Being an RAF Bride...

At 19 I met my first husband at a party in 1941 on the eve of his leaving London for flying training as a rear gunner; although we hardly exchanged words, he said (on hearing an air raid warning which meant he had to return to his nearby RAF duties) that he was sorry to be going away as he would have liked to know me better. However, a few days later he telephoned from Scotland to say he had a weekend pass and would I meet him at Victoria station at 3 pm on Saturday — I did, he was utterly charming with beautiful blue eyes.
Although we only met six or so times before he returned from Malta, where during some of that Island’s worst hours, he flew in a Wellington bomber (4o squadron) his first tour of bombing raids. Whilst there, the crew of the Naval ship ‘Penelope’ stationed in Valetta harbour, and known affectionately as ‘the Pepper Pot’ due to holes all over her caused by shelling by the Germans, adopted my husband’s crew and from time to time gave them a welcome meal of eggs and bacon, and also cigarettes fished up from the sea.
The six months he was away I worked with the Canadian YMCA stationed in Cockspur Street, London, and enjoyed being spoilt with unfamiliar food, and bliss — silk stockings, and a little flirting with the Canadians who gallantly fought with us during the war.
On Kirk’s return we married in June 1942, my family generously supplying me with the coupons to buy a small trousseau, and spent the three days remaining of his leave at ‘The Boar’ in Escher; the coast, of course, being barred to most of us.
For a short time I also worked for a new ministry set up with Beaverbrook in charge named the Ministry of Production, and fairly often Churchill would dash through; sometimes a friend I made there and still have, were detailed for fire watching on the roof — unlike my husbands, I am a coward and was absolutely terrified, and very glad when no moon illuminated the Thames and Houses of Parliament.
My husband had now risen to the rank of Squadron Leader — a rare thing for a rear gunner, and I joined him to live by his station where he, now in 76 squadron, was doing a second tour of bombing raids in preparation for the invasion which led to victory for the allies. In 1943, due the very heavy losses of men and machines, I asked Kirk (rather bravely, when I think back) if we should have a child, as I dearly wanted something permanent from our very happy marriage — he was delighted and requested that, if we had a daughter and he didn’t survive, she should be named ‘Penelope’ in tribute to the gallant men who sailed and died in that ship like so many other seamen.
My husband duly received the DFC and once spoke briefly on the wireless of his experience of a particular bombing raid. After Penelope was born I stayed with my parents, as I had done for the 3 months prior to the birth ; this was due an RAF rule that pregnant wives should leave living with their husbands, as the powers that be thought it was an added strain for the men to have their wives on the spot.
I was glad to be with my parents and 3 younger sisters, in spite of the fact that prior to conceiving I had rented a small flat. Also during those three months I worked as a temporary secretary, as two or three times a week the newspaper headlines detailed the huge losses of aircraft. Mummy, although not mentioning it, left a small chink of light to shine through the hall curtains. One night it was missing and I opened the door terrified, to be reassured at once that Kirk was OK, but my sister Shirley’s fiancé, Colin, was missing over the Himalayas; never to this day has crew or aircraft been found. Colin, 21, was 3 years out of school, the only child of a widow.
Kirk didn’t see Penny until she was almost 2 months old, and Daddy, worried for us, asked him if he would take Penny and I back with him. In Surrey, we were in the path of the flying bombs, and either Mummy or I were spending time by the pram in the garden, ready to rush Penny back into the cellar at the next warning.
Kirk’s Bomb Aimer’s wife secured us some digs; I still remember the cold sick feeling of standing outside the house straining to count the aircraft coming back, and dreading that the adjutant would walk up the road and stop at our door. Each raid, for sure, he stopped at several.
Three years later we had a son and, in all, 28 years together. He died a young 60, and thirty four years later, in spite of a second marriage which was also happy, I still miss him

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