Rubble (Swansea, 1941)

“Father! What-cha crying for?

‘Cause… you are dead, Pinocchio.

No! No, I’m not.

Yes, yes, you are. Now, lie down.

But, Father, I’m alive. See?

And – I’m real. I’m a real boy!

You’re alive!”

 

“Mum, Pinocchio’s just a puppet, isn’t he?”

Evelyn Edwards turns to her daughter, Eve, and whispers with a smile “Pinocchio’s not just a puppet. Just wait and see. The woodcarver, Geppetto, has made him from wood, but both are about to become more than puppet and toymaker. Just you watch.” Evelyn squeezes Eve’s arm. She scrunches her face, all succour and smiles. Eve watches the film, transfixed, mouth open, unable to peel her eyes from the screen. Flanked by her parents, she is transported to another world.

Terence watches her. She sits on her hands. He wills her to be caught up in the woodcarver’s unstinting belief in his would-be son. He catches Evelyn’s eye. She too is watching the cinema playing out in the face of their only child. The screen light fades and flickers, dances and intensifies as it is cast across the sea of faces in the packed Elysium Cinema. Every seat is taken, every eye is focused on this other-worldly tale.

It takes seven seconds for the rise-hold-fall of the air raid siren to complete its wailing, droning cycle. Before the siren tone falls, a second siren whirs into deafening earshot. After only two seconds, Terence has grabbed his coat. After four seconds, Evelyn is reaching for her bag while holding Eve’s arm. The film roll stutters and freeze-frames on Geppetto’s disbelieving face. The theatre lights are briefly illuminated, but shouts and calls prompt their immediate extinction to cries of blackout.

Children scream, their parents becalm and hurry them. In waves of rapid movement, mothers and fathers herd their families in flight. The aisles fill and the rush for the exits is slowed only by the stampeding and jostling for position. People have abandoned belongings in their haste. A rag doll lies face down on the floor.

“Come on. We need to get out of here and back home as quickly as possible. Are you okay, Eve? Try not to worry. The sirens mean we should have ten minutes.”

Terence looks around the auditorium then beckons Evelyn and Eve to follow him to the front, against the flow of mass movement. He can see the Emergency Exit sign. He waves them forward and shoulders his way past those pushing towards them. Handbag over shoulder and coat over arm, Evelyn holds Eve by the shoulders and drives her forward in close step with her father. As they get closer to the front, the push of the crowd lets up until they are able to scurry to the exit. Others notice how Terence directs his family, calm, unflinching, and so they turn and follow.

Terence leads them out through the emergency exit, along a narrow corridor and soon they join the throng of distressed people spilling out onto the High Street in front of the Elysium Cinema. They look to the skies beyond Swansea Bay over the Gower Peninsula from where the Heinkel bombers and Junkers fighter-bombers are likely to emerge. It is in this direction that Terence, Evelyn and Eve must now run; down the High Street to Castle Square, then right, along Oxford Street, then wind their way down through the backstreets of Sandfields to their home in Fleet Street. The town clock is ticking and the streets are painted with panic. People speed in all directions. Where they stand in High Street marks the heart of the town centre and doubtless the imminent target of the anticipated bombardment. Like a centrifugal force, a void is forming as people vacate the centre outwards in all directions to safer quarters.

“Mum, I’m frightened.”

“Don’t be frightened, my love. You’re safe with us.”

The sirens reach a crescendo as they run towards the Indoor Market off Oxford Street. ARP air raid wardens are already out in numbers on the streets urging people to flee to safety. One sees Terence and runs after him.

“Terence! Terence! You need to be quick, there’s only minutes, they’ve been sighted off Rhossili.” He whispers in his ear as Terence shields his daughter from the words of warning. “There’s supposed to be hundreds. The sky’s full of ‘em. Keep safe. I’ll doubtless see you soon.” With that he runs inside the Indoor Market where late-night hawkers throw their goods under tarpaulin covers, abandon them and flee.

Evelyn looks up to the sky. She stops and turns to Terence, who confirms her look of disbelief with a nod. Terence can hear the low background hum of approaching aircraft. They only have minutes, if that. “Come on! Just keep moving.”

He scoops up Eve, who nestles her face in his collar. She is shaking. Her shoulders flutter as they run on down Oxford Street. Families run alongside them. A dog stands on a street corner and barks at the night.

As the first whistling bomb is ejected from the Heinkel bomber and the rising pitch screeches and tracks an unknown trajectory, those running instinctively look up for clues and zigzag a path along the street as though to outmanoeuvre the imminent explosion. Evelyn drops her handbag and holds her hands over her ears unable to move. Her eyes are closed tight. Terence stops, turns tail and returns for her. The three embrace as the screech gives way to a juddering thunder. Debris is thrown into the air, followed by flames, dust, smoke and a deafening ringing. Small projectiles of broken masonry fall on and around them. Hit on the head, Terence is stunned; the world around him briefly stutters in slow motion. The Indoor Market has taken a direct hit. They were outside it barely twenty seconds ago. Already the smoke and dust are billowing around them.

