About the contributor

EVACUATION

When in 1938 the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain arrived home after his visit to Germany carrying a piece of paper — the peace pledge signed by Adolf Hitler with his jubilant message “Peace in our Time” — my heart sank. Now one year later, the storm clouds of war in Europe had gathered and my parents wore anxious glum expressions. I had to conceal my own excitement — I wanted this war, I needed this war, I figured and as it turned out rightly so that it must surely interrupt my schooling, the dreaded school leaving exams (matriculation) was the dark cloud on my horizon.

I was 15 at the outbreak of war; children from London schools were immediately evacuated to towns in the country. After our tearful goodbyes from parents who assured us we would be home in a few weeks and definitely for Christmas — with name tags tied to us, gas masks in boxes slung on our shoulders - we queued outside our school in Ealing for coaches. We were bound for what was in our estimation a far off place “out in the sticks” called Aylesbury and a safe haven from German bombers.

On arrival we were herded into the Town Hall where the procedure resembled a cattle market. We stood in lines while the good ladies of Aylesbury (anxious to make their contribution to the war effort) eyed us up and down and made their selection; to take a child to care for in their home for the duration of the war (just a few weeks of course). I do not know what the criteria was, but my friend Eileen and I were left, no-one wanted us — perhaps we were too big, perhaps we would require a lot of feeding. Embarrassed and demoralised we trailed around the roads of Aylesbury with one of the lady organisers knocking on doors.

Eventually a young couple Bette and Jim took pity on us and we found a home and very kind and good to us they were. In due course my younger sister joined us there.

LONDON BLITZ

We did not stay in Aylesbury for long. I managed to persuade my dad and we returned home. At this time the war seemed to be “on Hold” with just the occasional wail of the air raid siren, often a false alarm. Then in September 1941 the war literally exploded upon us with the bombing of the London docks.

Peter, my school days boyfriend and I were in the West End at Drury Lane Theatre where we saw Robert Donat, famous actor of our time playing in “The Devil’s Disciples”. The performance had just finished when the sirens sounded accompanied by explosions — our own anti aircraft shells. The theatre manager came on stage and advised us to remain seated. There followed entertainment and the stars from nearby theatres swapped over to entertain each others audiences, Michael Redgrave was among them.

I soon became restless and we decided to leave. We walked out into the darkness (black-out) with only the search lights that swept the sky. The underground stations were closed that night and the street shelters were filled with people singing. We walked 15 miles from Piccadilly to Greenford. We did have a short respite and sat on the common at Shepherd’s Bush, but not for long as the shrapnel from our guns whistled through the trees.

My parents and sister were in the underground shelter we shared with neighbours and families. My mother of course was sick with worry and told me later that her tummy rumbles were noisier than the banging overhead.

After Business College I worked for a while in London during the time of the “blitz”. Every morning I emerged from the underground to see weary firemen still fighting the flames. Now of course the undergrounds were open for the people to take shelter. When I left work at 5 o’clock the platforms were already filled with families with air beds and sleeping bags and women with their hair in curlers! There was just a narrow pathway left for commuters to use.

At the end of 1940 Peter joined the RAF and a few weeks later I volunteered for the W.A.A.F.

JOINING UP

Once again my parents were waving me good-bye. I can still see the stricken expression on their faces; you would have thought they were seeing their soldier son off to battle in the front line. I was heading for the RAF recruitment centre a few miles away. They were staunch patriotic folk and I know proud of me, I could scarce conceal my own excitement, but I vowed and promised I would write to them often.

RAF GLOUCESTER

Dear Mum and Dad

Today we were issued with our uniforms. We had a laugh about the underwear, big heavy blue bloomers with elasticated legs that came down as far as our knees — we call them “black-outs”. Later we did our stuff on the parade ground — Ha Ha! with an RAF flight sergeant yelling, left, right, left, atten—shun. It was a bit of a shambles. We will soon be posted to Morecombe — I’ll write again from there.

MORECOMBE — CHRISTMAS 1941

Dear Mum and Dad

Thank you mum for the food parcel, I can’t tell you how welcome it was, Christmas is not a time when you expect to be hungry. The parcel arrived a few days before Christmas but I managed not to open it until Christmas day.

We are not on a camp here but housed in “civvy-billets” — seaside boarding houses where the war has deprived the landladies of their B&B businesses and livelihood. There are seven of us sharing rooms and I am the baby of the group. They have a roster of kitchen duties; I took so long to peel a large pan of potatoes that one of the girls helped me out; I didn’t tell them that I had never peeled a spud in my life before!

We didn’t get Christmas dinner, we could smell it cooking for the family but there was no turkey and all the trimmings for us; we got the usual stew and rice pudding (not my favourite as you know). The landladies get paid a pittance by the government for each of us and they are trying to compensate for lost livelihoods. The other girls had food parcels too, not a crumb was left.

