Pembroke Dock & The Blitz
by William Smith

Although I was only seven at the time, I can well remember the events of 1940. Early in July of that year there were some day-time raids – during one of these a single aircraft dropped its bombs but failed to cause much damage. Actually, we were sent home from Albion Square School to the ‘safety’ of our homes as the school had no shelter - perhaps the teachers thought that no enemy would target small children as they ran home. As we were running home, the siren sounded, followed shortly by the all-clear.

Towards the end of that month, the night raids started, and we heard the first of the 'screaming' bombs which made a shriek in the night as they fell - unnerving people. One fell on a pair of houses in Front Street creating a gaping hole and shattering the windows and roof, providing next morning a spectacle for the townsfolk who came to stare at the first bomb damage in the town, at the mangled tin bath which lay twisted on the pavement.

On Monday the 19th of August 1940, I was taken by my uncle, a commercial traveller, to Tenby. As we returned home about 3.30pm, we saw a vast plume of black smoke rising high into the sky over Pembroke Dock - it was the day when the oil tanks were hit. For nearly three weeks, by day, the sky was blackened; any washing hung outside gathered an oily film and the town had a pervasive stench of oil. By night there was a fiery inferno which, on the first night, attracted many people to the top of the Barracks Hill to watch the spectacle. Luckily, we all left the scene before the enemy returned to machine gun the area where firemen were battling overwhelming odds. From the door of the house of my grandparents in Laws Street, I watched excitedly as fire brigades rushed through the town to the assistance of their colleagues - Haverfordwest, Carmarthen, Swansea, and then Bristol, Cardiff, Birmingham and others. A great thrill for a young boy. For those three weeks we had exhausted firemen coming to our house to sleep by day and night - a never empty bed. And one day we all went to Park Street to mourn the loss of the five firemen from Cardiff who died in the inferno, watching the procession as their funeral left the mortuary.

Throughout the rest of 1940 and into the first couple of months of the New Year, I remember the almost nightly wail of the siren, staggering half awake from bed to shelter under the stairs, listening to the anti¬-aircraft guns, the drone of the bombers, the crash of the bombs all round us. In September, the Temperance Hall was bombed as was Gwyther Street and Dimond Street East. In November, shortly before breakfast time, a raid demolished one house and shattered others between Park Street and the Masonic Hall, killing four people. From our house in Croft Terrace we looked down over the gardens of Charlton Place to a gap in Bush Street and thought how close danger was.

As the raids continued night after night with increasing intensity, people left the town at night to seek shelter in Pembroke or in the countryside, especially during the early days of 1941. We too decided to leave, some time in March, for the peace of a farm - which later became the Stepaside Inn. Night after night we could see from one of its windows the flashes as bombs exploded over Pembroke Dock, the night of May 11-12 offering a vast firework display. We returned to our house a couple of days later to gather up some more belongings and everywhere there was devastation: rubble and debris on every street, windows blown out, doors shattered; Hotels at the bottom of Water Street just huge mounds of rubble; Lower Gwyther Street, opposite the railway station, demolished; large gaps in Lower Laws Street, and the new houses on Park View Crescent shattered by a landmine. Our house had escaped with the loss of windows and shattered glass in the rooms.

Much had been cleared when we came to leave Stepaside in the summer of 1943. Normality had begun to return - and for me it was the prospect of the Coronation School in September to prepare for the 11 plus.

Some of your comments...

What a shame we are not able to access IPlayer in Spain! They cut us out of the loop somehow!! I would have really enjoyed looking at that. I have my family stories about it. In fact, my elder sister had me out in the pram that day and had told my mother that she was going up to the Barrack Hill! They were all so pleased when we both arrived home!! Thank you Penvro.com for thinking of us.
Best wishes Joan & John Ebsworth

Many thanks for forwarding the Doc. on the Bombings; have just watched it and feel humbled by what our parents’ generation went through. My parents lived in PD for while, and I know that they had some damage to their house but thankfully survived, here I am to prove it! Marilyn West (nee Evans) Thanks for that… I had missed it. Two points of interest; firstly the attack on Swansea was the three days after I was born (were the Germans trying to tell us something!) And, secondly, my Mother often told me that when the PD oil tanks were burning I demanded to be taken to the end of the street (we lived in Tenby then) to see the smoke.
Regards Peter Hussey

