My family moved into a Housing Commission house in the new Inala in the early 1950s. We boys soon found that there was lots of small arms ammo round the area, remnants of the US Ammunition Dump. Finding it and extracting the cordite was a favourite pastime for the local boys, who spent hours combing the bush. Local homes had vases and ashtrays made from shell cases—and even mortar shells as decorations in their gardens.
\We had all been warned about the danger of explosions, but in nearly ten years since the war there had only been a few scorched eyebrows. So when this group of boys found a really big piece of ordnance down by the creek, there was great excitement—and little concern. I went over to have a look.
The leader was bending over the bomb when it went off. He took the full force of the explosion—he didn’t have a hope. I was less than a metre away, but the blast went away from me. I was deafened by the noise, and no doubt in shock. As I saw adults running to the scene, I shrank back and stumbled home.
My parents were hurrying out to see if they could help. It never occurred to them that I might have been there too. And I never told them! Or anyone else for that matter… It was fifty years before I returned to that spot! In 2004, I felt compelled to go back. I went alone, and I left flowers there for my unlucky childhood playmate. And I’m glad I did: it felt right. But the horror of that day will stay with me always.
(name withheld)