still free from Nazi occupation.
Our spirits were high but, we civilians had little or no knowledge concerning the strategies of warfare. Many of us thought that the invasion was imminent, and, as we lived beside a probable landing beach, we began to wonder what we could do to help, or if not help, at least not hinder our own troops. My mother and I came up with one practical idea only. We would put all our cans and bottled foods in waterproof bags, and bury them in the "manure hole" deep under the rotting leaves and grass cuttings in the vegetable garden. In this way, if we were forced to house the enemy, we would not have to feed them! In retrospect, I realize that it is doubtful if we, or our house, would have survived had we been invaded, but, at the time, ignorance was bliss, and our uninformed minds helped us through an otherwise frightening situation.
On June 10th, Italy invaded Southern France through the Alps and, on June 22nd, France accepted an armistice and hostilities ceased there three days later. The Nazis occupied France and, after negotiations, Vichy France in the south was allowed a puppet government.
The British civilians, though jubilant from the "success" of Dunkirk, were confused and did not know what to think or what they should do next. We needed a leader to guide and put the facts of the situation before us. The next day, the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, who had recently formed a new coalition War Cabinet, spoke to the nation on the radio through the House of Commons, using his resolute and powerful rhetoric. It was, I think, his greatest morale-raising speech of the war. He concluded by saying the now famous words:
"...We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the new world, with all its power and might steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old."
From the most influential to the least important, Britons no longer needed to be told how to think or act; we knew exactly what was expected of us. We all needed to pitch in and do our best, however great or humble our part - there was no room or time for despair. Those inspiring words renewed our determination despite the almost impossible odds piled up against us.
Until the middle of August, life was reasonably peaceful at Pett. There was, however, one “fly in the ointment" with which everyone seemed to cope rather well. A German JU-88 light bomber flew over our area with such regularity that the people of the village were able to plan their day around the intruder's routine. Several mornings a week, the aircraft made landfall at low altitude about 11 a.m. It would fly inland along our valley, machine-gunning the local bus, cars or anything or anyone that moved, and then disappear over the hill near Fairlight Church, drop its bombs on Hastings, and retreat out to sea again. The time never varied and the Junkers could have been an easy prey, but our own fighters were too busy elsewhere to be spared for a lone raider. We learnt to stay indoors from about 10.45 a.m. until either the Junkers had passed by, or we were certain that it would not appear that morning. For the rest of the day, we felt quite safe.
Another incident seemed amusing to us at the time. The Army, encamped in the village, used to play football regularly in a large field opposite our home on the other side of the valley. The game, which they played in the morning, was usually in progress when the Junkers flew in. At the first sound of aircraft engines, the players would run for the protection of the thick hedge surrounding the meadow and hide beneath the bushes. The pilot of the enemy aircraft, seeing no activity there, would continue on his way in search of other prey. When the raider was safely out of range, the players emerged from their scattered hiding places to finish the game.
This way of life continued until the middle of August. So far, we had been spared an invasion. The sea proved to be a good ally. Then the enemy made its first massed air attack over the north-east of England and consequently suffered many losses - the Battle of Britain had begun. These raids were followed quickly by the bombing of RDF (radar) stations and airfields across the country. The next day the Luftwaffe concentrated on airfields alone in an attempt to cripple the RAF, the strategy being the preliminary to an invasion by sea. We had still not grasped the seriousness of the situation. On August 16th, more than 1,700 German bombers and fighters penetrated our air defences. One day during this period, we saw large concentrations of JU-52's (troop-carrying aircraft), passing just east of our village above the Romney Marshes on their way to London. We had to wait until we listened to the BBC news that evening to learn that the invasion had not started. The aircraft had been carrying bombs, not troops. I think we all slept better than usual that night.
After a lull due to a few days of poor weather, Pett suddenly found itself in the centre of the battle zone again as formations of German aircraft passed overhead, only to be split up by our Hurricanes and Spitfires. Enemy squadrons flew in droves above us, and dog-fights became regular occurrences overhead as our fighters, warned by radar, met them at the coast. During the beginning of this prolonged battle from August 24th. to September 6th, over a thousand German aircraft penetrated our island daily. Our fighters, vastly inferior in numbers, were usually in the air twice in a day, the pilots landing to refuel, only to take off again to continue the fight.
Early in September, the East End of London was set ablaze. The climax of the Battle of Britain came on September 15th. The attacks trailed off to some degree by the end of the month. During these days, we spent much of our time staying close to our air raid shelter watching the dog-fights above us, often diving into the dugout with great speed. On one such occasion, when the battles overhead seemed to have dwindled to almost nothing, we were chatting over the fence to our good friends and neighbours, the Watsons and their two teen-aged sons. We were relating to each other the events we had seen during the afternoon, when suddenly we were deafened by a tremendous roar. We looked upwards towards the laneway near the brow of the hill and, in a split second, we had all thrown ourselves flat on the ground, as a Messerschmitt 110 skimmed just above the garage roof, just missing the 50 ft TV aerial on the garage roof, pointing down towards the valley and the sea beyond. The noise of machine-guns filled the air. I covered my neck with my hands, and then glanced quickly from one side to the other as a shadow passed over me. There, on either side, I saw an aircraft wing with a big black cross near its tip. It could not have been more than fifty feet above me. As I was about to rise from the grass and dust, another aircraft followed at almost as low an altitude. This time it was a Spitfire chasing the Messerschmitt, the pilot pumping lead into the foe as he followed him. After the Spitfire had passed over us, one head came up after another as each of us ventured to rise above ground level. We wanted to witness the end of the chase.
Mrs. Watson, who had thrown herself flat on the garden path under some small trees, slowly staggered to her feet. There she stood defiantly, her hair smothered in twigs and leaves, her knees showing a tinge of pink, protruding through two huge holes in her stockings - a dishevelled, indignant but smiling survivor.
The Spitfire continued to follow the Me-110, forcing it lower and lower until it plunged into the sea in a column of water and spray. The Spit. circled, and then flew back towards our valley. As it passed over us, its wings swayed gently from side to side in a "Victory Roll”. We all waved our arms enthusiastically. My uncle shook his white handkerchief with a flourish, as the Spitfire headed inland towards its home base, probably for the second time that day. This pilot could still look forward to another tomorrow.
That day had been a rough one. Earlier, we had watched the air battles from a distance, where we had a panoramic view from the road at the top of Chick Hill. Much of the fighting had taken place above Winchelsea and Rye, about five to ten miles away. These two ancient and historical towns, two of the five Cinque Ports, were built on isolated hills, which rose above the expanse of the flat meadow and marshlands around them.
During one period of that day, the waves of enemy bombers were so numerous that our fighters, trying to break up their close formations, were engaged mostly in single dog fights with the enemy fighters attempting to protect the bombers. Within less than fifteen minutes, we witnessed seven fighters being shot down - too far away to identify whether they were friend or foe. Each aircraft plummeted towards the earth, followed by a ribbon of black smoke trailing behind it, before it exploded in a ball