Sunderland's railway station was below street level. In one of the umpteen air-raids the station was hit and a complete railway carriage was blown into Union Street, immediately above. It stayed embedded into a sports shop for weeks until the station was rebuilt.
In Jan. 1942 my father, a soldier came home on leave with a 48 hr. pass. From Thirsk he managed to get a lift to Chester-le-Street, then started to walk the rest of the way, to Sunderland. At 2am. he reached Penshaw, about 4 miles from the town.. Many people were in the streets gazing at the red sky to the east. 'Where are you going, soldier', someone asked. 'Into Sunderland', he replied.'my wife and family are there'. 'Don't bother',said the man,'there's nobody left in that lot. Jerry has been plastering it for days now'. My father, in full kit and rifle ran the remaining 4 miles into the blazing town. My mother, baby brother and I were safe amid the carnage, taking refuge in a cupboard under the stairs. We had been there for three days.
Sunderland was the largest shipbuilding town in the world, in its day, and received due attention from German bombers for many months. I remember it vividly.