Terence’s head is bleeding. He wipes the blood on his sleeve. Urine runs down his coat as Eve screams and shakes in his arms. “We’re okay. We’re all okay. We must keep moving. Come on Evelyn. For pity’s sake, keep moving!”

They run on as the sky above them is suddenly filled with aircraft. Whistling, then explosion. Buildings collapse. Fires break out and flames roar behind broken windows. Incendiary bombs scuttle down the streets and detonate on impact with whatever lies in their way. Sparks, then flames spray out, consuming everything in their path. Some ignite remnants of market stalls strewn in all directions, others continue to fizz then fade soon replaced by new waves of relentless firebombing. The town behind them becomes a firescape of destruction.

“Come on! This way.” Terence leads them left down Argyle Street. “Not far to go now.”

To their left, a battery of anti-aircraft artillery pounds the sky from the pitch of the commandeered Vetchfield. A sole figure stands erect at the top of the vacant West Terrace and gazes out across Swansea Bay to Mumbles Head. Frozen, he watches the waves of German aircraft fill the sky closing in on the town while behind him the guns fire off their salvoes.

Terence rounds the corner and runs on with Eve still in his arms to their house. Evelyn is not there. He turns the key in the lock and offloads Eve in the hallway. “Under the stairs now, Eve. You stay there. We’re safe now.” He retreats back into the street and runs back in search of Evelyn. He can see the orange glow of the town centre engulfed in flames. Smoke billows up from left to right. “There you are. This is bad… really bad. It’s going to be a long night.”

Evelyn stops and looks up at him.

“Do you think we’ll survive this?”

“We’ve got to be strong for Eve. We’re going to be okay. Come on now, love.” Terence puts his arm around Evelyn and leads her inside. She sits on the floor next to Eve, and mother and daughter embrace in silent horror as the bombing continues to inflict blind desolation.

“I’ll not be far and I’ll keep coming back to see how you are. Keep the lights off. Pail of water by the front door. I’m taking the stirrup pump with me.” Terence kneels down and lifts Eve’s chin and smiles. “Did you enjoy the film? It was near the end. They could have timed it a bit better. Love you. See you soon.”

As the door shuts behind him, another wave of bombs detonate on impact and the roar of destruction reverberates in the distance.

 

The all-clear continuous siren finally sounds at 3.15 am. Eve remains awake for the entire duration of the first night of the bombing. She holds her hands covering her ears. With her knees pressed tightly against her chest, she remains leaning into her mother’s arms. Evelyn no longer whispers false promises of an early cessation. Terence has returned twice since leaving to conduct his warden duties. Each time he returns smelling of smoke. The soot, smeared on his face, blackens the blood stains. Each time, he crouches down to Eve’s eye level, takes off his tin hat and beams a radiant smile. He doesn’t say much. Words seem insufficient. He just lets her see the sparkling of his eyes and the deepening of the dimple in his charred cheeks.

Terence leaves for a third sortie returning towards the town centre. The volunteer wardens are mainly men in their forties and fifties, no longer eligible for conscription. Most are survivors of the first Great War and hold on to the hope that their family, their community might also be lucky enough to survive this one too. For luck it is, nothing more. It might be a bomb, a shell, a bullet, or the weight of a collapsing building… or it might be during the weeks that follow the sudden implosion of a community where disease and infection take hold – rations, reserves and resistance depleted. He knows from his own experience that a smile or embrace have power, memorable power, while words are soon forgotten. His own bitter experience is one that he has withheld from all, even from his own summoning of events. He has seen its incarnation. He has seen the savage-eyed frenzy that has taken hold of and refused to leave brothers-in-arms and he has seen the insensible numbing of others, who have retreated from this world into a haunted existence. He and the world around him will be irretrievably scared by this.

Normally, he would patrol his own area, the streets in the immediate vicinity of his home. But as the night draws on and the concentrated bombing continues to level the town centre and the streets leading away from it, he feels drawn out of duty to reinforce the efforts of his fellow wardens. Some have been killed under collapsing buildings, others have succumbed to the flames and fumes while attempting to fight fire, not to save property – for there are only shells of buildings remaining – but to save lives.

With scant regard for his own safety, Terence applies sandbags to incendiary bombs, quelling the flames. When they fall in waves, they are so numerous that there is no time to stop and think. He acts on instinct. Unless the flames are doused, he could be surrounded and engulfed in a demonic circle of fire with no means of retreat. His memories, buried to gain distance from the white noise of war, only serve to harden his will. For this is as much an act of defiance and rage, as the actions of one who might have hope for the future. Any hope is, in any case, vicarious.

Fighting an overwhelming sense of foreboding, Terence extinguishes the flames of a front door ablaze. The household inhabitants watch him from their front window terrified that the fire will take hold and entrap them in their own home. The children scream with terror. He winks and makes calming gestures at them that they can place their trust in him. The fire extinguished, he abandons the scene and when the mother emerges, she finds no trace of him, only the blackened water running from the door.

