The Children Who Learned to Live With War: How Britain’s Young Coped With Fear, Loss and Danger

The Children Who Learned to Live With War: How Britain’s Young Coped With Fear, Loss and Danger

What happens to a child when the frightening becomes normal?

When being woken by an air-raid siren is no longer unusual. When Dad has gone away and nobody will quite explain when he is coming home. When the house at the end of the street disappears overnight, or a familiar face is suddenly missing from the classroom.

Over the last few days, we have looked at evacuation, separation and the children who became casualties of the Second World War. Today I want to look at something slightly different.

How did the children who survived these experiences actually cope with them?

The answer is not as simple as we might expect.

Some children appear to have adapted remarkably well. They played, laughed, went to school when they could and sometimes turned the strange new world around them into an adventure. Bomb sites became forbidden playgrounds, pieces of shrapnel became treasures and children recreated what they saw around them in their games, pretending to be wardens, soldiers or nurses.

It did not necessarily mean they were unaffected. Play was one of the ways children made sense of things they could not control.

Other children struggled far more.

Some evacuees cried themselves to sleep because they desperately missed home. Younger children could become withdrawn or cling to adults, while others became angry or difficult. Bed-wetting, prolonged crying and changes in behaviour were observed among some children separated from their families.

Perhaps surprisingly, wartime observations made by Anna Freud and Dorothy Burlingham at the Hampstead War Nurseries suggested that, for many young children, separation from the people they loved could be more upsetting than the bombing itself. Their nurseries cared for children whose homes had been destroyed or whose family circumstances had been disrupted, and particular importance was placed on maintaining contact with mothers and keeping brothers and sisters together where possible.

Parents themselves often tried desperately to create a sense of normality.

Children did not always know how frightened the adults around them really were.

A mother might smile while taking her children into the shelter and save her tears until they were asleep. Fathers built bunks and seats inside Anderson shelters. Families played cards, sang songs, told stories or brought something to eat. One wartime recollection describes a mother teaching her daughter to knit by candlelight while they sat together in the cellar waiting for the next explosion.

It was not going to stop the bombs.

But it gave the child something ordinary to concentrate on.

Even some of the equipment designed to protect children was made less frightening. Gas masks intended for small children were brightly coloured and became known as “Mickey Mouse” masks. Behind that cheerful appearance was an extremely serious purpose, but adults understood that a frightening-looking mask was something a small child might resist wearing.

Sometimes parents simply did not tell children everything.

News of casualties might be discussed after bedtime. Worries about a father serving abroad, a missing relative or a badly damaged home could be softened until adults knew more. Of course children still overheard conversations, noticed the whispered voices and recognised when Mum had been crying. Protecting them completely was impossible.

And parents were not doing it alone.

Neighbours looked after one another’s children. Teachers continued lessons in shelters and unfamiliar classrooms. Churches and public buildings became places of safety. Foster families opened their homes to evacuees, although experiences varied enormously.

 Volunteers provided food and practical help after raids, while organisations such as the Women’s Voluntary Service supported people whose homes had been damaged or destroyed.

For a frightened child, something as simple as a familiar teacher, a kind neighbour or another child to play with could provide a little stability when almost everything else had changed.

But we should be careful about the familiar image of the cheerful wartime child who simply “got on with it”.

Many did.

Some even remembered parts of their wartime childhood with affection: the friendships, communal singing, countryside adventures and extraordinary freedom.

Others carried very different memories into adulthood.

The same air raid that one child slept through could leave another terrified. The same evacuation that gave one child a loving second family could leave another feeling abandoned and unwanted.

Perhaps that is the most important thing to remember.

There was no single wartime childhood.

Behind every photograph of smiling children carrying gas-mask boxes was an individual child trying, in their own way, to understand a world that had suddenly become frighteningly uncertain.

Do you have a parent, grandparent or other relative who ever spoke about how they coped with being a child during the Second World War?

Harald Hardrada: The Warrior King Who Invaded England Before William Landed

Harald Hardrada: The Warrior King Who Invaded England Before William Landed

In my last post, we looked at the other men who believed England's crown could, or should, be theirs. Today I want to look more closely at perhaps the most formidable of them all.

Harald Hardrada, King of Norway.

Long before Harald came to England, he had already lived a life that sounds almost too dramatic to be true.

