Original caption: “A scene at a London railway station showing troops arriving while kiddies who are being evacuated from London leave for the reception area. New York Times Paris Bureau Collection.”
United Kingdom Royal Army soldiers wearing forage caps and slinging Brodie steel helmets and duffel bags pass London children being evacuated ahead of the Blitz.
The London Evening Gazette of September 1, 1939, reported on the day Germany invaded Poland: “Pathetic Scene — Parents-with the exception of helpers were not allowed to enter the school premises. As one little girl was leaving her mother asked pathetically: ‘I wonder if I’ll ever seen you again, mummy — here or anywhere else?” The dexterity with which the children were shepherded through the arriving masses of morning workers at Water-lo0 Station was a perfect piece of organization. They were a very cheerful crowd of youngsters, though. a few had evidently shed some tears at the parting with their parents. At the station, however, their behavior was just what [Home Secretary] Herbert Morrison [(January 3, 1888 – March 6, 1965)] hoped it would be in his message to then yesterday.”
“Brave Little Tots — Parents shouted messages of farewell, little admonitions, and gave other parental advice. Little tots smiled gleefully as they stepped out, getting hold of the hands of the elder children. Boys whistled and exchanged jokes, while one boy, carrying a kit-bag over his shoulder in true military style, kept humming to himself as he marched earnestly and a little self-consciously with the rest. Ealing Broadway station, Great Western, was one of the chief departure points from London, and altogether 50,000 children expected to leave here today.
“Tube train after tube train, fully loaded, began to arrive at the underground station adjoining the Great Western Railway line soon after 0800 Hours. As the children alighted they marched, four abreast, to their platform. It was orderly and it was well arranged, but while teachers, nurses and the special staff on duty kept as cheerful as they could be, it was a pathetic sight.”
“Tears Kept Back — Here and there a little face was set hard in a big effort to be brave-the elder giving a good example in this. There were no tears. One little lad of five had a bucket and spade with him. Some of the trains were bound for the west country as far distant as Taunton, while others were going to the Banbury district in the South Midlands. The trains averaged about eight an hour.”
On June 13, 1940, as the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) was returning to England from France after fleeing Dunkirk and other ports, while London’s children continued to be evacuated to the countryside.
The Daily Mirror reported on June 14, 1940, “Saw Dad at Station; Little May E. Wright (May 23, 1934 – January 1969), of Peckham, SE, was marching into Waterloo Station yesterday with a party of evacuees from her school just as a company of men on leave from the BEF was alighting from a train. Suddenly May pointed to one the soldiers and shouted ‘There’s my brother Bill.‘ Brother [William] “Bill” [Wright (January 16, 1923 – ????)] heard her, and, running across the platform, swept his sister into his arms. They had not met since he was on leave at Christmas. Reunion Brief – Their reunion was brief, for May had to hurry off to rejoin her party. This was one of many touching incidents that marked the beginning of the six-days’ rail trek to the West Country of 120,000 children from Greater London whose parents have registered them for evacuation.”
“Here is another: When troops passed along a plat-form, the children crowded to the windows and the station echoed with their cheering. The men laughed with them and gave the Thumbs Up sign. But to four of the little evacuees it meant more than just excitement. Rosemary (April 14, 1929 – ????) and Ronnie Waldon (???? – ????), of Hammersmith, and their two sisters, shouted ‘Daddy‘ through the cheers. Among the marching men they had seen their father. Across the track the father waved to his children.”
“‘There’s Our Daddy‘ – ‘That’s my daddy over there,‘ Rosemary, aged eleven, explained. ‘He fought in the last war too, and he’s been away in France. When the Germans came he had to leave, and he came home to see us. But he went away again a week ago, and we didn’t think we’d see him for ages and ages.‘”
“With bulging new knapsacks slung across their shoulders and carrying spades and buckets, tennis rackets and cricket bats, most of the children were obviously thrilled at the prospect of a new adventure.”
Transcript
We’re on Number Twelve Platform at Waterloo Station, one of the ten big metropolitan stations that are engaged today on the evacuation of London’s schoolchildren.
