In a small, semi-detached house in Lewisham, south-east London, 9-year old Johnny Johnson was having his weekly bath. It was February, 1941, and winter still had a firm grip on the British Isles. The London Blitz of the Second World War had been raging since September 1940 with no signs of a let-up. Already, close to 20,000 Londoners had been killed by Luftwaffe bombs. “Mum, the bath water has gone cold!” “Too bad, Johnny. There’s a war on and the boiler’s gone out. And you know why? We’ve no more coal. Maybe next week we’ll be lucky.” “But mum, my willy’s disappearing. What’s happening?” asked Johnny, with a worried look on his face. “Don’t be silly, you know very well that it shrinks when you sit in water, particularly cold water. When you get dry and warm again it’ll go back to its normal size.” Johnny gave a big smile. He knew he was just testing his mother to see if she would give the same answer as she normally did. Mary Johnson bent over the bath and washed Johnny’s back. She looked tired. Her eyes were vacant and bereft of any luster. Her lethargy and look of deep sadness could be blamed on all the ills and worry which eighteen months of war had brought. She had cut her once-lustrous blonde hair short for ease of washing and control. No longer could she spend time in front of a mirror tending to her appearance; a little lipstick and a little rouge were all she could afford. She was only thirty-two but looked many years older; a petite woman with a good figure but needing a little more flesh on her frame. Severe food rationing could be blamed for that. She was a kind woman, well-liked by all her neighbors. Her love for her son was boundless and, because of this, the burden of his well-being and safety weighed heavily upon her. At times of severe stress she cursed that her husband was not by her side but thousands of miles away. The fact that he was also in danger and discomfort added to the feelings of helplessness that periodically swept over her. But, at such times, she knew that many other women were without their husbands, that others had lost their homes and their children. She abhorred self-pity and mentally chastised herself for the indulgence. “I bet if dad was here he’d go out and find some coal, and keep the boiler going.” “Well, he isn’t here, is he? He’s on his ship in the North Atlantic, and he’s probably colder than you are. He’s probably on deck right now, braving a storm with ice-cold rain blowing in his face.” “Brrrrr, I wouldn’t like that,” said Johnny, giving an extra shiver before thinking hard and coming up with a solution to his dad’s problem. “Well, why couldn’t he go down in the engine room where it’s nice and warm?” “Because he’s not an engineer or a stoker,” said Mary. “He’s a deck officer and he has to keep a good look out and help with navigation.” “Out of the bath, Johnny. Dry yourself off,” said Mary. Johnny was nine years old, tall for his age, and, although he did not have much muscle on him, he was strong and agile. His blond hair was a mass of curls, which he did not like. He thought boys and men should have straight hair as a sign of their masculinity. Pale blue eyes complemented his blond hair, both of which indicated a Nordic ancestry. When his mother told him this, he puffed up his chest and said that he was proud to be a Viking. He liked to bathe himself, except of course he could not wash his back; that was his mother’s job. Bath-tubs were supposed to have only three inches of water in them. Johnny thought this government restriction was silly, given the amount of rain that fell every year. Johnny was a bright boy, inquisitive and curious about the world around him. His school work was above average, and could be even better if only he concentrated more, listened to his teacher better with fully opened ears and curbed his very talkative tongue. He liked making his classmates laugh, although he fell short of being the class clown. He liked games of all kinds. During recess he became the natural organizer of teams for football, running races, wrestling and tag. His above-average height and long legs gave him quite an advantage in these activities. “When’s dad going to be home?” asked Johnny, with a small whine. “I don’t know. It depends on a lot of things. Put your underwear back on and your pajamas. You can sleep in my bed tonight so we can keep one another warm.” They hurried into Mary’s bedroom which was ice-cold and draughty. She quickly lit a portable oil stove, hoping that a little warmth would melt the ice on the inside of the windows behind the heavy curtains. The curtains had to be light-proof or a patrolling Air Raid Protection warden was likely to shout, “Put that bloody light out! You want Herr Hitler to know where you are.” Reluctantly, Johnny slid between the freezing sheets: his teeth chattering, his limbs shivering, his breath making puffs of steam. Mary opened her wardrobe and took Johnny’s blue siren-suit from its hanger. The suit was an overall, specifically designed to keep the wearer warm on the way to an outside shelter in the middle of the night. Mary laid the suit at the foot of the bed ready for instant use along with their gas mask boxes. “Do you think they’ll come again tonight, mum?” “I hope not, luv.” But Mary knew they would. There had been six raids in the last seven nights. Why would they stop now.
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