Harald Sigurdsson was born in Norway at around 1015. As a teenager he fought alongside his half-brother, King Olaf Haraldsson, at the Battle of Stiklestad in 1030. Olaf was killed and, according to later accounts, Harald was wounded. Following the defeat, he fled Norway.

But that was only the beginning.

Harald travelled east, spending time in Kievan Rus before eventually reaching Constantinople. There he served in the famous Varangian Guard, an elite force employed by the Byzantine emperors.

During these years he campaigned in different parts of the Byzantine world and gained considerable military experience and wealth.

By the time Harald returned to Scandinavia, he was certainly no inexperienced prince hoping somebody might hand him a crown.

He became joint King of Norway with his nephew Magnus the Good in 1046 and, following Magnus's death the following year, Harald became sole king.

For years he fought unsuccessfully to gain control of Denmark before eventually turning his attention towards another prize.

England.

Harald's claim to the English throne was complicated.

It rested largely on an alleged earlier agreement between King Harthacnut and Magnus the Good concerning succession to their kingdoms. Magnus had previously asserted a claim to England, and Harald regarded himself as having inherited that claim.

It may not have been the strongest claim to a throne.

But Harald had something considerably more persuasive than paperwork.

An army.

And in 1066 he found an English ally.

Tostig Godwinson.

Tostig was the brother of King Harold Godwinson, but after losing his position as Earl of Northumbria and being driven into exile, the relationship between the brothers had broken down badly.

Now Tostig joined Harald.

That meant Harold Godwinson was not simply facing a foreign invasion.

His own brother was helping to lead it.

In September 1066, Harald's Norwegian fleet arrived in northern England. On the 20th of September, Harald and Tostig defeated the forces of the Earls Edwin and Morcar at the Battle of Fulford, near York.

York then submitted.

For a brief moment, Harald Hardrada must have believed his gamble was working.

But Harold Godwinson was coming.

On the 25th of September 1066, the two armies met at Stamford Bridge.

Harald and Tostig appear to have been caught by surprise. What followed was a ferocious battle in which the Norwegian army was decisively defeated. Harald Hardrada was killed, traditionally said to have been struck in the throat by an arrow, and Tostig was also killed.

Harald Hardrada's extraordinary career was over.

His defeat at Stamford Bridge is often described as marking the symbolic end of the Viking Age, although Scandinavian warfare and raiding certainly did not suddenly disappear after 1066.

Harold Godwinson had defeated one of the most experienced warriors in Europe.

England was safe.

Or so it might have seemed.

Because just three days later, on the 28th of September 1066, William of Normandy landed at Pevensey.

Harold had dealt with one man who wanted his crown.

Now another was waiting for him in the south.

And this time, the ending would be very different.

Do you think Harald Hardrada could actually have become King of England if he had defeated Harold at Stamford Bridge?

 

The Children Caught in Britain’s War: How Bombs, Shelters and Evacuation Still Failed Them

The Children Caught in Britain’s War: How Bombs, Shelters and Evacuation Still Failed Them

Imagine sending your child away because you believed it would save their life.

Then imagine discovering that the journey to safety had placed them in danger too.

Or deciding to keep them at home, only for a bomb to fall on their school.

Over the last few days, we have looked at the children who were evacuated, the brothers and sisters who were sometimes separated and those who stayed behind with their families.

Today I want to look at the darker side of their story.

The children who became casualties of the Second World War.

When we hear the word casualty, we often think of soldiers. But this was a war in which the battlefield came directly to British towns and cities, and thousands of children were killed or seriously injured.

During the Blitz alone, 7,736 children were killed and another 7,622 were seriously wounded.

Bombing was the most obvious danger.

Children were killed when their homes were destroyed, when streets were hit and when bombs fell on schools, shops and other buildings. Even when a particular building was not being deliberately targeted, bombing from the air could never be precise enough to protect the civilians living around factories, docks, railway lines and other important targets.

One heartbreaking example happened at Sandhurst Road School in Catford, south-east London.

On the 20th of January 1943, the children were having lunch when a German bomb hit the school.

Thirty-eight pupils and six members of staff were killed and around sixty more people were injured.

Among those who died was twelve-year-old Sylvia May Ellen Head.

But bombs were not the only reason children became casualties.

Sometimes the attempt to protect people created dangers of its own.

On the 3rd of March 1943, an air-raid warning sent people rushing towards Bethnal Green Underground station in London, which was being used as a shelter.

