A Polish Odyssey

Al Murray (0:12)

Hello, and welcome to our series of Family Stories, the podcast written by you, the listener. Today, we're bringing you a whole range of stories and accounts. British civilians preparing for your invasion, forgotten bombs beneath the farm, and the final letter of a soldier who never made it home.

First of all, though, we have this story from Brian who writes, This account written by my grandmother, Myrtle Dorothy Mackie, might be of interest to the show. It features an evacuation, Molotov cocktails, and gives a good idea of how British civilians experienced the end of the phony war and prepared for the threat of invasion in 1940 Here is Myrtle's handwritten account of her experience. My husband, Sydney, was a ship surveyor in the Sea Transport Ministry. At the beginning of 1940, he was working in London and we were living in Horsham, South Sussex, to the south west of the big city. Sid was so busy night after night, he could not spare the time to come home. Eventually, he decided to stay with my mother in Notting Hill, near central London where his office was. In spring of 1940, we were threatened with invasion by sea and parachute, so I evacuated to Dawlish in Devon with my son Colin, aged 11 years, and daughter Jan, five years old. While we were there, the Battle of Britain was fought, and those were anxious days with Sid in London.

Jan remembered her daddy every night in her prayers, asking God to take care of him. It was difficult to get accommodation in Dawlish, but I had very happy relations with all the people I met there. I got to know many of them as I agreed to take on the secretarial work at the Home Guard, though we were then called the Local Defence Volunteers.

I enjoyed this clerical work and the very real contacts I made. The headquarters of this organisation was in the library of a large house, belonging to Major Riley, a professor at Exeter University who had a charming wife and three daughters. Everybody was doing their utmost following Mr. Churchill's broadcast on the radio, after Dunkirk.

It was in Mr. Riley's garden that the Volunteers' Molotov bombs did their work. What a mess they made of his beautiful garden. These bombs were made of highly flammable liquid, put into bottles of all kinds, which were corked and bound at the cork with adhesive tape, which held a match. Quantities of these bombs were placed at strategic sites around the town and were to be used by the Home Guard against invaders. Jan and Colin, with the other children, helped to collect empty bottles of wine, soft drinks, vinegar, etc. from the inhabitants of Dawlish. They also helped to wash, clean and stack the bottles. The work went on for about three months. The weather was beautiful and it seemed a sin to make such dreadful things in such beautiful surroundings. Major Riley demonstrated the finished article on a garden roller. We all stood back about 20 yards. He made a direct hit and truly the resulting flames were widespread, leaping at least 10 feet in all directions. One day I was working in the office at the house, the children in the garden under the guidance of 90-year-old Prince Riley. Most people were doing their normal work and using their spare time preparing for the enemy, who we all felt were about to invade the country.

Leaving the office to go home, I met Prudence at the gate. She was anxious about the delivery of a large stack of Molotov bombs which were waiting to be taken to the local fire station. I offered to take them in my car, a nine-horsepower Wolsey Wasp which was at the gate. Plenty of volunteers offered to load it. The boot was filled to capacity with bombs and all the back seat and floor space as well. There were about a dozen bombs in most of the cardboard boxes. I must have had at least 200 bombs on board. My daughter Jan sat at the front with me and we started off. On the way, we passed the house we were staying, and the maid who had been left in charge by the owner was in the front garden. I stopped to show her a bomb as she had wanted to know what one looked like. We then went on to the fire station, negotiating a very stiff corner on one of those shockingly steep hills common in Devon. The fireman took delivery of our cargo and we went home. Next morning before 8am there was a ring at our doorbell and I hurried down in my dressing gown just in time to see Major Riley driving off to the University of Exeter in his Humber. He gave me a wave and pointed to a parcel on the steps. He had bought me a box of chocolates.