My contribution is different from all of your tales. Mum told me today that when we were with Gran and Grampa at Loveston Farm we all used to just sit in the kitchen all night when the air raids were on - no cold and damp cellar, thank goodness. I suppose I was only there from about April or May 1942 onwards and not around when the oil tanks went up. She also said that in Liverpool she didn't take me to an air raid shelter because the landlady had a metal top to the kitchen table and everyone sat under that when the siren went off - doesn't sound very safe to me and a bit cramped, but Mum and I survived anyway. I suppose that's because we were living out near the racecourse, the Germans were more interested in Liverpool Docks and Dad managed to get through that unscathed as well. It's not much to anyone else, but amazing that I've only learnt that today. Crumbs, you PD people all had frightening tales to tell! All I know is that my grandmother's washing on the line at Loveston, near Merrion, had great big holes in it - from the boiling oil that flew out from the tanks at Llanreath and fell on the farm. I was also told that the sky was black with the oil flying through the air. We had a cellar in the house - no Anderson shelter or anything posh like that - but I never heard of my grandmother sheltering in the cellar, though I suppose she did.

I've never asked my mother if she had to carry me to an air raid shelter when we were in Liverpool, just after I was born. I suppose she must have done. I know I was born in Ormskirk General Hospital on the day Hitler dropped a bomb on Aintree racecourse. I had a baby's gas mask, or rather a horrible smelly thing that I should have been laid in. I don't have it now - I gave it to Scolton Manor Museum because there aren't many baby masks surviving. Now I gather it contained asbestos and would have done more harm than good if a baby was placed within it. Anyway, Mum and I returned home to Pembrokeshire very soon and left my father to his own devices, guarding Liverpool Docks. I think I'm rather glad that I lived out in the sticks - far safer than for everyone in PD.
Ros Lilwall (nee Minchin)

Thanks for giving us the link. Ken and I watched it via my laptop while on an overnight trip to Macclesfield on Wednesday. The Swansea lady was totally inspirational, wasn't she? When I grew up we used to hear tales of P. Dock folk leaving the town at night, catching a train out to Lamphey and then walking on out to the bungalows on the Burrows at F. East. Presumably that was later on during the War. Does that ring a bell with you?
Sue (nee Stevens) & Ken Deveson.

The reason I was born in Saundersfoot - even though my parents were living in Military Road, Pennar - was because the oil tanks, on the Barracks Hill, were bombed. My pregnant mother went to stay with her grandmother on the Ridgeway, Saundersfoot. I was born mid February, 1942. In the early sixties there was still oil seeping from the base of where the tanks had been!
Pamela Scourfield

Although born during the war, my parents didn't return to PD until 1945 so my early memories are of post-conflict & bomb-damaged PD & the extensive war damage work that had to be carried out before folk could move back into their homes. We had to live in rented accommodation in Bush Street, whist our home in Commercial Row had a new roof, new chimney etc, etc, etc. Chris Morgan

Hi Penvro, ‘Jerry’ didn't lob many bombs at Castlemartin! They did drop a land mine in the Main Leat running down to Freshwater West leaving a huge crater in which we used to play. Presumably, in the darkness, they thought it was a road. I worked for Frank Jones of Angle and can remember him telling me that after the Llanreath tanks were set on fire his sheep were covered in black soot and when they were shearing the men were covered in oily soot.
David Esmond

My older brothers and sister have told me that, during the days of heavy bombing, my parents used to walk them from our cottage at the top of Park Street down to the woods at the bottom of Imble Lane. Sometimes, they would hang a tarpaulin over a large tree branch to construct a rough shelter. They also spent a number of nights sleeping in a barn at Mead Lodge (also at the bottom of Imble Lane). The air-raid shelter at the top of Meyrick Street was usually full of people, so when the weather was really bad, they used to go to my granny's house in Milton Terrace and cram into the Anderson Shelter, which was just outside the back door. My Uncle Frankie (who was also a part-time ARP warden) would play his banjo loudly and they would sing at the tops of their voices to shut out the sounds of the aircraft and bombs going off, until the All-Clear sounded.
Clifford James

World War 2 Recollections I was born in January 1941 in the front room of 24, London Road, Pembroke Dock. The shutters (which once could be closed) never worked after the Blitz - we were not far away from The Pier Hotel which we know was completely destroyed.