A woman and child fell near the bottom of the entrance steps and people behind continued moving forward in the darkness. Within seconds, a terrible crush developed.

One hundred and seventy-three people died.

Sixty-two of them were children.

Perhaps the most extraordinary part of the story is that no enemy bomb caused those deaths. People had gone underground because they believed it was the safest place to be.

Even evacuation itself could end in tragedy.

Some British children were sent abroad because Canada and other parts of the Commonwealth were thought to offer even greater safety than the British countryside.

On the 17th of September 1940, the SS City of Benares was sailing towards Canada carrying ninety child evacuees when it was torpedoed in the Atlantic.

Only thirteen of those ninety children survived.

Seventy-seven were lost.

The disaster helped bring the government-sponsored overseas evacuation scheme to an end.

There was another cruel twist to evacuation.

When the expected bombing failed to arrive during the early months of the war, many parents decided they had had enough of being separated from their children.

By January 1940, almost half of the evacuees had returned home.

Then, later that year, the Blitz began.

Some children therefore found themselves back in exactly the towns and cities they had originally been moved away from to protect them.

And the danger continued even after an air raid had ended.

There could be burning buildings, shattered glass, unstable ruins and unexploded bombs. Children were drawn to bomb sites, the piles of rubble could quickly become makeshift playgrounds. They climbed through ruined buildings, collected pieces of metal and sometimes came across unexploded bombs or ammunition. What looked like an exciting wartime souvenir could still be extremely dangerous, and children were repeatedly warned never to touch unfamiliar objects.

It is easy to look back at photographs of wartime children with their gas-mask boxes and little suitcases and think mainly about evacuation, rationing and disrupted schooling.

But childhood itself had become dangerous.

A child could be sitting at a school desk, asleep in bed, travelling to safety or walking towards an air-raid shelter when the war suddenly reached them.

Perhaps that is one of the saddest things about the Home Front.

Adults could build shelters, arrange evacuations, issue gas masks and make endless plans to keep children safe.

But they could never remove the danger completely.

Can anyone in your family remember being a child during the bombing, or being hurried into an air-raid shelter when the sirens sounded?

 

The First Anglo-Afghan War - Part Four: The Disastrous British Retreat from Kabul

The First Anglo-Afghan War - Part Four: The Disastrous British Retreat from Kabul

Imagine leaving Kabul in the depths of winter.

Snow was all across the mountains. Food was running short. Thousands of civilians were travelling alongside the soldiers.

Image info:

Last Stand of the 44th Regiment at Gundamuck

Date: 1898

Artist: William Barnes Wollen

And somewhere ahead was Jalalabad, more than 90 miles away.

They had been promised safe passage.

Within days, the retreating column would be almost completely destroyed.

In Part Three, we saw how the growing resentment against the British occupation finally erupted into the Kabul uprising of 1841. British political officers were killed, including Sir William Macnaghten, and Major-General William Elphinstone's position became increasingly desperate.

Today I want to continue the story and find out what happened when Elphinstone finally agreed to abandon Kabul.

On the 6th of January 1842, approximately 4,500 British and Indian troops marched out of the city accompanied by around 12,000 camp followers.

These were not just soldiers retreating from a battlefield.

Among the column were servants, labourers, families, women and children with baggage animals carrying what supplies could still be taken.

They were heading for the British garrison at Jalalabad.

The agreement which they left Kabul under was supposed to provide them with protection.

It did not.

The column was soon being attacked as it struggled along narrow roads and through mountain passes. Afghan fighters occupied the surrounding heights, while cold and snow caused further suffering to the people who were already exhausted and badly supplied.

Some froze to death.

Others collapsed from exhaustion.

Many were killed in the repeated attacks.

And as the column became stretched out along the route, maintaining any kind of military order became increasingly difficult.

The retreat became a fight for survival.

Muhammad Akbar Khan, one of the principal Afghan leaders, continued negotiating with the British officers. At different points, British women, children and officers were handed over or taken into his custody.

Although becoming a captive must have been terrifying, it ultimately saved the lives of a number of people who otherwise might have remained with the doomed column.

Those who continued towards Jalalabad were disappearing in terrifying numbers.

Eventually, only a tiny remnant of the original force remained.