We’re on Number Twelve Platform, the train’s in, and the children are just arriving, coming along in their school groups with a banner in front saying what school they are.
This lot’s Saint John’s School, Walworth, which is south of the river, and then they follow behind.
The tiny tots in front leading up to the bigger ones, the twelve, thirteen year olds behind, and here comes a high school, more like fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, they’re being evacuated too.
But just for a moment until we get them settled in their carriages and I can talk to you a bit about, get them to talk to you, they and the teachers who are with them, I’ll try and give you a quick background to their story.
They heard yesterday, somewhere about midday, that they were to evacuate.
And then there was a scurry and a hurry.
Mothers getting clean clothes for their children, near the end of the week that’s not always so easy, getting the food ready, finding them satchels, ironing frocks for the girls, getting out great coats that have been put away for the summer for the boys, and spending their money on choice bits of food that they could take with them when they reported at their schools this morning.
Some of them reported, I don’t see these children here, but we’ll find out about that later, you can hear them chattering as they come by, some of them reported very early at their schools, as early as five o’clock [1700 Hours].
And then they were told, the mothers I suppose were there to say goodbye to them, the mothers were told that they couldn’t go any further with them, and off they marched, perhaps to an underground station, perhaps to a bus station, to, in train if it was an underground station, or to in bus, for the terminus, Waterloo Station.
None of them knew then, and none of them know now, actually where they are going to.
The railway officials here told me that they’d tell me where this lot were going to, but I wasn’t to say on the air, so I said I’d much sooner not know, because I might give myself away.
The reason of not telling them is that with anxious parents saying goodbye to their children, they had a feeling that they might try and follow them, and that might add to the traffic congestion for today.
Well in fact, from what I’ve seen so far, I’ve been here the last half hour, there’s been no traffic congestion.
The children collected outside the station, outside Waterloo Station at Saint John’s School.
They collected there and reported at the different timings that had already been assigned under the arrangements for the evacuation.
Their teachers were with them, and having clocked in there, they just stood about cheerfully in the street, waiting for when the school authorities should tell them that they were to move on into the station.
The railway people, the children now seem to have all passed me, and they’ve got past my microphone.
I must ask if I can get a bit more lead, so as to get further up.
This train in here on Number Twelve Platform, which is due out at two o’clock, has twelve coaches on it, just like an ordinary train that might be going to Brighton.
I believe it is.
An ordinary equipped Brighton train with first class carriages, pullmans, restaurant car and the whole business.
But in this case, I don’t think there’ll be any meals served on the restaurant car.
And further up, I can see the children waiting still outside their train, waiting in an orderly way for the order to entrain, but they’re anxious eyes watching the first class carriages.
Some of these children I expect are going to get a chance of traveling first for the first time, and possibly the last time in their lives.
It’s a bit tantalizing for me where I am, about ten yards from the end of this column of children, standing on the station here.
There goes a whistle for another train, another train evacuating children.
But it’s a bit tantalizing for me to stand here just out of reach of them, and I’m hoping, can they do anything more with the line?
Oh, well I believe, I don’t want to encourage the children to come down and so interfere with any arrangements they’ve made, but I believe they have collected a little too much near the fore part of the train, and that they probably will be shifting them back more towards the rear part, these last four carriages, where I am.
It’s a steam train, but the engine, with seven carriages away from me, is a good way off.
Waterloo Station, it isn’t as old as its name implies, is well up to date, and all the tracks here are electric, but they have a certain number of steam trains which run on the main lines and then off onto the side lines that haven’t been worth electrifying, and a lot of these trains taking the children out are steam trains so that they can slip off onto the side lines and take them to the quietest and safest parts in the country.
Out goes a train on number 7 platform, but that is normal traffic down to the south coast.
People in London have been advised, and here come the children again.
They are moving back past me, shuffling out so as to distribute them better over the full length of the train, chattering away as they always have been and wondering, I suppose, what this can be, a man standing on the platform, not apparently worrying much about them, and talking into a strange instrument.