My father was a sergeant with the Sunderland Flying Boats and was away. My mother and I were evacuated to Tenby for six months. My grandmother was a ‘Rogers’ and related to the family in Tenby who more recently owned ‘The Jazz’ and supplied the office of Mayors of Tenby!

Our basement living room was turned into a shelter and used by the people of Arthur Street (I’m told). We also had an Anderson Shelter in the garden. As a

Memories of World War II
by Margaret Luke (nee Thomas)

War broke out on September 3rd 1939. It was the same day as my grandfather’s birthday. I was born on February 2nd 1940. How did the War affect me? Probably in more ways than I can remember… I will try to recount any facts that were of significance to me.

Soldiers marched in regiments up and down our street, on their way to the Army camp camp up Norgan's Hill. The American soldiers would call out, "Do you want any gum, chum?" Of course, I did! They would throw the package of long spearmint gum into our passage way. The sidewalk outside the house was about 3 feet wide. That's all that was between the house and the main road. Tanks would also drive by on their way to the firing ranges at Castlemartin… I remember the blackout blinds, especially those in the kitchen, where we spent every evening… I don't remember anything about the people who used to check for chinks in the blinds. Not even a pin point of light was allowed, in case it was spotted by enemy aircraft.

We each had gas masks and had to carry them where ever we went. A gas mask was a standard part of a child's toy box. We played games with them. Thus, if we had ever had to use one for real, we would not have been intimidated by it. Some had Mickey Mouse ears on them (not mine). The baby masks were part of a whole suit. Mam told me of a false alarm one night when she fought with me, a kicking squalling child who refused to be zipped inside such a contraption.

I remember ration books. The coupons had to be taken to the shop with cash before the shop keepers could sell the regulation amounts of sugar, flour tea, marg, dried eggs, cheese etc. Coupons were also necessary for the coal man.( Coal was delivered to the front door and carried through the passageway out of the back door and into the coal shed; carried on the backs of a very 'black' coal man.)

When ever I went on the ferry to visit 'Nanny and Granfer', I would watch the Sunderlands landing and taking off from the estuary at Pembroke Dock ferry. Until the bridge from Pembroke Dock to Neyland was opened in 1975, going to Milford was always a big adventure, because of a bus trip, followed by a ferry ride, followed by an even longer bus trip, and then a walk of a mile and a half. It was the best part of 4 hours to travel ten ‘crow’ miles.

As we walked or rode the bus down ferry lane, we would see the bombed out houses with the stair cases still standing. They were there until 1953. (This would probably have been in London Road where a parachute mine had demolished the Pier Hotel and many other buildings – Ed.) I have heard many stories of sitting under the stairs during an air raid. The candles were always kept under the stairs, not only to be used in an air raid but also to see the slots in the Gas meter if the shillings worth of gas had run out. Gas provided the lights of the house as well as the fuel for cooking.

Inevitably, many of my memories of war years come from stories that I heard in the five years that immediately followed the end of the war… some about what had gone on at home during that time: stories of Mam and Aunty Doll and Aunty Con (Dad’s sisters.) How these three and the ‘girls’ from the shop had gone to dances and kept themselves and the soldiers stationed around us, sane and relatively happy.

I suppose the women were trying to fill in the gap for the men who had been away by telling them what had gone on during their absence. I did not hear much from my Dad, other than the fact that he was not willing to travel any more in his life. He had been shunted around in over- crowded boats and trains for the best part of four years. I think he felt very lucky to be home and never wanted to leave it again. My Dad never came to see me in Redbrook (in the old County of Gwent) where we lived for 5yrs. ‘Thomas the Star’ (as he was known) became a permanent fixture in Monkton, Pembroke, after those war years.

During the War, carnivals were a mode of entertainment which I can remember taking an active part in. I am not sure if there was any other purpose attached to them, except that they were a way to keep spirits high and entertain … in an inexpensive and creative way. There were at least two occasions on which Dot.

Dixon dressed me up and sent me out to parade through the town. Both times I was dressed as a character identified with war years: once as Mrs Mop with a placard on my back that read “Can I do ya’ now Sir” (Mrs Mop was a cartoon character of the day) and another time as a traveller, clad in a mixture of old clothes, a moth-eaten fox fur, carrying many bags, hair in curlers and a placard that read, “Is my journey really necessary? “ At the time, the government had a campaign to keep travel to the minimum. Their billboard slogan was, ‘Is your journey really necessary?’ The ‘girls’ on the pavement outside the ‘Star Supply Stores’ were really amused by this traveller. My mother had a real surprise when I turned my head towards her and said, “Hiya, Mam.” The parade always ended with the judging in the castle.