Near Gandamak, on the 13th of January 1842, surviving soldiers of the 44th (East Essex) Regiment found themselves surrounded.

They made a final stand.

The 44^th was the only British infantry regiment in Elphinstone’s retreating force and most of those who had survived that far were killed in the fighting at Gandamak. A handful survived or were taken prisoner.

But one exhausted figure was still moving towards Jalalabad.

His name was Dr William Brydon, an assistant surgeon.

DR William Brydon

Badly wounded and riding an exhausted horse, Brydon finally reached the British position at Jalalabad on the 13th of January.

The sight of him arriving alone became one of the most famous images of the entire war.

It also produced a story that has been repeated ever since: that Brydon was the only survivor of the Kabul retreat.

That is not quite true.

A number of people survived because they had been taken captive or held as hostages, while there were other survivors from the fighting. But Brydon's extraordinary arrival at Jalalabad came to symbolise the destruction of the retreating force.

Only a few years earlier, British forces had entered Afghanistan expecting to remove one ruler, install another and secure their political influence in the region.

Now an army had effectively disappeared along the road from Kabul.

It was one of the greatest military disasters of the Victorian era.

But Britain was not prepared to allow the story to end there.

Forces were already holding out at Jalalabad and Kandahar, and new armies would soon advance back into Afghanistan.

In Part Five, I want to find out what happened when the British returned towards Kabul - and whether their objective was rescue, revenge, restoring their reputation, or a mixture of all three.

 

Wartime Schooldays: Evacuees, Air Raids, Digging for Victory and Playground Fights

Wartime Schooldays: Evacuees, Air Raids, Digging for Victory and Playground Fights

Imagine arriving at school in the morning and not knowing whether you would spend the day learning arithmetic, digging vegetables, sheltering from an air raid or being sent home because there was simply nowhere for your class to go.

For children growing up during the Second World War, education could look very different from the school day we recognise today.

Today I want to find out what happened to Britain’s schoolchildren during the war, including something we sometimes forget: when thousands of evacuees arrived in new towns and villages, they did not always receive a warm welcome from the local children.

When war began in September 1939, the education system was immediately disrupted.

Hundreds of thousands of schoolchildren were evacuated from cities considered vulnerable to bombing. Many travelled with their teachers, but once they reached the countryside they often had to join local schools that were already full.

There simply were not enough classrooms.

Some schools operated shift systems, with local children attending lessons during one part of the day and evacuees using the building during another. Lessons could also take place in church halls, village halls and other temporary accommodation.

In some areas, formal schooling was severely reduced for weeks or even months.

Some school buildings were requisitioned for wartime purposes but others were damaged or destroyed by bombing.

And then there were the teachers.

Men who had been teaching before the war could be called into military service, while other teachers left for different forms of war work. Retired teachers and others were sometimes brought in to help, but staffing shortages added another problem to an already disrupted system.

Children also had to learn how to respond to something no previous generation of British schoolchildren had experienced on such a scale.

Air raids.

Schools practised drills. Children learned how to reach shelters quickly and were expected to bring their gas masks with them. Lessons might suddenly stop when an air-raid warning sounded, with everyone heading for whatever shelter was available.

Wartime education was not only about reading, writing and arithmetic.

Children were encouraged to take part in the wider war effort.

Under the Dig for Victory campaign, school grounds and gardens could be turned over to growing food. Children learned to plant and tend vegetables, helping to increase food production at a time when imported supplies were under enormous pressure.

For some pupils, digging, planting and harvesting became almost another school subject.

There were also collections for salvage. Children gathered things up like waste paper and metal, and schools encouraged thrift and discouraged unnecessary waste.

And then there was the social side of evacuation.

It is tempting to imagine evacuated children arriving in country schools and immediately making lots of new friends.

Sometimes they did.

But not always.

Evacuees could arrive with unfamiliar accents, different clothes and different habits. Local children might think of them as outsiders, and evacuees sometimes thought the countryside children were strange.

There could also be resentment.

Local classrooms were suddenly more crowded. Teachers had new pupils to accommodate and village life had changed.

Arguments, name-calling and playground fights between evacuees and local children certainly happened.

We know this was not simply a general possibility because some evacuees later remembered it happening to them. Frederick Edward Wooding recalled bullying and fights among boys during his wartime schooldays, while Michael Wetton, who was evacuated to Gloucestershire in 1940, remembered being bullied by local children. Experiences varied enormously, and many evacuees did make good friends, but for some children arriving at a strange school meant coping not only with homesickness and unfamiliar lessons, but also with teasing, arguments and sometimes physical fights.