I suppose they think this is just one more odd incident in a morning that must already be full of new experiences for them, and the day by the time they’ve finished, it is going to be full of still more experiences.
And now here’s a little group.
They’ve all got blue badges on them, cut out of a blue material in the shape of an F.
What does that F stand for, Sadi?
What?
That was a shout.
It shouted so much I couldn’t hear it any more than you could hear it in America.
F for?
Flint Street.
Still haven’t got it.
The schoolteachers.
Oh, Flint Street.
Flint Street, that’s Walworth, is it?
And here they are with their labels on them, so that if anybody got separated and wasn’t quite sure who he was, somebody could look at the label and see.
Sonny, let’s have a look at your label here.
Tied onto his shoulder strap, which is carrying a knapsack with food in it, London County Council, Suddock S.E., Flint Street LCC School, East Street, Walworth, S.E.
17.
The lad’s surname is Hackett, and he’s known as Leslie at home by the look of things.
I don’t know whether I ought to stop with the entraining, but I’m going to let them get into the carriages, and then I’ll follow them and find out a bit about what they think of things.
They certainly look cheerful enough.
Girls and boys mixed.
I dare say some of them brothers and their sisters, and they all look as though they were going out for a bit of a school holiday outing.
Chattering away and smiling.
The trainload that went out from this station about half an hour ago, some of them were singing.
Lambeth Walk, they sang, and I dare say some of them came from Lambeth Way, because that’s not far from here.
It’s Suddock and Lambeth schoolchildren who are in training today at Waterloo on their way to the country.
And now I’m going to follow this little lot in.
They’ve got into a very comfortable looking Pullman car, which I should think is third class.
It is third class, but it looks so comfortable that I shouldn’t be surprised that it couldn’t have equally well been labelled first class.
And they’ve settled themselves in behind the great wide plate glass windows of a carriage of this sort, and when the last ones are in, I’m going to get inside.
What the noise will be like in there, I don’t know, but I think they’ll stop talking because they’ll be wondering what I’m saying.
But if balance and control is anything as strict in America as it is over here, I think there’ll be some engineers scratching their heads and saying there’s too much background to all that I’ve got to say.
Well, here in we go.
One step up.
It isn’t one of those platforms like you have out in the States where you climb into your train.
It’s one that’s level with the platform as they have them in this country.
And in we go.
And here’s the first part of the Pullman car.
“Take your coat off,” says somebody wisely to a little brother or pal, because it is a warm day today.
First of September and it’s muggy and what’s more, they’ve very wisely been equipped with clothes for all sorts of weathers.
And they’re carrying great coats and the very, perhaps the easiest way to carry a great coat is to wear it.
So it’s high time that it was taken off.
And here’s a girl with her great coat half off, aged I should think about 11, 12.
And she’s just stopped taking her coat off to tell you a bit about herself.
Any more of the family at home or, or, have you got brothers and sisters?
I’ve got three brothers, three sisters at home.
Three brothers and three sisters at home.
So here’s…
What?
Three sisters at home.
Ah, three sisters at home.
So some of them have been left behind.
Actually I think they’ve found today that the arrangements have gone so extremely smoothly and they’ve found that the numbers aren’t quite as many as they expected because of the holiday period.
A lot of them have gone all popping.
Do you…
Here’s a rather older girl looking as though she’d like to get the chance.
Do you ever go hopping, miss?
No.
Any of your friends go?
No.
It is…
Encouraged to speak up, girls.
It is a time for hopping.
And I know last night I was the other side of the river and I happened to see a mother who’s got five children, five young children all under about seven, in the street.
And she came up to me and said, “Well, I wonder what I ought to do.
Normally I’d be going down hopping with my children on Saturday and I don’t know whether to let some of them go or to go with them.”
And she decided to go down hopping.
And I think as far as the arrangements go, nobody will really mind that because at least it means that as the children get out of London, they’ll be well distributed all over the countryside.
