WWII Air Raid Patrols & Military Convoys

There was an air raid horn mounted atop the Seaview Garage roof. It was tested every week at night. My Dad was a warden. The horn would sound and scare the —- out of me! Dad would don his air raid outfit, a helmet, an armband, a flashlight, dark clothing, a nightstick, a whistle and a notebook.

He patrolled from the Seaview Garage to the O’Donnells’ at 90 Summer Street.

The wardens were to be responsible for all lights out and no driving of cars. One time a car came down Summer Street during the test and my Dad stopped the driver. He said, “Harry you can’t drive. Pull over to the side and wait for the all clear.” Harry responded, “Bill, go to Hell,” and drove off. Dad never reported him as he should have. Harry apologized later.

When my Dad was on his air raid patrol beat, he would pass our house (189 Summer Street) and give a little flash of his light to the special window, where I’d be sitting, watching and waiting, on the second floor landing. This window had a clear center with different color stained glass around the border. I could see clearly to Central Ave, near the bottom of 4th Cliff during the day.

During the war years, military convoys would come down Summer Street past the Seaview Garage and past my house, sometimes during the day. That’s when I would wait until they passed, then run into the house, up the stairs to my window, and watch them moving slowly up Central Ave. in Humarock. They were going to the Air Force Base on 4th Cliff. At night, it was a different story. When a convoy came through at night, one could barely hear or see them, with no lights on or very small slits on their headlights. After they passed, I would take my Dad’s binoculars, go to my window, and try to see them approaching the Cliff — usually with no luck. I always thought enemy subs or ships were off 4th Cliff, and so reinforcements were sent to the base. It was pretty scary for an 8 or 9 year old!

Convoy stopped on Summer St. for a break, c.1944.

 

by Ray Freden
Originally published in the Marshfield Mariner, January 21, 2009