City children might be mocked for their accents or lack of knowledge about country life, while evacuees could also tease their new classmates. For children who were already frightened, homesick and separated from their parents, even a playground disagreement could feel enormous.

Of course, friendships formed too. Some evacuated children remained close to the people they met for the rest of their lives.

Wartime schooling was therefore far more than lessons interrupted by air raids.

For an entire generation of children, the war followed them right through the school gates.

If you had been an evacuee arriving at a completely new school, what do you think you would have found hardest: the lessons, the homesickness or trying to make new friends?

Nicholas Carew: Henry VIII’s Favourite Who Helped Bring Down a Queen - Then Fell Victim to Tudor Politics Himself

Nicholas Carew: Henry VIII’s Favourite Who Helped Bring Down a Queen - Then Fell Victim to Tudor Politics Himself

In my previous Tudor post, we looked at the Exeter Conspiracy and the destruction of families who were accused of threatening Henry VIII’s throne.

But there was another man drawn into its aftermath.

And his story is particularly striking because he had once been one of Henry VIII’s closest companions.

Sir Nicholas Carew had spent years beside the king - hunting, jousting and enjoying the pleasures of the Tudor court. But in 1539, Henry sent him to the scaffold.

So how did a royal favourite end up accused of treason?

Nicholas was born towards the end of the 15th century into the Carew family of Beddington in Surrey. He entered royal service when he was still young and became closely associated with Henry VIII. Contemporary evidence shows that Carew belonged to the group of young courtiers who shared the king’s sporting interests and entertainments.

Henry clearly valued him.

In 1522, Nicholas was appointed Master of the Horse, an important position in the royal household, and he was repeatedly trusted with diplomatic missions. He attended the Field of the Cloth of Gold and travelled abroad on the king’s business.

But Nicholas was also closely connected with the more conservative faction at court.

He appears to have remained sympathetic towards Catherine of Aragon and her daughter Mary, and he was certainly no enthusiastic supporter of Anne Boleyn.

By 1536, Anne’s position had become dangerously unstable. Nicholas was among the courtiers who benefited from her fall, and he was associated with the group supporting Jane Seymour, who would become Henry’s third wife only days after Anne’s execution.

For Nicholas, it must have seemed that he had backed the winning side.

And for a while, he had.

He was elected a Knight of the Garter in 1536, one of the highest honours Henry could bestow. Even in 1537, Nicholas still appeared to be firmly within the king’s favour and took part in the ceremonies surrounding the christening of the future Edward VI.

Then the political atmosphere changed again.

In 1538, Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, Henry Pole, Lord Montagu, and others were arrested during what became known as the Exeter Conspiracy.

Nicholas knew some of these men.

Worse still, he apparently questioned the way Exeter had been prosecuted.

Investigators claimed that Nicholas had been involved in earlier conversations with Exeter and that correspondence between them had deliberately been destroyed. Whether this amounted to a genuine conspiracy against Henry remains debated, but in the Tudor court even the suggestion of disloyalty could be fatal.

Nicholas was arrested on the 31st of December 1538 and sent to the Tower.

On the 14th of February 1539, he was tried for treason and accused of supporting Exeter and criticising the proceedings against him.

He was found guilty.

On the 3rd of March 1539, Sir Nicholas Carew was executed on Tower Hill.

It was an extraordinary reversal.

A man who had grown up around Henry, entertained him, hunted with him, represented him abroad and risen to one of the most prestigious positions at court had become another casualty of the political fear surrounding the king.

There is also a rather grim irony to Nicholas Carew’s story.

Only a few years earlier, he had been associated with the faction that helped remove Anne Boleyn from power.

Now he had discovered the same lesson that so many people around Henry VIII eventually learned.

Helping someone else fall did not make you safe.

At Henry VIII’s court, yesterday’s favourite could very easily become tomorrow’s traitor.

Do you think Nicholas Carew was genuinely involved in a conspiracy against Henry VIII - or had Tudor politics simply caught up with him?

The Children Who Stayed Behind: What Happened to Those Who Were Never Evacuated?

The Children Who Stayed Behind: What Happened to Those Who Were Never Evacuated?

