Lino Bugeja (‘Hell was an air raid shelter’, February 14) penned a very graphic exposition of the realities he suffered in wartime Vittoriosa. His autobiographical experiences seem to run parallel to my own, only mine were in Floriana.

Like Vittoriosa, Floriana suffered the vandalism of the Luftwaffe. In April, 1942, our churches were destroyed. Many people died buried in the chancery and many other buildings were razed to the ground. We did not lose our small home but we too suffered poverty, bombardments and starvation.

However, I did not rummage for food. My mother’s gold trinkets went on the black market. On my part I committed a crime by ripping up a corn bag that had just been raised from the granaries up the road from our home. I risked imprisonment but my mother could not do without spaghetti!

We also tried to dig a shelter in the bastion near Portes des Bombes. Only my father did the digging. I merely carried rock fragments outside the shelter entrance. Unfortunately we had to give up. The rock was so hard even a professional digger was unsuccessful and lost money.

My four brothers and I had to be sent to the mina or railway tunnel. We came out with blisters all over our bodies due to persistent scratching. Our stay only lasted a week, that is, till my mother gave birth to another baby – a girl she had longed for so much. Yet she did not stop there and ended up having 10 children. We lost a five-week-old brother to whooping cough.

Our primary school in Floriana did not close down but boys and girls shared half days learning in scattered vacant premises or even in a parked charabanc (vehicle) near the granaries.

At other times we ended up on the steps of the tunnel leading to the train platform.

The classrooms were divided by a threadbare curtain. But we did not need hearing aids in the cacophony of classroom disturbances.

During the attack on HMS Illustrious we sheltered in the basement of the Housecraft School cheek by jowl with St Publius parish church. The basement resounded and the building shook with every explosion. The glass doors rattled and we children screamed and cried.

Our sense of claustrophobia turned us hysterical. Some boys even attempted to rush out. Our headmaster blocked the exit with his corpulent body and words that instilled obedience; the classroom teachers also suffered the agony of restless discipline.

Another set of giant-killers: In 1951, the author (right) was captain of a makeshift Floriana team that beat Valletta FC 3-2 to win the trophy match.

Through starvation and destruction, our fragile bodies gave way to strong indefatigable characters

The rosary Hail Marys were recited in screaming voices to camouflage the blasts of explosions. Somehow the headmaster realised that the basement had a hidden danger. During a lull in the attack he screamed at us to climb up the stairs and out into the street.

We crossed the granaries square into the Mall Garden and then literally scrambled into an entrance of the railway tunnel. Why the pandemonium? Underneath the basement of the Housecraft School was a huge water reservoir and possible death by drowning.

Like Lino, I sat for the competitive Lyceum entrance examination. Like him I passed with flying colours.

But we did not consider other students as elite. My friends and I chose Latin instead of other subjects. That opened the way to a University education. We chose to mix with the elite.

However, our lives diverged in some instances. I travelled from Floriana to Rabat on the railway train some months before it closed down. I was wrapped in a white shawl. I slept all the way in my mother’s arms. I described the whole episode ‘In the Arms of Morpheus’ in my book Reminiscences of Childhood in Floriana.

When Lino reminded us of Vittoriosa’s victory over Ajax and lauded his team as giant killers, he forgot that it was only a flash in the pan.

St Publius parish church was badly damaged during a heavy bombing raid in April, 1942.

My team’s success came in 1951. The team’s first-string were in UK during the Festival of Britain but the Malta Football Association insisted on Floriana playing the trophy match against Valletta FC with all their stalwart players. We fielded a makeshift team composed of minors, third- and second-string players. We won the match 3-2. I was the captain then, with Joe Griffiths as coach.

Wartime atrocities made us wild but brave. We ran barefooted rain or shine scouring unbuilt areas and climbing destroyed buildings. The edge of bastions was a daring challenge. Opposing gangs were enemies to be stoned and jeered. Swimming distances and climbing drainpipes were opportunities to be daring. Yet the policeman’s whistle scared us stiff.

We came out of all childish pranks fragile in body but strong in mind. We grew up to be determined family men till death do us part. We accepted discipline and obedience to superiors.

We enjoyed gregariousness: we made friends and kept them. We sought social mobility through education with success.

Borrowing money was anathema and we shuddered at the thought of buying goods without detailed calculation beforehand.

We followed guidance principles, whether in sport, at school or in Church. We undertook our duties to bring up children and the students under our care.

In short, through starvation and destruction, our fragile bodies gave way to strong indefatigable characters.

As an active octogenarian I still try to pass on my knowledge as an inheritance to others.

I appeal to fellow senior citizens who are still active to bring out their own diaries and share their particular, patriotic experiences.

The combined wealth of ancient minds is real Maltese history and culture. Together they form the diversity of our unity and sameness of our shared past.

And like John Milton they could “perhaps leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die”.