Hastings), when we saw a government notice in the local post office. One word stood out, a new word, and one I had not seen before...evacuation! Unknown to me, this was a term I was soon to become familiar with.

On the 20th of July 1940, along with my fellow classmates from St Paul's, we travelled by bus to Hastings railway station. Packed with everything I would need, and saying goodbye to my parents, I, along with 3000 other children, made the exodus to Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire and Cambridgeshire, just in time before the first bombs fell on Hastings during the 26^th of July.

Now separated from my parents and the life I once knew, I found myself in a strange world...one any six-year-old would find intimidating. My place of residence for the next three years was an old farm cottage in rural Houghton Conquest, about five miles from the town of Bedford. My foster carers were a kind old lady, her disabled brother, and her fifteen-year-old niece.