"It was about 8pm. I was standing on the platform talking to people when there was a terrific explosion above the station, and at the same time one of the platform lamps arced, and that put the station into total darkness.

"That is when the panic started, it was bad panic... then there was the smell of gas and the children were shouting for their gas masks. I got my torch and flashed it up, and saw water pouring down in torrents."

That quote, from Transport at War, by Charles Graves, gives a clue to the horror unfolding that night, and another haunting passage came from Catherine Baird, who came from Balham and is remembered as one of the Salvation Army’s brightest poets.

The army played a crucial role during the Blitz, raising the morale of the public and rescue workers, who they fed and watered during often painful and traumatising work.

Catherine’s record captures the contracting fortunes of those caught in the nightmare in beautiful prose - some of which is produced below.

After the war, Catherine lived in Balham until her death in the mid 1980s. She never stopped in her service to others and for years visited those in Balham in need of food or help with shopping.

Reproduced from the Salvationist Reciter 1950, with permission from The Salvation Army International Heritage Centre:

"Unglorified, It came into existence one dark night almost as soon as the raid warning had sounded. Scarcely had the sirens' moan died away that the heavy drone of planes flying low was heard.

"A moment of ominous quiet preceded the shriek of bombs, streaking through the darkness to find their mark.

"That evening, the divisisional commander Major Edgar Grinsted and his wife had remained on guard at the divisional office, a stone's throw from the scene of the bombing.

"She had slept under the desk on the floor, he had prepared to snatch what sleep he could in an old chair, too weary for fear.

"Suddenly, the crash - the silence - then the sound of running feet and hurrying ambulances speeding.

"High explosive bombs had pierced the surface and plunged into the tube railway station, where scores of people were gathered for shelter.

"They were trapped now under the collapsed roadway, with masonry and huge concrete slabs at drunken angles on them and around them.

"Water and gas from broken pipes gushed in.

"Anybody but the most courageous and undaunted of rescue parties would have felt such a situation to be hopeless.

"Each man who went down to do his life-saving task did so at the risk of his own life, and so awful were the conditions there that the workmen needed to change over at given intervals.

"Yet the voice that came over the telephone at the divisional commanders office was quite cheery; could the army mobile canteen come over and serve tea or anything hot to the workers? The Army could and would.

"All gas and light were cut off. But the major, back from working in other shelters and travelling with mobile canteens, called for help to light fires, and soon the canteen and its driver and attendants were off. They found mean with grimy faces, wet clothing and haunted but courageous eyes. Quietly and without panic, those who were not killed or trapped were piloted out and taken to hospitals and other shelters. Shrapnel fell all around the Army canteen while its attendants served hot tea in the unsheltered street; they were too busy now to know either fatigue or fear.

"They could see the outside of the hole - nearly half a street long and filled with shops and tram-lines and pieces of road. A London bus lay among the debris. Down deep in the hole the station master sat in his office at the telephone, speaking to his headquarters, reporting the incident in slow, measured tones, so that no mistake on his part, or misunderstanding on theirs, could bring about further tragedies on the line. While he talked the water crept over his feet and up and up. But he still spoke steadily. Then the water folded cold arms around him. This voice faded out. The station master was no more. He was a Salvationist.

"In those last moments before the flow of water was halted a mother drew an old shawl closer round her baby son.

"She knew she was trapped between the cement slabs. The call of the rescuers sounded faint. She had forgotten her own body. The baby was her own world. Cold and menacing, the water crept upward to her waist.

"She raised the baby and pressed his hair against her. Then she could feel the heavy wetness pressing against her breasts. She raised him again.

"The water was rising slowly now, but certainly. She jerked her head up, she could hardly feel the baby’s body. Her arms were high over her head and almost numb. So she remained for two hours.

"Later, when ministering to the people, a fair-haried officer heard her story.

"Almost timid and quite ordinary in appearance she explained why "he" was so precious. She did not know she had glorified a ghastly night.

"Afterwards I passed the hole every day. Within a few weeks, most of the shops that had not been bombed had been reopened and were "carrying on".

"Long before the daylight and after dark, workmen were busy. All along the side of the road their materials - cranes, great stone cylinders, iron rafters and intricate tools - made gigantic outlines in the dimness.

"The repairing that once had seemed impossible began to appear possible. The men whistled at the worked. In the spring, they said, the work of reconstruction would be complete, and they kept their word.

"Spring has come many times since, and although long queues of shoppers stand where the hike once yawned, the grass is lush and green on the commons and the tender leaf buds are shyly showing themselves to eyes that have waited for the m through chilly, grey months.

"When I now walk homeward over the covered hole, I remember the station master at the telephone 'til death claimed him, the uplifted arms of the young mother, the friendliness of the Salvationists - and I know the once-yawning gap has been wrapped about with the eternal fabric of love and courage, friendliness and joy."