The Third Night Of The May Blitz On Liverpool

As the now familiar wailing of the air-raid siren sounded on this, the third night of the May Blitz over Liverpool (which was to prove the heaviest and most devastating to date) every door in the tenement building opened simultaneously. Each family emerged into the black-out, all equipped with their needs for the coming night:- gas masks, blankets, Thermos flasks, etc. some of the more optimistic among them brought along their mouth organs too, knowing they could rely on Old Sam from the ground floor flat to keep up their spirits through the long night by squeezing their favourite tunes from his ancient concertina.
They were only too willing to accompany him, thus helping to keep panic at bay, as the noise of the attacks from the skies threatened to break their spirits; in between times they were regaled with the oft’ repeated tale from Sam of how he left his right leg in France while obeying a command to ‘go over the top’, and of how he woke up in a French Hospital minus that limb, but proudly displaying the war medals which he wore across his waistcoat — “for King and Country”’
As this procession trudged slowly through the blackout towards the air-raid shelter, one old lady, glancing wistfully back toward her tenement home, sent up a heartfelt prayer “Oh God! Please let our Hotel be there when this night is over.” - “Amen” from all.
Thankfully reaching the entrance to the air-raid shelter (a basement beneath the nearby Tannery ), the women and children were safely ‘deposited’ inside by their men-folk, while they slipped into the local pub for a ‘quick one’ as the aroma of beer, wafting out into the black-out, proved too great a temptation for them- especially as supplies were running out.
A ‘quick one’ it was too, as a short time later a wave of bombers overhead were raining down their incendiary bombs, some of which, landing on the roof of the pub, soon turned the place into an inferno. The ‘customers’ becoming aware of the mortal danger, made a mad stampede towards the ‘exit’ doors (although every man held on to his pint) while old Sammy, in spite of his disability, lingered behind just long enough to snatch up the bottle of scotch left so temptingly on the bar counter during the panic ‘exodus’. “Keep us all warm during the night” he mused looking contritely skyward, hoping God would understand.
Very soon, however, panic reigned supreme and as more and more ‘ incendiaries ‘ descended from above, it was inevitable that the tannery would become a death-trap. The barrels of tanning solution flanking each side of the entrance yard were set alight forming an archway of flames through which, with commendable calm and with as much speed as possible under the circumstances, the wardens were shepherding the many families from the shelter, trying also to calm the men outside who were screaming “ Get those women and children out “.
When all had reached the comparative safety of the streets, hysteria threatened and the errant husbands took over the situation from then on, guiding their families to the nearest ‘surface shelter’ which was already occupied by many others who, ungrudgingly, squeezed up tighter to make room for the newcomers and their (miraculously!) sleeping babies.

Many ‘flittings’ from shelter to shelter took place during that long and gruelling night of utter terrifying destruction, although Sam (and his concertina) being in a world of his own thanks to the bottle of scotch, tried his best to ‘cheer up’ everybody with his renderings from both wars — ‘Keep the home fires burning’, ‘Pack up your troubles, ‘Over there’, ‘Roll out the barrel’, ‘Bless ‘em all’, ‘We’ll hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line’, finishing his concert each time with a rousing “Are we downhearted?” to which there was an emphatic reply of “No!” which, as the night wore on, faded away with their waning spirit to a mere whisper.
Eventually the welcome sound of the ‘all clear’ came with the dawn of Sunday morning along with the smiles of relief, and a fresh burst of energy, enabling them all to make their way slowly homeward.

As the outline of their tenement loomed ahead, apparently unharmed, there were tears as well as cheers, but as they drew nearer, they realised that one of the ground floor dwellings had no front door; it had departed earlier to some unknown destination, from the blast of a landmine, which had also destroyed a nearby dairy farm. Their two cows, having somehow escaped, had made their way into the hallway of the doorless dwelling and were staring mournfully at the returning refugees sharing their great distress. One ‘wit’ in the crowd reacted with “They must have run out of bombs’ look what they’ve sent instead”’
Farther along the road a couple of weary-looking wardens were trying in vain to pull a blazing couch from a gaping hole in someone’s wall, while two others, finding the water hydrants dry and useless, were holding out their ‘tin helmets’ and an old enamel bucket pleading for urine donors to help douse the flames; all modesty discarded, those who could, obliged.

So ‘to bed’ at last, hopefully ‘to sleep’ — all except for old Sam (still on ‘cloud nine’), who was crooning away to himself and gazing ruefully at his empty whisky bottle while shaking his fist at the sky.
Suddenly he was blasted bodily with great force into the middle of the road as a cargo of ammunition near the docks received a direct hit from a ‘straggler’ bomber which released a final ‘load’ before returning to Germany. Dazed and bleeding now, Sam struggled painfully to his feet (one false) and shuffled slowly homeward —
NO SONG NOW — NO CONCERTINA - NO WHISKY EITHER.

‘This story was submitted to the People’s War site by BBC Radio Merseyside’s People’s War team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.’

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