This seaside ozone is very bracing and with all the drill up and down Morecombe’s promenade (square bashing) we work up healthy appetites, all our pay a magnificent £2.10s a fortnight goes on food, mostly fish and chips.

Tomorrow we have our passing out parade. We have an RAF Squadron leader in command. He has a huge sergeant Major voice. With our arms swinging shoulder high, with our chests thrust forward, he makes us feel really proud. The ceremonial passing out parade marks the end of our first period of training, concentrating on drill — how to salute and who to salute, always with hats and caps in place. Now there will be a parting of the ways and these newly found friends will be scattered and sent to the various RAF station for trade training. I am being posted to RAF Cranwell in Lincolnshire to train as a teleprinter operator in the signals section. First I am coming home on a short leave — a 48 hour pass very soon.

My Dear Mum and Dad

It was so lovely to be home. I really didn’t want to leave you and I do miss your cooking mum. The food is quite disgusting; there have been several cases of food poisoning. We have tow types of meat identified as flat or chunky! Today we had bread and butter pudding, that is what we are told it is, consisting of slices of bread slopping about in milky water with a few raisons. We are issued with enamel mugs and irons (cutting) which we clean in a tank of cold water outside the mess.

It was snowing hard when we arrived. We dropped our kit bags at the Guard Room and then marched to the “sick-bay” for F.F.I. Freed From Infection) where our hair was inspected — it took me back to school days when the nit-nurse came.

We were all hungry, cold and tired and marched to the mess for supper after which we were marched back to the Guard Room to retrieve our kit bags and escorted to our billets. These had been regular RAF married quarters. Cranwell had been a training camp for air crew. The terraced houses are arranged around a grassed square each house having one bedroom, one downstairs room and kitchen with a solid fuel boiler for hot water. There are four of us in each house.

It was dark and still snowing; an RAF corporal escorted me to my address, it is No10 Delhi Square. I followed him to the upstairs room, it was in darkness, he switched on the light and nothing happened. The corporal muttered something about getting a new light bulb and disappeared. I sat on a bed and waited. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness I could see the other bed was occupied; there was a muffled sound of sobbing from under the blankets. The corporal arrived back with some steps and a light bulb which he inserted and the light went on; he gathered up his steps, a brief goodnight, he went down the stairs, banged the front door and the light went out! I reached for my bedding stacked army style at the top of the bed. I put the biscuits in place (2ft square mattresses) then fully dressed pulled the blankets over my me and joined in the sobbing.

Oh dear this is a rather miserable account of my arrival at Cranwell — I don’t think I shall send it after all.

Dear Mum and Dad

It’s still snowing — I’ve got some nasty chilblains which have been daubed with some thick black stuff that looks like tar.

There are so many here on the training course that we attend the schools in sessions. The early shift starts at 6.a.m. We have to present ourselves “on parade” at 5.30 a.m. with buttons and shoes shining and hair off the collar, an RAF sergeant inspects us — and all in the snow! After about an hour at school we march to the mess for breakfast.

I suspect you are suffering from a shortage of fuel as we are. We are allowed one bucket of coal for each house daily. The coal is delivered in the centre of the square and an RAF Nco stands guard over it during the day. Of course we all wait until sundown when he goes off duty and creep out and pinch some more. The rooms upstairs are interconnecting and unlocked. The other day I arrived in the afternoon just in time to see a WAAF disappearing across the landing with my fire on her shovel — can you believe that? No one seems to consider how you light the fire in the first place, there is nothing supplied so its down to initiative. The cook house is very close by and was once surrounded by wooden fencing. I was assigned to this particular exercise of pinching bits of fencing and this has to be carried out at dead of night.

Soon we will be finished our training and posted to various RAF stations. I look forward to a proper job, but I’ll be home on leave first.

RAF GILLINGHAM — KENT

Dear Mum and Dad

It seems strange after Cranwell to be back in civvy billets. We are accommodated in homes, but just for sleeping. All meals are at the RAF camp. Our signals section W/T (Wireless Telegraph) and teleprinters and radar is part of a huge underground complex shared with both the Army and Navy. We work on a shift system which involves a long night duty of 10 hours. We are kept very busy but as operations are all highly secret, messages are mostly in code except for the long reports which are sent out after operation.

The air raid sirens sound off every night. It is quite frightening, it becomes very noisy and Mrs Miles my landlady crawls with her little girl into the metal table type shelter in her kitchen saying her prayers. The gunfire is mostly from our own defences, Chatham with its dockyard being a military target. It seems that the German bombers fly high above the fire on their way to London, so you are much nearer the action. By the way now that you are an official air raid warden Mum I would like a picture of you both in uniform with Dad in his Home Guard battle dress. By the way Mr Miles has been discharged from the army; he lost his right hand at Dunkirk.