Terence runs back to Fleet Street, his mind taunting him with the faces of terror of the children standing in that front window. As he rounds the corner, his spirits soar. He can see the row of terraced houses, all intact, at least their façades. He runs back to their home as the all-clear siren continues to drone out over the town. Its level tone strikes tangible hope for the shell-shocked to hang on to, prompting an outpouring of relief that it’s over, at least for now.

He opens the front door and sees a mixture of relief and exhaustion ingrained in the faces of Evelyn and Eve. They remain seated on the floor. Eve’s mouth is open and tears run down her cheeks. Terence can see that they are tears of release for all the pent-up accumulation of hours of silent suspension of all feeling. She sobs and her frame shakes without reference to her mother or father. Terence takes off his hat and jacket and takes her up into his arms. She transfers her tears to his shoulder. He holds out a hand for Evelyn and the three are reunited in the hallway of Eve’s youth. Twelve years old before all this happened, but for now cwtched like a helpless infant in her father’s arms.

Eve lies in bed and clings to the sheets. She stares at the ceiling and her mother plays with her hair, fighting tiredness that eats into her belly.

“Come on, Eve, come into bed with your Mum. You can cuddle up and get some sleep.” Terence picks her up as though she were half her age. She holds on to his neck as he walks with her to their room. Soon mother and daughter lie under the safety of a warm blanket and yield to the welcoming arms of sleep. Terence bides his time then rises from the bedside chair with care not to stir his sleeping family and tip-toes out of the bedroom. He makes his way down the stairs, puts on his jacket and tin hat, and lets himself out through the front door.

Evelyn is first to wake. She leaves Eve sleeping and finds Terence asleep on Eve’s bed. He had removed his shoes and jacket and pulled a blanket over himself before collapsing into a deep sleep. Now he lies motionless on his side, his hands both tucked in front of his face. She pauses a while studying his features, reassures herself that he is breathing, and leaves him in peace. She puts water on for tea and lays a fire. The air is cold and damp. The smell of smouldering pervades the house, but it’s not from their hearth. It hangs as a choking reminder of a night wrought with terror.

After lighting and stoking the fire, she retreats back to her bed with a warm cup and woollen blanket. She sits upright in bed and gently strokes Eve’s forehead.

By early afternoon, all three are awake. The fire has taken the chill off the house. They sit together in front of the burning coals and eat sandwiches. Terence reports that school has been suspended until further notice. Nobody knows the extent of the casualties. He offers snippets of what he saw during the night. He tells stories of survival and gratitude not out of any sense of heroic involvement, but because he knows that the spectre of destruction, embodied in the panic-stricken faces of the children at the last house fire he attended, will only invade the thoughts of Evelyn and Eve. He knows he cannot shield them. They must keep moving on.

After lunch, Eve asks if they can return to the cinema to retrieve her coat. She doesn’t remember picking it up from under the seat in their rush to exit. Evelyn makes a discreet shake of the head, but Terence says that getting out and about is just what they need. He conceals his own misgivings. And so they wrap up and venture out, retracing their path through yesterday’s flight of terror from the bombs.

As they round the corner back onto Oxford Street and approach the Indoor Market, they are stopped in their tracks. They stand and stare at the smouldering landscape. Only jagged fragments of buildings remain standing. The symmetry of explosive forces can be traced in the masonry. The roads are covered with rubble and are scarred with the scorched remains of blast-damaged buildings. Everywhere there is rubble that smokes and smoulders. Fires still burn where gas mains have been breached. Ragged members of the Auxiliary Fire Service douse the flames.

Eve just stands and stares. She says nothing, but shifts her eyes from one bomb site to the next. It bears no resemblance to what lay there before. They stay a while longer before Terence suggests that now they should return home.

“The Elysium Cinema wasn’t hit, so I expect your coat will be there tomorrow. I’ll pop in to collect it. Come on. I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s go home.”

Eve looks up to the skies, which are crisp and blue. She looks all around her from Jersey Marine to Mumbles Head. All the sky is crisp and blue.

She holds her hands over her ears, but the pounding battery of boom-boom-bombardment reaches into her head and shakes and convulses inside her. Bright, spewing magma-flashes erupt and flare. Her eyes are closed tight, but she cannot tame her senses. The acrid stench of smoke is tinged with sulphur invading her nostrils and causes her to cough and cough until she is forced to reach for her gas mask. ‘No please, not gas… no, not gas…’ Boom, boom, boom…

 

“Eve! Eve!” Evelyn attempts to wake her. Eve sits bolt upright and screams as Terence runs down the stairs to continuous rapping of the front door. He realises he is wearing his dressing gown. His feet are bare. He has no idea what the time is; possibly 11 am? He looks back up the stairs. Eve has woken from her nightmare and her screams have turned to sobbing. How long will this go on for?

He opens the door and blinding shafts of low winter sunlight invade the hallway. “Mrs Price. This is unexpected. I’m afraid we’re all at sixes and sevens; not even sure what the time is. Haven’t had much sleep. Everything okay?”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Edwards. You’ve probably been fighting fires all night. It’s unbearable.” Mrs Price breaks off to compose herself.

“Eve has just woken up from a nightmare. She’s upset. Evelyn’s with her upstairs. I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you.”