PEMBROKE DOCK’S almost phenomenal run of luck in sustaining repeated air attacks without any fatal civilian casualties came to an end on November 6th, 1940. Shortly after 6 o’clock that morning a number of ‘planes raided the town and killed three civilians and one Serviceman.

The victims were Mr. and Mrs. W. Kinton, who carried on an old established grocery business in Bush Street; Mrs. Harvey, whose husband, Dr. Harvey, had only just taken over the practice of the late Dr. Rufus Rees, and who lived next door; and a young R.A.F. man who was lodging with Mr. and Mrs. Kinton. Dr. Harvey was seriously injured but their small baby had a miraculous escape.

The trail of death left by the raid created a profound impression throughout the Borough. Mr. and Mrs. Kinton were well known inhibitants of advanced years whose old-world charm and kindliness had endeared them to scores of friends. It was indeed a cruel twist of fate that the violence of war should end two such serene and peaceful lives. The chill and darkness of a November morning had not begun to dissolve when the siren wailed its mournful warning. Almost at once the drone of aeroplanes filled the air.

It was a peculiar sound; the note of the engines seemed different from that heard on previous occasions and later there was considerable speculation as to what type of aircraft was used, some suggesting that they were Italian machines. Whatever they were, there were several of them, and they carried out a violent and indiscriminate attack.

It is estimated that nearly thirty high explosives were dropped and most of them were of heavy calibre, causing huge craters. Eight of these bombs fell in the County School playing field, three in the Memorial Park and one (unexploded) near the Llanion tanks. Others dropped in Bush Street, scoring a direct hit on Mr. and Mrs. Kinton’s house, in the Co-op. Lane, Prince’s Street, Dockyard Avenue and alongside the Military Hospital, where there were some casualties and considerable damage.

From “Pembrokeshire Under Fire.” By Bill Richards. Paterchurch Publications. We are grateful to John Evans of Paterchurch Publications for granting us permission to use this extract from Pembrokeshire Under Fire. Details of this and many other books can be obtained from

A Chance Missed!
by Nancy Phillips (nee Brown) aged 86

It was June 1940, I was fifteen, and sitting in the Pembroke County school hall waiting to sit my English lit matriculation exam, the equivalent of today’s GCSE. Miss H. our English teacher was invigilating.

My father was not one for giving presents, but when I passed into the County school he presented me with a gold nibbed Conway Stewart fountain pen. It was my pride and joy and something I treasured. My dad had paid five bob for it. A fortune in those days.

Amongst our set works for the exam was Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. We were expected to answer questions about the play in detail. The test began.

I filled my lovely pen from the full inkwell and turned over the paper. Oh joy!! Everything that I had revised and worked for was before my eyes. Questions on Shylock’s speech and the Casket scene were just two questions of many that I was able to answer. I began to write with gusto.

Suddenly there was a great bang and a shudder. We were quickly informed that a bomb had dropped on Bush Camp, which was in close proximity to the school.

Miss H. was a very poor role model and became hysterical with fear. Someone in the ensuing melee ordered us to hide underneath the stage in the hall where an open space housed the hot water pipes.

While ‘Miss’ was running around the room like a headless chicken, we all took advantage of our hidey- hole to ask each other questions and answers pertaining to the exam.

“What did you get for the casket scene?”

“Did the Prince of Morocco open the golden casket or the silver one?

“What was the name of Shylock’s daughter?”

“Jessica”

“Oh sod it, I put Nerissa!”

We were all feeling mightily pleased with ourselves when the ‘all clear’ sounded and we re-grouped.

“Attention everybody! announced a shrill voice. It was a very sheepish Miss H. The exam has got to be re-scheduled and all question papers must be destroyed. I am afraid the exam is null and void.”

Oh the disappointment and the rage! I returned to my desk to gather up my belongings and found that my Conway Stewart pen was not where I had left it. I quickly found it. It was sticking vertically out of the floor like a dart! Its wonderful golden nib was crossed over and twisted. It never wrote properly again.

However, all was not lost. I did eventually get to re-take my English Lit exam and gained a distinction. Sadly I was forced to write with a cheap, and leaky pen.