This week's old photo is courtesy of Trowbridge Museum and shows families visiting evacuees in 1939.
Former Trowbridge resident David Rose, who used to live in Broad Street between 1936 and 1970, shares a wartime memory.
"To anyone who may have been looking at us, on a summer day in 1942, we must have appeared to look like two little old men, perhaps talking about their past. In fact, we were two very young boys, about six years old, not having a care or worry in the world.
"We were sitting outside my father's bakery of 4, Broad Street, Trowbridge. There were two steps leading up to the shop from the pavement, the top one about 10 inches high and the lower step only about one inch above the pavement level. This was what one might describe as a comfortable place to sit, head cupped in hands and elbows resting upon our knees. There we were, passing the time of day, that is, in the eyes of a child.
"It was during this moment of tranquillity we heard the sound of an aircraft approaching from our left. Suddenly, the road in front of us was being torn to pieces by machine gun fire from the German plane. Whether it was total fear or total excitement I will never know but we both stood up, jumping and waving to the pilot, who believe it or not, was looking at us as he circled back to make another pass.
"The machine gun fire was intended for the gasworks some 200 yards to our right. We watched the plane bank to the left as the pilot prepared to come around again. This was, as one might say, the highlight of our day.
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"More machine gun fire? But no, this time the guns were silent - the German pilot came as low as possible, banking slightly to the right and waving to us,. Enthusiastically, we waved back. I can see him to this day. I could clearly make out the pilot, leather helmet and goggles.
"Then he climbed away, dipping his wings a couple of times, perhaps in appreciation of the two children, who innocently showed the pilot friendship (it was later in life that I found out the wobble of the wings was a pilot's way of saying goodbye).
"The pilot was either a young man with a brother or sister at home or perhaps a married man with his own children. What must have gone through his mind after seeing the two boys? What the hell have I done here?'
"I hope so much that this pilot survived the war and was reunited with his family at home, as I was with my mum and dad. Moments after this true story my mother emerged from the shop doorway and grabbed us both by the scruff of our necks, dragging us back into the safety of the bake-house.
"I didn't tell my mother what I had experienced from the front step of the bake-house until some years later."
Send us your old photos to Down Memory Lane at the usual address.
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