“Thank you. That would be nice, but I actually came to see you and your wife.”

“Well, you’d better come in then.” Terence ushers Mrs Price in, who takes a seat by the fireplace. He runs up the stairs to announce their visitor’s arrival. “Eve. We have a guest. It’s your teacher, Mrs Price.” Eve looks up, smiling through her tears. “I’ll just get dressed. I’ll be down now, but you go on down. No need to stand on ceremony.”

Evelyn pours the tea, while Mrs Price beams at Eve.

“Don’t you go worrying about any nightmare, Eve. It’s just theatre… cinema in our minds, and when it’s over, it’s over, and we can get back to real life.”

Eve nods and looks out of the window. Mrs Price is used to dealing with the undernourished, the overambitious, the fearful and the tearful. She has made it her ambition to win over every child, although Eve has never needed winning over. Her admiration for her teacher is visible every time Evelyn collects her from the school gates. But today, Mrs Price appears to be holding something in reserve.

“How has it been in Townhill, Mrs Price?”

“Oh, nothing too bad by us. Hellish noisy, but that’s only to be expected when you have the school menagerie living in your home.” She laughs and winks at Eve. “Eve, when things have settled down in a day or two, why don’t you come and visit? You can play with the hamster and let the parrot out of his cage. What do you say?”

Eve bites her lip and nods.

“I wanted to ask you something, Mr and Mrs Edwards, but it can wait until another time…”

Evelyn tips a nod to her guest and beckons Eve to accompany her up the stairs. “Come on, Eve. It’s time to get dressed now. There’s clean clothes in the top drawer.” Eve runs up the stairs.

“Thank you for your discretion. I didn’t mean to be rude. The thing is, Mr and Mrs Edwards, I’m so sorry and really there’s no easy way to say it, but we’ve lost three children from Eve’s class in the bombing.” Mrs Price stares into the fire. “I don’t know the details. It was reported to my husband by one of the other wardens. God knows how the children will take it.”

Evelyn puts down her cup. Terence watches her and can see the whirlpool of distress dragging her down. Minutes pass in silence. No one dares move with Eve within earshot. Terence clenches his teeth and looks at Mrs Price waiting.

“The thing is, Mr and Mrs Edwards, I was hoping you might be able to help me. You see, I can’t do it by myself. Mr Price is willing to help, but, like you, he’s a warden and can’t leave the area.”

“What is it, Mrs Price? What are you proposing?”

“That we – well, a number of mothers and myself – take the children away from Swansea just until things calm down. It’s been two nights now. They’ve bombed the docks, they’ve bombed the oil works at Skewen and every night the bombing around town centre is widening. We need to act soon. What do you say? Will you help me?”

“Where would you take them? How would you feed them?”

“I know. I know it’s a tall order, but we can take them to the Village Hall in Gorseinon. It’s far enough away to be safe, but not too far and Mr Price can organise a charabanc. We might have to do a couple of trips.”

“Who else have you spoken to, Mrs Price?”

“You’re the first… I thought that if you were willing, I could see my way through…” Mrs Price’s words trail off and she looks up to Evelyn then Terence. Neither responds. Terence looks at his wife then addresses their guest.

“Mrs Price. I understand you want to do something to protect and keep the children safe. You’re a good woman and, Mr Price, he too would go to the ends of the earth to help anyone. But, who’s to say the Germans won’t turn their bombs on Gorseinon or Dunvant or Maesteg or Cymmer? One German plane ditched over the Rhymney last month. They won’t keep this up for much longer, they’ll turn their bombs on the next target as there’ll be nothing left here to bomb. We need to look after our own. We need to be here for one another.”

Eve moves from the landing and quietly comes down the stairs.

“I must be going. Eve, be a good girl and look after your Mum and Dad.” Mrs Price makes her way to the front door hastily moving chairs aside like a lonely swimmer fighting the incoming tide. Terence looks to the clock. It is 3.30 pm.

Just as Mrs Price has left, the Warden Section Leader knocks at the door and summons Terence to provide support to the fire guards around D shed at the docks. They have already suffered sustained attacks for the two nights preceding the bombing of the town centre. Every night since, further assaults have been launched and damage has been inflicted to the storage sheds. The wardens have been stretched like never before. Instinct has told them to hang on, to be that visible presence to help the local residents, but the docks are a strategic centre where ordnance is stored before being shipped on to ports in England. Merchant Navy ships also dock there to bring in vital supplies. The calculation has been made and orders issued that the docks are to be protected even at risk of neglecting the civilian population.

Evelyn has trussed up a double pack of sandwiches for Terence, wrapped in baking paper and secured with string and a kiss. With Eve at her side, she waves him off and as he rounds the corner, all that is left to see is the smouldering scene of smoke hanging in the air above the rooftops. This is their new existence.

