On the 3rd of March, 1943, at the height of the Second World War, a fleet of German bombers
took flight, heading directly for London. As air raid sirens sounded across the capital,
residents took shelter wherever they could – in cellars and basements, in purpose-built
bomb shelters, and, in many cases, in the stations and tunnels of the London Underground.
The underground transit network had been used throughout the war to keep tens of thousands
of people safe and well during German attacks… but on this particular night the rush to enter
a shelter would cost more lives than it would save.
During the early years of the Second World War London had suffered hugely in the Blitz:
a sustained bombing campaign designed to break the spirit of British civilians and undermine
their support for the war. By 1943, however, the focus of Hitler’s forces had changed,
and London was finally granted some reprieve. Instead of almost nightly raids, Londoners
instead only had to take to their shelters when incoming bombers were spotted. Since
the Germans most often bombed London in retaliation for attacks by the British Air Force, they
often had at least some advance warning when bombs were expected to fall.
London is a uniquely large and densely-populated city within the UK, meaning that shelters
were sometimes in short supply. Residents who were lucky enough to have gardens could
install a private underground shelter there, but for the vast majority a public shelter
was their only recourse. Many of these were purpose-built for the war out of brick and
concrete. Where possible, though, it made sense to take advantage of existing infrastructure,
by establishing shelters within London Underground stations.
In the early days of the Blitz these shelters were probably rather uncomfortable… but
still represented a safer alternative than remaining topside while bombs were falling.
As they saw more and more use, however, they were soon adapted to the needs of the people
sheltering there. Chemical toilets were installed, and beds and rest areas established. Some
shelters even had lending libraries, church services, and facilities for teachers to continue
delivering lessons even when school was interrupted by an air raid.
On the 1st and 2nd of March, 1943, the Royal Air Force had carried out a series of raids
on Berlin. Just as they had many times before, the Germans responded in kind on the night
of the 3rd of March, sending a flock of bombers towards the UK capital. Air raid sirens sounded
at exactly 8:17pm, prompting people across the city to make a dash for their nearest
shelter. In one area of central London, many people
headed for Bethnal Green tube station. The shelter was accessed from street level via
a staircase with 19 steps. Over the course of the next ten minutes, with the air raid
sirens still blaring, hundreds of people gathered at this entrance and began filing down these
steps. They had come from their homes, from local pubs and cinemas, and had even piled
off buses that had stopped nearby when the sirens began sounding.
Although estimates vary, there were most likely around 2000 people attempting to enter Bethnal
Green tube station. Despite the urgency of the situation they did so in a calm and orderly
manner. This was by no means the first air raid that any of them had experienced, and
they were, by this stage in the war, very used to the procedure when it came to entering
public shelters. Running was forbidden. Pushing was certainly not allowed. Every Londoner
was expected to remain calm. On this particular day, though, something
unusual happened. At around 8:30pm a deafening explosive roar was heard from somewhere close
by. To many in the crowd it sounded like gunfire, or like bombs falling – something which
caused a great deal of confusion. How could bombs be falling already, when they hadn’t
yet heard the drone of German planes overhead? What the crowd didn’t know was that an experimental
anti-aircraft rocket battery had been set up in nearby Victoria Park, and was being
tested for the first time during this raid. The noises they were hearing were not bombs
tumbling down towards them, but instead anti-aircraft missiles being despatched to ward off approaching
German bombers. With no way of knowing this, however, and
no police officers on scene to call for order, a panic gripped the crowd. People surged forward,
terrified that they were about to be bombed. Near the bottom of the steps a woman holding
a child fell to the ground. Almost immediately, those behind her fell too, starting a pileup
that blocked the entire staircase within seconds. Alf Morris – who was at the time just 13
years old – later recalled the chaos of the incident:
“The rush of people separated me and my aunt. I was pushed to the left and my aunt
was pushed to the right. I was thirteen years old. As I was pushed downwards, I was carried
down. I got to the third step from the bottom and I was pushed up against the rail with
people falling from above. They fell on top of one another. They were all screaming for
their mothers and fathers. I couldn’t see my aunt and I couldn’t move my legs because
the people were all pushed up against them. I was calling for my aunt but she had her
own problems, she was stuck too. And then, on the landing at the bottom of
the staircase, there was a lady air raid warden, her name was Mrs Chumbley. She could see me
calling and crying. She put her arms across the people who were down and the first thing
she did was grab my hair, and I screamed because the pain was tremendous, but she could not
move me. So she reached further over the people and put her hands under my arms and pulled
me out like I was a bag of rubbish, and I started to move and I came out.”
Alf and his aunt and the air raid warden Mrs Chumbley ultimately survived the crush, although
it left them with trauma that they carried for the rest of their lives. They were lucky
to survive. In the dark and confusion, many people were crushed and asphyxiated in a matter
of seconds. As rapid as the incident was, the rescue operation
which followed was also swift. Those who had survived were pulled from the mass of human
bodies blocking the stairs and sent into the shelter with instructions not to say a word
about what had happened, so as not to cause a panic. They sheltered there, many of them
missing shoes or with torn clothing, and multiple minor injuries, until the all clear was given
at around 7:00am the next morning. By this time the dead had been removed, the severely
injured transported to hospital, and the stairs hosed down. There was nothing to tell of what
had happened except a huge number of lost shoes that had been ripped from feet during
the crush. All in all 173 people died and at least 60
were injured in the disaster, many of them children. Because of the ongoing war effort,
though, news of the incident simply wasn’t made public for several years. Authorities
insisted that the deaths at Bethnal Green tube station had been caused by a direct hit
from a German bomb… and, traumatised by what they’d seen and experienced, many survivors
did not voice any disagreement with this story until many years later.
In the days which followed, despite the story that the incident had been caused by a bomb
rather than a crush, handrails were installed at the entrance to the shelter, and the steps
were painted to increase visibility. These were just some of the suggestions that had
been made several years before in 1941 by a council engineer, who had noted that a crush
was possible. He’d asked for crowd control barriers to be installed, but his request
had been turned down, as it was considered far too expensive.
It was only after the war was over that the truth about the incident emerged. As details
of what had happened came to light, some sought compensation from the government… who were
unwilling to concede that the noise of the rocket battery in Victoria Park had contributed
to the disaster, insisting instead that the panic had been caused by the incoming German
bombers. Despite this, some families were successfully able to claim a small amount
of compensation in the 1950s. Several decades later a small plaque was installed
in Bethnal Green Underground station, but this aside the disaster remained mostly forgotten.
Though it was the worst loss of civilian life in a single incident in the entire course
of the war, it was still overshadowed by other losses. It was only in 2006, following a fundraising
effort by a descendant of one of those involved in the crush, that a permanent memorial was
installed near the station. It consists of a wooden replica of the staircase, inverted
and punctuated by 173 holes – one for each of the ordinary people who lost their lives
on the 3rd of March, 1943, while seeking shelter from enemy bombers in the skies above their
homes.