Imagine watching your classmates leave with little suitcases and labels tied to their coats, while you turned around and went home with Mum.

Would you have felt lucky because you could stay with your family?

Or frightened because everyone seemed to be telling you that the children leaving were being sent somewhere safer?

Over the last couple of days, we have looked at evacuee children waiting while strangers decided who would take them, and at brothers and sisters who sometimes found themselves separated.

But there was another group of wartime children whose story is spoken about far less.

The children who stayed behind.

Today I want to find out why some children were never evacuated, why others went away only to return home, and what life was actually like for those who remained in Britain's towns and cities as the war came increasingly close.

It is easy to imagine that almost every child from Britain's vulnerable cities was evacuated. In reality, that was far from the case.

Evacuation was voluntary, and although enormous numbers left during the first evacuation beginning on the 1st of September 1939, not every child went. In fact, more than two million children were not evacuated and remained in towns and cities while hundreds of thousands of others were sent away.

Why would parents take that risk?

For many, the answer was painfully simple.

They could not bear to send their children away.

Parents were being asked to hand over sons and daughters without necessarily knowing exactly where they would live, who would care for them or how long the separation would last. Some mothers decided that whatever happened, the family would face it together.

And some children simply begged not to go.

Others had been evacuated and hated being away. They were homesick, unhappy with their billet or desperate to see their parents. During the first months of the war, the bombing that everyone had expected did not immediately come. By January 1940, almost half of those originally evacuated had returned home.

To many parents, keeping a frightened child in the countryside while apparently nothing was happening back home began to seem unnecessary.

Then came the Blitz.

Suddenly, children who had stayed or returned found themselves living through the danger evacuation had been intended to protect them from.

Their everyday lives could be strangely ordinary and terrifying at the same time.

School was badly disrupted. Some schools had closed because teachers and pupils had been evacuated, others were damaged or requisitioned. Children could receive lessons in temporary classrooms, other buildings and even small groups in private homes.

Then the sirens might sound.

Lessons stopped.

Children ran for shelters.

At night they could sleep in Anderson shelters in gardens, under the stairs, in communal shelters or in Underground stations. The following morning they might walk along streets where windows had disappeared, houses had been damaged and what was left was piles of rubble.

And somehow they still played.

Children collected shrapnel, swapped pieces with friends, played among bomb sites and invented games from the strange new world around them. Rationing, blackout curtains, gas masks and air-raid warnings simply became part of childhood.

The memories of real children who stayed behind show just how complicated that experience could be.

Derek Milton grew up in Kennington, London, and was not evacuated. His Imperial War Museums oral-history interview describes his memories of German bombs around Kennington, sheltering at home, watching aircraft during the Battle of Britain and eventually experiencing the V1 and V2 attacks.

Monica White, who spent much of the war in Croydon, later remembered how children were expected to keep their fears largely to themselves because they did not want to make their already worried parents more unhappy. She eventually was evacuated to Sussex and remembered an extraordinary feeling of relief when she realised she was somewhere she no longer felt frightened.

In Sheffield, Jean Whitfield experienced something far worse. Her mother was killed by a bomb while hanging out washing. Jean later remembered a neighbour comforting her afterwards with freshly baked lemon tarts - such an ordinary little detail beside an almost unimaginable loss.

In Liverpool, Ernie Gaskell remembered his father reassuring him that the strong slates on their roof would protect them.

They could not.

And Betty Harris, remembering her childhood in wartime Sheffield, described education constantly being interrupted. At times children were taught in small groups in parents' homes. She also remembered walking into the city with her father after bombing and discovering familiar shops had simply disappeared.

So what did the children who stayed think about the evacuees who had gone?

There was probably no single answer.

Some must have wondered whether their friends were having wonderful adventures in the countryside. Others may have envied their safety once the bombing began.

But many were simply relieved that they had not been separated from Mum and Dad.

And returning evacuees sometimes brought stories that made staying home seem preferable - tales of terrible homesickness, strict foster families or the misery of living with complete strangers.

Neither group necessarily had the easier childhood.

One faced separation from home and family.

The other remained with the people they loved but sometimes watched war destroy the world around them.

Perhaps that is what makes the story of wartime evacuation so complicated.

There was no completely safe choice.

If you had been a parent in 1939, what would you have done - sent your children somewhere safer without you, or kept the family together and taken the risk?