I was absolutely petrified. The noise was deafening with the crash of bombs and the screams of women trying to protect their children.
And there was I, a skinny little seven-year-old kid in the war, standing on my own in the middle of a platform as everyone else dived for cover.
Dressed in my only suit, I had caught the bus to Waterloo, where I was to catch a train to Southampton, and, with hundreds of children, board the liner to safety across the Atlantic.
Yet my mother had only just tearfully kissed me goodbye, when German bombs rained down. Complete and utter panic took over. I dived beneath a train and curled up like a ball sobbing with fear, my face pressed to the oil-stained wooden-cross ties.
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