FLYING BOMBS HAVE NOT LOWERED MORALE

Auckland Star, Volume LXXV, Issue 153, 30 June 1944, Page 5

FLYING BOMBS HAVE NOT LOWERED MORALE

BRITONS CHEERFUL

Epic Stories Of Heroism In Rescue Work X.Z.P.A. Special Correspondent Rec. 10.30 a.m. LONDON, June 29." I The New Zealand Prime Minister, Mr. Fraser. has praised civilians for I their morale in face of danger from ! flying bombs. Here is a graphic I story from the Daily Herald which i describes what is going on daily in different parts of Southern England: "Quiet," shouts a rescue worker deep down in wreckage.caused by a flying bomb. He flings 'his shovel aside and his head disappears into a cap in the shattered wall. The ! cry is passed on. Women wardens, ■ whose hands are bleeding as they I tug at bricks, splinters and wood, i pass it on. A man on the roof cups I his hands around his mouth and j echoes it. The cry reaches the j incident officer perched on a massive I slab of battered concrete. He raises ! his hands above his head. He shouts. I "No noise." The digging stops. It is quiet now. Life seems to be standing still: You can hear your heart thumping. We all listen. We press our ears against the dusty rubble, listening. Very faintly we hear a voice saying: "l"am alive. Can you get to me?" Storm Lamp Called For A rescue worker, white as a snowman in the choking grey dust, croaks back: "Can you see daylight?" A storm lamp is balled for. It is poked down into the cavern that, has been dug by shovels, spades, hands and even fingers. "Yes. I can see now," cries "the man who has been burled under our feet for four hours. The ban on noise is lifted and digging goes on feverishly. It stops again. Another voice has been heard. This time it is that of a woman of SO years crying faintly in another part of the wreckage. A doctor in a . white helmet stamped "M.0." is lowered into the hole. When he comes out he says, "The old woman down there is very much alive. She is sitting trapped by her feet at the bottom of a wrecked staircase." Down at the bottom of another hole is a 65-year-old woman. A warden is clearing away rubble with a bucket on the end of a rope to clear her. She says: "Thank you. You are very good to me." A few yards away rescuers have reached a" young Scots girl. She was sitting'at a table in a cafe. Her chair must have crumpled under her. She has been crouching on her knees for three hours, but the squad of toiling, sweating men who fill wicker baskets with debris and pass them from man to man have got to her side. One hands her down a cup of tea. She talks to him ; cheerfullv. This incident occurred j when a flving bomb dived down at ' middav and the cafe and other preI mises were buried under a mountain of twisted, torn brickwork and wood. War Brought Back to England These flying bombs, while they do not hinder the war effort, have certainly brought the war right back to Southern England. ! It is easy to imagine for our- \ selves that" when you are working i or walking in the street, or in your kitchen, or shopping, or sleeping, | you hear the sirens begin to moan. I You carry on but hear the deep vibration roar of engines, which somehow always manage to appear to be overhead. You wait tensed, and if possible, shelter from the blast. Then, if you are lucky, you hear the roar weaken and a few moments later comes an explosion. You heave a sign of relief and carry on until vou hear the next bomb. The flving bombs are about' as popular as earthquakes. There is also something uncanny about the mechanical inevitability of the flying bomb, vet, as Mr. Fraser says, they have 'failed to undermine the people's morale, which remains j cheerful and buoyant.