We had a bit of excitement yesterday. While on camp an alarm sounded, all gates closed and we were confined to camp. What on earth was the matter? Was there a fire? Were we under attack? You’ll never guess, it seems a WAAF sergeant had left her stockings drying in the laundry room and they were missing. All personnel on camp were searched. The stockings were eventually found, it seems one of our number had purloined them, they were hidden in a bag and still wet! This poor soul was put on a charge accused of theft. She was posted away to another station.

It is almost impossible to get worn out items of uniform replaced. To do this you attend Equipment Parade with the garment, which is scrutinised by the corporal or sergeant in charge to see if it beyond repair. I have seen shirts torn during this process and then handed back to be darned or patched!

By the way I’ve met a very nice sailor. Who knows I may bring him home one day, but not yet as he is away on the high seas soon and I am to be posted away shortly, it will be quite a wrench as I’ve been here over 2 years.

All my love, thinking of you

D

HUNTINGDON - HQ PATHFINDERS
BOMBER COMMAND

It has come as quite a shock after our comfortable digs in Gillingham to be back in nissan huts, about 30 of us in bunk beds. There are two boilers to heat the huts and we crowd round them in the evenings. The hut gets quite cosy but at night it is very cold, wet face cloths hanging on our lockers are often frozen in the morning.

We are surrounded by American Air Bases so we all have G.I, boyfriends and they give us a good time — cinema, parties and “posh nosh” in hotels, but then they have the money; as our boys say about them overpaid, oversexed and over here. Our American counterparts (WAACs} Women’s American Army Corps are very smart in their beautifully tailored uniforms. I was having dinner with a G.I. friend when a WAAC walked in; she was wearing fine stockings and shoes with a small heel. My jaw must have dropped, he leaned across the table, took my hand and said “Uncle Sam looks after his gals”.

The war looks like its all going our way. Wont be long now.

VE DAY + 1 1945

We went to a mad mad party at Alconbury. Today the looters have arrived and have taken anything removable, its all legit, no one worries. I have been presented with heavy long gold curtains from the sergeants mess — expect you can use them mum.

VE DAY + 2

They’ve gone — just like that, the boys and their flying fortresses. My G.I. boyfriend pressed his silver wings into my hand; he said he had worn them on every mission (American for operation). Some of the girls were left with a different souvenir. There was a serious epidemic of pregnancy on the camp!

By the way my sailor boyfriend and I have kept corresponding, he writes quite frequently.

Miss you, lots of love D

He has been away nearly two years now and during that time I have enjoyed I but I have never forgotten my sailor and the way we met.

Remembering it now I think of the song from South Pacific “some enchanted evening you may see a stranger across a crowded room”. The crowded room being a big rather smelly services canteen at the Central Hall in Chatham. (The smell of frying burgers and bacon greeted you from way down the road). A few of us had been to the cinema and we could hear the singing as we approached the canteen, it sounded like fun so we decided to join in. A very good looking sailor was hammering out some 1st world war oldies on a rather ancient piano. “Daisy” and “It’s a long way to Tipperary” were among his repertoire. We joined in the throng around the piano, he glanced my way, our eyes met. When it was time to leave he took - Ivy - home!

The next day I was somewhat comforted by Ivy’s report “not my type” she said and then “very shy”. May be she was not his type I figured.

One evening some two weeks later, after the cinema we dropped by the Central Hall. The sailor was there at the piano, he was playing “Danny Boy”; he glanced my way, our eyes met, he walked me home.

RAF NEWMARKET 1945

It was lovely to be home and particularly because next time it will be for good. I’m glad you can use the curtains Mum. You say you are having pyjamas made out of them, can’t imagine gold satin pyjamas, you’ll look like the principle boy in pantomime!

I am just marking time waiting for demob. Guess what? I’ve been for a flight in a Lancaster Bomber. There were tours laid on specifically for WAAF and RAF ground crew. I suppose I chose to go in the rear-gunner turret because the G.I. was a rear gunner in a Fortress. It was a bit lonely and I was cut off from the others. All the armoury had been removed of course. One of the crew showed me how to operate the turret I said I would not dare to touch anything, but it was a very long trip and I couldn’t hear the captain on the inter-com, so I pressed some levers and swung the turret from one side to the other. I thought about the boys who had sat in this same place with all the flack and enemy fire around them.

We flew quite low to view the war damage over Cologne which was virtually flattened with the Cathedral an empty shell still standing. I thought of all the German lives and the death, pain and anguish of people just like us.

P.S. About that sailor. We married soon after his return from the Middle East. He had been sweeping up mines in the Persian Gulf. We raised our large family, 3 boys and 3 girls. We loved each other for 53 years until he was posted far away, or may be it is not so far after all. I’ll find him again some day.