Meller John Henry - THE BOY WITH ONLY ONE SHOE: An illustrated memoir of wartime life with Bomber Command

This version of Johns memoir contains over 50 personal photographs.

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John Henry Meller served as aircrew in Bomber Command during World War 2. At the time of writing, John is 95 years of age and lives with his wife Barbara, 92. They recently celebrated their 71st wedding anniversary and live with their daughter Caroline, son-in-law Jamie and granddaughter Stephanie on their small holding near Cardiff in South Wales.

John writes:

My son-in-law Jamie persuaded me to write these memoirs for Stephanie so that she would be able to appreciate how much we owe to those who fought against the odds to defend our country, our world and our freedom. The ordeals endured by my generation, not only affected the outcome of World War 2, but also altered our way of life, our values and our expectations forever. In particular women were given the opportunity to prove beyond all doubt, both to themselves and others, their capabilities, bravery and self-worth in all occupations and professions.

My mother held me close to her; I was just three years old and she was terrified that I wouldnt come out of my coma. The doctor warned my parents of the severity of my condition. Our daily help had been preparing a bath for me. She had already poured the boiling water into the zinc bath and was in the process of collecting cold water to add to it, but in the meantime, I had clambered in unsupervised. I sustained third degree burns to my lower back and the shock to my tiny body was immense.

As the doctor and my parents looked helplessly at my frail body I started to stir and whimper. They listened closely and heard me say: The angel wouldnt let me in. It started as a murmur but I kept repeating it over and over again and getting more and more upset: The angel wouldnt let me in.

Later when I had regained more strength I spoke more about my experience. I had followed a glowing light up some stairs, climbing higher and higher far above the clouds. Just as it was getting too steep to climb any further; a figure appeared, standing just inside some partially open gates. I looked up at this heavenly being, and he looked down at my feet and said: You cant come in - because you only have one shoe.

The apparition and the gateway then just faded away.

My parents often spoke of the angel and my lost shoe story to friends and relatives. I can remember my mother telling everyone she thought I must have a guardian angel and my uncle wondering about how many close shaves I would have in my lifetime. He added that at least I wouldnt have to suffer all the horrors young men experienced in the Great War. With that he patted me on the head and said: Id stick to the ground young man - dont go soaring up into the sky again.

I can still remember that moment and the immense sadness that I felt as the angel drifted away. The scars are still visible on my body some 92 years later, but I am glad to say that I still havent found that other shoe!

D uring my early childhood my family lived in Winwick Street, Warrington, England. Ours was a terraced house with a tobacconist shop fronting on to the street, owned and run by my mother. We were in the middle of a small row of shops, to the left of us was an ice cream shop, on the other side was a sweet shop and next-door to that was a greengrocer. Each shop was licensed to sell a restricted range of items and could not stock the same goods as another shop in the vicinity. This rule was implemented to maintain a reasonable profit margin for shopkeepers and to encourage more entrepreneurs into retail.

Warrington had originally been a small market town, but the 19th century industrial expansion had increased Warringtons population to just over 65,000. The main forms of industry near us were metal foundries, particularly iron and aluminium and tanneries - we had a large tannery opposite us. In the 1920s small retail shops like ours were an expanding industry.

My mother, Ada Meller was an excellent entrepreneur and an extremely liberated woman for that era, as she earned her own income and was very much in charge of her own shop. She worked very long hours, from 5am until 8pm, and managed to juggle looking after three young children and running a household.

My mother was extremely lucky to have a young girl called Hilda Houghton to help her with the daily chores. Hilda had walked into the shop one day and explained that she had just left school, (school leaving age at the time was 14 years), and was urgently seeking domestic work. Initially, my mother explained that whilst that would be helpful, she didnt have sufficient funds to employ anyone. Finding any employment, particularly for a young girl, was extremely difficult at that time and Hilda told my mother that any income would be better than nothing, so my mother agreed to visit her parents to discuss it with them. Shortly afterwards Hilda started working for us on a daily basis from 8am until 8pm, (including Sundays), for a very small amount of pay, but with as many benefits as my mother was able to add to the arrangement, such as any cast-off clothing, surplus food, plus a two penny packet of Woodbine cigarettes for her father every day. I remember her father, as he had been seriously injured both physically and mentally whilst fighting as a soldier in France during World War 1. Every time the subject of Hildas father was brought up in our household, my father would angrily denounce the government and state how poorly they had all been treated since returning from the war.

My father, Herbert Meller, was a foot soldier with the Lancashire Fusiliers and my uncle Ernie was in the cavalry. They would often discuss not only the horrors they had witnessed during the war but equally the injustice they had felt on returning home. My father used to say that they had been promised a heros return to a Land of Hope and Glory, but instead, they came home to poverty and unemployment. My father was lucky as he had his own butchers shop and my mothers business to return to, but most had nothing. As a result, my parents did their best to help Hildas father by sending him his tobacco and giving a bit of meagre but valued employment to his daughter.

I cant imagine how my mother ever coped before Hilda came to work for her. Hilda worked long hours and was hard working by nature, but, occasionally, we would go looking for her and find her fast asleep, on the chaise longue in our front parlour. My mother, who was a stickler for hard work, acknowledged that this young scrap of a girl desperately needed a little rest and would tell us to leave her to sleep.

Hilda washed all our clothes by hand as washing machines had yet to be invented. The clothes were first scrubbed on a washboard then partly dried by squeezing water out through the rollers of a mangle before being hung to dry. Certain items of clothing were pressed using a heavy moulded piece of iron with a handle on it, which you heated on the kitchen stove. It was usual to have two irons, one in use and the other pre-heating on the stove.