As Terence arrives at the docks, he witnesses at first hand the extent of the damage all around him. Sections of railway line are missing with craters in their place. The mangled remains of a quayside crane bars access by vehicle to the wharf side, which extends into the distance. The crane lies on its side and the once erect latticed steel boom digs into a stationary goods carriage and swan-necks over the gable end of D shed. The masonry should, by all accounts, have collapsed inwards, but stands intact while the roof behind is a patchwork of holes. Puddles of mud drain downwards from the rail embankment. Heavy rainfall has come in from the South West as if to replace the swarms of bombers.

Two other cranes on the other side of the dock break rank with those that have survived and lie contorted on the ground. Their control cabs are opened up like sardine cans. Their open-mesh jibs are bent over building and dockside in an unlikely yielding of force.

Terence takes it all in unmoved. He sees a group of fire guards and approaches to seek orders. One directs him inside D shed and tells him to report to the Supplementary Fire Party leader.

“How do I get in?” Terence looks at the building with the fallen crane straddling the path before him.

“You can get to the other side if you crawl under the boom by the carriage. There’s no door. Just a hole in the wall. You’ll see him inside. Watch out for unexploded bombs though. We’ve already had one go off this afternoon over the other side.”

Terence does as he’s instructed and once inside, he’s unnerved by the rows and rows of stacked bombs, piled three high, ready for shipment to Southampton. There must be hundreds of them capable of blowing D shed and every other shed sky high.

He spots the SFP leader and runs over. “Terence Edwards, reporting for duty. Where do you want me?”

“Get yourself over to the next shed. It’s still on fire after being hit last night. We need to get it under control. If the fire spreads here, it’ll all go up and that’ll make one hell of a fireworks display. There’s two pumps taking water from the docks, but the men are on their last legs.”

Terence nods in acknowledgement and sets off to find the fire-fighters. He runs through the rows of explosive ordnance, weaves his way through walkways and finds the exit to the other side of the building. As he emerges into the darkening sky, he feels the heat of the flames that crackle, rustle and roar from within the neighbouring hangar. He sees the two groups of fire-fighters, who seem as much to be fighting the unwieldy hose as the intense fire. Sometimes they flounder and jets of water are dispersed in the rising wind. He can see that the men are exhausted. With two per hose, the one at the rear holds on to the pipe with his eyes closed and head bent forward. Terence runs to relieve him. He peels away, looks around and staggers backwards in search of dry shelter where he can collapse and lay down his head.

After thirty minutes the fire burns unabated. The man in front of him signals that Terence should move forward to relieve him while he finds a second man to assist. For ten minutes, Terence struggles to barely control the hose that writhes like a snake retreating from a forest fire. He wonders what’s ablaze that is so resistant to their attempts to quell the flames. Maybe he should concentrate the spray of water on the partition wall? There is a slender gap of barely a foot between the sheds.

A second warden arrives. He recognises him from the night before. Together they get the hose under control. There is no co-ordinating officer or strategic command post. Personnel is thin on the ground. Terence waves his hand over his shoulder pointing that they should advance to douse the flames by the bulkhead wall. They lean in and stagger forwards and Terence feels the rush of adrenaline pumping in his stomach. He thinks of Eve’s classmates. How can he feel so alive?

They continue to fight the fire for three more hours before the rising thrum and drone of the air raid siren signals the imminent arrival of renewed attacks. Terence is unable to focus his mind on anything other than the aching physical strain of directing the flow of water to the ravaging fire. His mind is all-consumed with fighting fire.

Soon the bombardment recommences and in the distance over his right shoulder he can see the flashes and explosions as bombs rain down onto the town centre. For a moment, he takes it for granted as the backdrop expected in such an infernal commission. He knows he is tired and needs to draw on every reserve. Then woken from the trance of the mesmerising dance of flames, he shudders and realises that not once has he thought about Evelyn and Eve since taking up position on the hose. He looks back over his shoulder and attempts to locate their home. On the distant skyline he can see Townhill and traces a line down towards the Bay, but the town centre, once again engulfed in flames, intervenes. The bombardment has moved north, but he can’t make out what lies behind, behind where Eve and Evelyn will be crouching under the stairs.

Maybe he should have encouraged Mrs Price to evacuate the children? Eve and Evelyn would now be in the safety of a village hall playing games – easy distraction from the bombardment. What was he thinking? Up until today, he’d been within a stone’s throw of their home. How was he to know that he’d be called away at such a critical moment?

There is a crack and the roof of the building collapses onto the flames in front of them. A volley of sparks, embers and ash is propelled outwards towards them. Lines of flames follow and they are surrounded in a burning mass radiating a searing heat that eats into their skin. Terence swings the hose around them in an attempt to douse the encroaching flames, but his partner has fallen and, sapped of energy, he is unable to hold on any longer. The hose takes on a life of its own, and like the beheaded Medusa flails erratically before plunging into the dock. There is an explosion and a ballooning mass of fire destroys everything without discrimination.

 

Inferno (Swansea, 1941)

Fire burns across Swansea all night. The town, already on its knees, suffers its worst night of the war, not in the number of bombs that are dropped, but their mounting effect, pushing people past their tipping point. New residential areas are bombed, and young and old assume a bunker mentality, clinging to some brazen hope of survival. Children are thrown into new depths of terror and fear. No one is exempt. Any house might be the unwitting target of the unrelenting assault of fire-bombing.

