The War Years

A Memory of Fraserburgh.

We had been in Grantham in England prior to the outbreak of the Second World War. Mother and Father decided to go home to the 'Broch' believing it would be much safer for the family. The shuttle from Grantham to Peterborough was without incident, but joining the London-Aberdeen express we were crammed into carriages packed with soldiers as they were being re-distributed to many different places to defend the country from attack. War was inevitable and though the journey was on the 'Flying Scotsman' I was separated from my mother who had my sister on her knee, jammed in between two soldiers in a carriage made for eight people comfortably, now holding with those standing twelve, plus each having the red glow of a 'woodbine' between his lips. The atmosphere was blue from smoke, (thinking back) if we were to have died from borrowed smoke, we didn't stand a chance with those conditions. Only three years of age at the time having been brought up in a strict presbyterian religion, as a child, this was the hell that the preacher was always telling us about. If we had stayed in Grantham we would have died as it really came under heavy bombing attacks by the Luftwaffe and the area we had lives in was completely razed to the ground. Though not as heavily bombed as other places throughout the war, because in the Broch there were The 'Toolies' CPT building for the war effort and Machonachies fish canning factory, these regularily became targets and some destruction and death took place at Machonachies, the 'Toolies' was spared. Father was exempted from going to the front as he was a marine engineer and was needed to fix broken engines of the fishing boats that were still allowed to fish and to old to be annexed for the war. He became a member of the Home Guard and immediately left home when the siren alarm went off. Many times he did not return till daybreak and then after getting some breakfast off he went to work repairing the engines of the fishing boats and navy ships that came in for repair. Initially till the war began to wind down it was practically a disruption every other night. As the bombing increased, mother and father decided to move to Granny Leeb's, Father's mother, in Broadsea. Across the street from where we lived was the concrete and steel reinforced bomb shelter, and when the siren sounded no matter what time day or night we crying and angry children were hustled into this stinking, filthy cement box, with condensation running down the walls, to sit on a damp bench with only a candle for light. The shelter was for the women and children, while the brave men went to the 'Gable end' of Jean Gerdner's hoose, to take care of any German paratroopers that were planning to land. It worked out well for the heroic fathers as, I discovered later, they would swap tales and listen to the stories of Auld Geordie Cameron who had been in America for a few years and had returned  with these fantastic fables, I mean stories, that had everyone's head swimming with this amazing Land of America! Father would return from the 'Brae' aglow with these tales and would in his enthusiasm seek to relate something to Mother who was ready to go to bed and who would be quite irate at him as it was now 4am. in the morning.     
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