A little hopping hut situated alongside farms on the commons, as they call them.
Tin huts.
A little group of people here and a little group of people there.
And that means that the children, even if they’ve gone hopping, will be well dispersed.
And later on, if things, if the evacuation has to be continued, well they can always be moved from their commons down in Kent and join the rest of the school.
The, um, I’d like to try and find one of the teachers who’s going with them.
Yes.
Are you going with them?
Yes.
Tell us now how many you’ve got to look after here.
I’ve got a hundred and forty-one children and sixteen people helping.
They’ve come from one of the poorest districts in London, very near the famous Elephant and Castle, which no doubt many people have heard.
They’re all merry and bright.
We haven’t had a single child crying.
And I think really in my heart, they’re looking forward to this little adventure because many of them have never seen the country before.
We’re very grateful for all that’s been done for us.
And to all those who’ve helped us, we say thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
Well, thank you.
That’s very nicely said.
There may be some more questions in a moment, but when the speaker who was going with this lot said that they looked happy, I can bear that out.
And I can also bear out the fact that they’re cheerfully dressed, girls in bright crétons, if that’s the right word, crocs, bright crocs.
And I think by the time they get out into the country, the country people will really welcome this invasion of young people from London.
I know Londoners pretty well, and I’m certain that when they get there, they’ll snatch all the enjoyment they can out of this new experience of finding themselves leaving.
What?
One minute?
The train’s leaving in one minute, is it?
Well, now, children, come on, give them a song as you go.
Hip hip.
Hooray!
Hip hip.
Hooray!
Hip hip.
Hooray!
Well, that’s not the train.
What about giving them the Lambeth Walk?
Come on.
Every day, day, man, he plays, you’re on your own.
Who is the Lambeth Walk?
I am.
And there for the moment, I think I must leave them singing in the Pullman, because the train’s due out, and things have gone so absolutely slick today that I wouldn’t like to hold a train up just because of the broadcast to America.
Even the stationmaster’s turned out in his tall black hat in which he’s greeted the King and Queen on their return from Canada on the platform just over the other side, number 11 platform, only about six, ten weeks ago, I can’t really remember.
And there now, looking back through the windows of this Pullman car, the children settle down, the boys more inquisitive than the girls by the look of things, each with their little gas mask in a brown cardboard box with comics to cheer them up.
One boy’s put his head out through the ventilator at the top of the window to give a special shout to America and the Empire, with a broad grin on his face, wondering quite where it’s going to, with no smoking on his carriage.
I don’t think there’s any danger of him wanting to smoke, as far as I can see.
Neat little attaché cases I can see in through the windows, up in the racks, odd packages tied up with string.
But on the whole, everything as neat and orderly as you could wish, and the station clock pointing at this moment to a fraction before two o’clock.
I dare say America may have left us by now, they may have had to, but if the Empire’s staying on, I’d like you to stay on and see this one train of children out of Waterloo Station.
One train out of about 26 that are going out today, each carrying somewhere about 600 children.
That, if I’ve worked it out right, is somewhere like 15,000 children leaving this one terminus.
The whistle goes, the children are looking out.
They all seem to whistle, they make sure that those whistles got over to America, three of them.
The gates are shut at the end of the station, and in a moment this train moves out to an unknown destination. [train sounds] [shouting] Well, there they go.
They didn’t cheer, but they waved.
They were all waving through the plate-mast of their Pullman coach as the train moved out.
I didn’t know that we were going to use an engine at this end, but the train is being pushed out as well as pulled out.
They’re going to make sure that these children get to the country.
And so we got the engine bringing up the rear of the train, passing us, and off they go.
And now the platform, number 12 platform of Waterloo Station, is practically deserted, apart from a few officials, the station master, and one or two people from the LCC who come to see this lot safely off.
And with number 12 platform Waterloo Station deserted, and waiting for the next trainload of children to go out into the country, we leave Waterloo Station and take American listeners, if they’re still listening, back across the Atlantic, and our Empire listeners back to the studio. (static)
Author of the World War II Multimedia Database