People are terrified. The terror starts, rumbling with the uncertain threat, the possibility of being singled out. It grows with the sensory onslaught of war, the flashes and booms that have no commonplace in ordinary life. Then it takes root and becomes personal with the death of a loved one or the unforgettable look in the eyes of the harrowed face screaming out. Personal with such aching acuity that it causes its victims to abandon any hope that there can be a sense of normality, and personal with such indiscriminate reach that its victims are tainted with the bloodstain of guilt and loss and grief and rage so haunting that there is nowhere to run to. Hunker down. Hunker down. Cover your eyes. Fingers in ears. For they are soon to come again.

At 3:40 am the all-clear siren floods the town with its single, unerring tone. People climb out of their fox holes to see for themselves whether there is still a street standing around them. They look to the skies eager for reassurance. Then they look to one another for a pallid reminder of who they were before the outbreak of war. They wonder whether tomorrow will bring another raid and see themselves hanging on to the frayed, slender thread over the chasm that is war when all that is around them has fallen away and question whether to hold on or just let go.

The docks are ablaze in an inferno of dense, black smoke that swells and billows. The St Johns ambulance driver is heading back to the town centre from Swansea Hospital in Phyllis Parade, but upon approaching the centre, he is waved onwards, “Get down the docks, there’s been an explosion, see who you can get to.”

“We’ll do our best.”

The ambulance pulls away and weaves a path through the rubble. It heads East towards the bridge over the river Tawe, skirts around Prince of Wales Dock and drives to the North side of King’s Dock. The huge conflagration burns out of control on the South side and even at this distance and in the relative safety of the ambulance cab, both driver and attendant cover their mouths and wonder how long they can remain at such close quarters.

The dock surface water sparkles orange, red and yellow. The intense incandescence of the fire throws long, haunting shadows that shimmer ghost-like in all directions. They scan the quayside for signs of life, but there is no movement, just the abrupt collapse of hangars. The wind whips up embers and sparks, which are carried and tail off in the wind like ticker-tape kite trimmings.

The driver and attendant get out of the ambulance and run down towards the wharf side. They shine their torches across the waters. It’s hopeless. The raging fire swallows their beams in its phosphorescent glare.

“Come on, let’s run up to the other end. We’ll have a quick look, but the poor bastards can’t have stood a chance.”

The two men stride along the quayside cowering under the singeing heat of the fire. They shout out, but the crackle of the noise of burning is deafening. The long line of hangars on the South side of King’s Dock are all ablaze. They are flanked either side by silhouetted quay-side cranes that stand unmoving, resisting and defying the heat and fire. They continue to make their way along the stone dockside and focus the beams of their torches in front of them. On they continue until they reach the narrowing end of the deep-water dock. Before them, the railway forks North and South directing the track either side of King’s Dock. Freight carriages are marshalled in adjacent lines. The landscape is flat, scattered with the mangled remnants of bent steel, bomb craters and a blackened scorching of the earth.

They stop. This is as far as they will go. Experience has taught them the likely chances of survival. It is their occupation to weigh the odds, to triage, treat and sometimes just hold the hand of the dying. They have an intuition, an unspoken language. Back to back they scan the ground and structures around them. The beams of light carefully search under and around carriages, barrels and containers. The driver turns his torch off and is engrossed in the dancing flames that erupt like a solar flare. His colleague also turns towards the sheds, his beam bobs on the water’s surface. They both stand and stare engrossed in the theatre of destruction.

“Look! Down there in the water, can you see it? Is that a body?” The driver switches his torch back on and directs his floodlight to the steel steps descending from the opposite quayside into the water. There at the waterline, the black, but clear outline of a man hangs to the bottom rung. He doesn’t move.

“Hey! Hey! Are you alive? Just hang on, we’re coming to get you!”

Disregarding any fear for their own safety, the two men run around the head of the dock. They have to raise their arms to shield their faces from the heat. They rush to the steps and look down to the water. The driver climbs down the steps and the whites of Terence’s eyes look up to him. He is shivering in the water, unable to move.

“You’re gonna have to jump in… get underneath him to push him up.”

The attendant quickly removes his bag and hat. He unbuttons his tunic then plunges feet-first into the cold water. He quickly surfaces and swims towards the steps and together, with difficulty, they raise Terence to the dockside. The three men lay a moment on sandstone, each exhausted from the exertion of the rescue and the biting cold of the dock water.

“Come on. We need to get out of here.”

The remains of Terence’s clothes are ripped and singed. His skin is black, red and blistered and as the ambulancemen lift his arms over their shoulders, he groans in pain. His head slumps forward. They march him off the jetty, the toes of his boots dragging on the quayside. They make it as far as the North-side railway track and gently depose him on the ground.

“I’ll drive the ambulance over to you. Check he’s still breathing!”

The driver dumps his bag and runs in the direction of the ambulance.

Terence is breathing, but is slipping in and out of consciousness. The attendant warms him with his tunic. He opens his water flask and moistens bandages, which he applies to his burns. He tries to separate Terence’s fingers and bandage them, but the pain is too much and Terence resists.

