WWII: My lucky escape when avenue was bombed

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Recent accounts of the Second World War bombing of Offerton Avenue, Derby, have prompted Alan Mullarkey, of Sinfin Moor, to tell how he narrowly escaped being a victim of the raid – thanks to his uncle who was serving in Malta at the time.

IT was neither A Nightingale sang in Berkeley Square nor Land of Hope and Glory but the tune in the morning air was an equally defiant riposte to the threat of Hitler.

It was played on an upright piano, virtually the only item left intact in the Maunders’ house after the bombing raid that devastated Offerton Avenue.

I lived next door and, although very young, I still have distant memories of the ruins that had a day earlier been the homes of our neighbours at numbers 14 and 12.

We had an Anderson (air raid) shelter but my parents were so reluctant to use it that they built a small bed space for me in the pantry. That way, I would be “safe” if ever the Nazis attacked. It was against the wall that faced towards the Maunders’ house.

During the previous evening, there was to be a broadcast from the troops serving in Malta. My mother’s middle brother, Arthur, served on the island during the siege and, for some reason, everyone believed that he would be one of those we would hear.

The only snag was that we didn’t have a short-wave wireless – but our neighbours at No 18 did. When they heard about the broadcast, they invited my mother and me to listen to the programme in case Arthur came on.

At about the time that the bombers were approaching the outskirts of Derby, Uncle Bob (from number 18), having seen both of us safely into his house, returned to lock our back door and make his way through the gap in the hedge to come and join us.

As he crossed the boundary, the first bomb landed, destroying 12 and 14. He was picked up and thrown several yards but escaped without any major injuries, apart from cuts, scratches and bruising.

Over the succeeding years, the joke between our two families was that his wife, on seeing him enter the room with his glasses awry and looking somewhat dishevelled, commented: “You took your time, didn’t you!”

I never did find out if the broadcast took place.

At the onset of war, my father had his application to join the Royal Navy rejected because he was in a reserved occupation; he was a baker.

Consequently, he became a volunteer aircraft spotter and firewatcher. At the end of each shift, he took his place on the bakery roof in Monk Street, noting all the aircraft movements, as well as keeping an eye out for fires within the local complex of streets.

Although they did not have direct line of sight, he and his shift mates had also worked out where their homes were so that they would know if their individual districts were ever in trouble.

Imagine his feelings as he cycled home in the early hours. Turning left out of Lawrence Street, he could see the destruction of Nos 12 and 14, the damage to his own home at 16 and the near total demolition of the house at the junction of Offerton Avenue and Kenilworth Avenue.

Feeling sick in the pit of his stomach and dreading every father’s worst nightmare, he cycled furiously through a group of bystanders who were discussing the night’s carnage. Then he burst into tears, when someone called out: “Don’t worry, Mr Mullarkey. Your missus and your lad are safe.”

A few seconds later, he was at the gate where he could see things for himself. The wall where he had built my place of safety had been blown in completely and my bed had been crushed by bricks falling on it.

Had I been there that night, someone else would have been writing these words and lyricising about the sweet young boy who had died because his parents had not taken him to the Anderson shelter.

Instead, my mother and father were supported sympathetically as we gathered our meagre personal belongings and moved to my grandmother’s house in Bromley Street. We returned several months later after the wall had been repaired and, for many years, you could still see the lighter shade of the new bricks.

Although we did not hear the broadcast from Malta, as I grew up and realised the consequences of that night, I developed a soft spot for my uncle. After all, our family ties have saved me. I don’t think, however, that he ever realised why I had this special affection for him.

A much later postscript happened only a few years ago. An arms cache was found in the back garden of Bernard Golding’s home, in Offerton Avenue.

An inquiry decided that it had been buried by his father, Captain Golding, (a Home Guard commander. Bygones, Sept 6) in the event of an invasion – to be collected and used for guerrilla warfare if we were ever overrun.

I believe that that was the action of a very brave man.

He would have known that if the Germans had arrived and his secret had been uncovered, he would have been shot out of hand and, depending upon the local gauleiter, his wife and child as well.

Fortunately, they didn’t , it wasn’t, so they weren’t and I have been able to enjoy many pints over the years with Bernard.

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This article is from the Derby Evening Telegraph and is reproduced online here.