“Home…”

“Quiet now. Try to stay calm. We’re here to help you.”

“Need to get home…”

“What’s your name?”

“Edwards… Terence Edwards.”

“Okay, Terence, fire service?”

“Warden, Fleet Street… 16”

“You’re a long way from home. Been down here all week?”

“No…” Terence breaks down. The salt tears trace pink lines down his cheeks. “No… this afternoon. Please, take me home.”

The ambulance pulls up alongside them and the driver fetches a stretcher. They shift Terence onto it and wrap him in a wool blanket before loading him into the ambulance. The fire continues to rage and as they drive north away from the docks, another explosion sends blast material outwards in all directions. They cross the Tawe back towards the town and as the driver looks back in his mirror, he is shocked at the enormity of the blaze that looms over the remains of the surrounding buildings like a shaking, miniature image of the apocalypse.

Terence gazes up from the stretcher and looks to the frosted windows of the ambulance.

Dark shadows pass in front of an orange glow.

Ambulance stops.

Outline of a head moves past.

Darkness.

Judders and screeches.

“Home… take me home…”

Shouting…

A bird flapping…

“Fleet…”

Siren wails…

Light switches on…

“Street…”

Darkness.

Silence.

The ambulance carrying Terence pulls up outside Phyllis Parade Hospital. It is already overrun with casualties. Children sit cross-legged in the corridors with slings. Mothers cry into walls. As the ambulancemen carry Terence in, all eyes look to them. The attendant is surprised to be the focus of attention until a nurse asks whether she can tend to the burns on their faces. The driver and attendant still don’t understand.

“The patient’s name is Terence Edwards, an air raid warden, of 16 Fleet Street. He’s in shock, cold and has multiple third-degree burns, not just to his face.”

A nurse places her hand on the arm of the St John’s attendant, nods reassuringly and ushers him to sit in a bay while her colleagues attend to Terence.

The nurse returns to the attendant. “Did you realise your face has been burned?”

“Mine? No.”

“Well just sit still. Gimme five minutes and I’ll save your good looks for the resta your life, love.”

The nurse reaches out to stop the attendant touching his cheeks.

“This is gonna sting a bit, but I’m guessing you’re made of strong stuff.”

“Yea, something like that.”

The nurse applies a mist that causes the attendant to stiffen his neck and close his eyes.

“They pay you to do that?”

“No, just do it for fun.”

“Like to inflict a bit of pain on your patients?”

“Only the good lookin’ ones. Now stop complaining and keep still.”

He watches her gloved hand retrieve a pair of tweezers from a stainless-steel kidney dish. Their eyes meet and they both shake their heads in disgust.

“Right, joke’s over now, this might hurt a little, but bear with me.”

She picks out the grit from the open sores on his cheeks and is aware that his foot is tapping the floor in quest of distraction.

“Forget it, love, if you want any help round here, you’ve just gotta shout.”

“Yea well, thanks, but I think I’ve had enough for now. How much do I owe ya?”

“On the house.” She shakes her head. “Seriously though, you’ll need to get that seen to by the doctor.”

“How long?”

“Well at this rate… couple of days. Look. I’ll do you a deal, you sit tight and I’ll go and see if I can sweet-talk the doc away from his other patients, I’ll tell him it’s an emergency.”

“Forget it. You seen the state of the poor chap we dragged out the docks? Badly burned. We found him in the water clinging to the side of the dock. God knows how he survived this long. He’s probably in shock… hypothermia. Best let the doctors deal with him. I’ll come back in a couple of days. Promise.”

With that the attendant collects his coat and makes for the door. He finds his colleague, who informs him that he’s been enlisted to assist with moving another patient. The attendant asks if he can borrow the keys to the ambulance. “I’ve got something I need to do.”

“Sure, I’m not going anywhere soon.”

The attendant takes the keys. He sees the nurse and asks her, “Where have they taken him?”

“They’ve rushed him into the treatment room… said it’s touch and go. He’s very cold.”

“Where is the treatment room?”

“Just through there, but you can’t…”

But the attendant is already on his way. He plots a path along the corridor. Trolleys are parked head to foot each bearing another story of survival or impending loss. Life hangs in the balance.

Some of the casualties hold out their hands eager to embrace the human touch, reassurance that they will not languish alone. Others stare into space and bide their time. He finds the treatment room and sees Terence surrounded by a doctor examining him with two nurses. His eyes are open. He is shivering. They have cleaned the remains of the skin on his face, which is reddened up to his hairline. His head and hair on the crown of his head are remarkably intact, but below the line of where his warden’s tin hat would have sat, there is no hair and his skin is red and blistered. His left jaw, cheek and ear bear the greatest injuries. Without the symmetry of his features, he would be indistinguishable – the faceless face of war.

“What are you doing in here? You can’t be here. This is a sterile area, for God’s sake!”

“I won’t be long. I’ve just come to pass on a message to Terence… It’s important.” The attendant approaches Terence. He takes his hand and whispers in his ear, “Hang in there, Terence. I’m going to find your family. 16 Fleet Street. Hang in there, old man.” He detects the squeeze of his hand and then he leaves.

The ambulance pulls away from the hospital. Two men are running towards its entrance with a make-shift stretcher – floorboards lashed together. There are no signs of life in the person who lies on top of it. He grits his teeth. He knows he ought to be going out to collect more wounded, but he’s been on duty all day and half the night. He feels the numbing weight pressing down on his shoulders, the burden of caring and the detachment that goes hand in hand with one whose business is the delivery of persons unknown – working incognito. He wonders what he’ll say to the family. How many will be waiting for him? He wonders how he should convey the news, after all Terence might not make it. He resolves to just say it as it is. All part of his job, sometimes delivering the living, sometimes the dead and, just now and again, delivering hope.

The ambulance rounds the corner into Fleet Street and as the attendant passes the Bricklayer’s Arms, the scene at the far end of the street is not what he expected. He shifts down and advances slowly, careful to avoid the rubble that is spread across the road. He checks the house numbers. A sinking feeling starts to overcome him. This is not what he had anticipated. He parks the ambulance unable to advance any further, opens the back doors and retrieves his first aid bag.

He identifies number 22 and counts down the even numbers and his fears are confirmed. Numbers 16 and 18 have both taken a direct hit. The damage suggests a single bomb entering through the roof of number 16, but exploding inside 18, which has suffered complete destruction. The upstairs party wall and bedrooms of both houses are all but destroyed. The upstairs façades are mainly intact, but the explosion on impact with the ground has blown away the downstairs walls of both houses. All that remains is an enormous pile of rubble where the fireplace and sofa once stood; that and the stairs and front door of number 16. Fragments of furniture, wallpaper, even a broken picture are discernible. The upturned base of a standard lamp projects from the mound of debris.

As he arrives, an air raid warden is on hand and beckons the ambulanceman to assist. “Over here. We need some help. The stairs are still intact. There may be survivors. We’ve started to shift the rubble. Can you help?”

He takes off his bag and places it on the ground in the street. Men and women have formed a human chain and pass along brick after brick. The attendant and the warden move to the front of the chain. They’ve only shifted bricks three feet into the hallway and still the mix of rubble, debris and timber cover the first four steps of the staircase. “Look if we can clear a path to the stairs, we can jimmy off a tread enough to see if anyone’s under there. It’s hard to see how far the rubble has gone.”

“Have any voices been heard? Any signs of life?”

“Nothing so far. We know the family. Mr and Mrs Edwards and their daughter Eve. My wife teaches the girl. She’ll be at least the fourth casualty in her class. Let’s just hope to God they’re still alive.”

The attendant realises that Terence is known to the warden. He wonders whether to say what has happened to him. Say it like it is, he thinks to himself.

“Look, I came to notify Mrs Edwards that we pulled Terence out of King’s Dock just over an hour ago. Pretty badly burned, but still alive. I was hoping I could escort her and her daughter to the hospital to be with him. This is not what I expected.”

“Oh, God. Not Terence. Well, all the more reason to get to them out as quickly as we can.”

“Look, I’ll be back in a moment.” The attendant runs back to the ambulance and jumps up into the rear. At the back of one of the small cupboards there is a tool kit. From it he removes a crowbar and returns to the scene.

“Let me have a go at getting one of those stairs off.” He moves to the front of the line and with the help of two of the men, climbs to the top of the mound of rubble and moves forward with care until he reaches the staircase. He doesn’t want to transfer his weight onto the stairs in case it might give way and so from the top of the rubble pile, he works with the crowbar to prise open a tread. After three failed attempts, the step creaks and a gap opens up. Then, with a resounding crack, the tread breaks open and a hole opens up.

“Pass me a torch someone!” A torch is thrown up to the attendant. He places his finger on the switch and points it into the darkness under the stairs. He switches it on and a void is illuminated. Motes of dust hang in the shaft of torchlight. The beam searches left and right. In the middle, a pale hand rises out of the rubble. The wedding band catches his eye. There is no movement. The beam ventures further into the darkness and there in the far corner, with hands over her ears and eyes closed tight, is the kneeling figure of a little girl. She appears unscathed, no signs of blood and there, in the exact location of where she is kneeling, is a small patch of floor, the only place that has not been invaded by the encroaching wreckage of their home.

“Eve. Eve. Are you all right?”

She does not respond and she does not move.

“Eve, if you can hear me, listen carefully. We are going to get you out, but just keep still and don’t move.” The attendant looks down but she does not move.

Over the next ten minutes, he dismantles a hole in the staircase large enough for him to climb into the cavity. Using a curtain, he covers the hand. Soon the attendant is able to reach down into the hole. He places his hand on Eve’s and gently squeezes it to tell her that she is now safe, but she stiffens and recoils. Her body shakes and her hands tremble. But with gentle coaxing, patient to win her trust, the attendant holds her hand, and finally she yields. Her eyes open. Her hands extend around the ambulanceman’s neck, who with all the gentle reassurance that he can offer her, lifts her out of the hole, out of the house and places her in the black, safe hands of Mr Price.