“I doubt it,” said the Deputy
And shed a bitter tear.
The moon was shining gaily down
On 15 Stanhope Street;
The Huns had given up their ships
“By order of the Fleet.”
And when they asked what won the War
Their signal straight appeared,
“The Navy did its damnedest
But the Wrens it was we feared.”
[Editor: * The famous London department store Harrods is three miles from Stanhope Street.]
Rivalries surfaced almost immediately within the various women’s corps. When the Women’s Royal Air Force was founded, a number of former WAACs ‘deserted’ to this new service, some undoubtedly enticed by the possibility of acquiring technical skills in aircraft maintenance and maybe, just maybe, learning to fly.
I. Grindlay is unimpressed by her colleague’s defection to the WRAF – certainly considered (along with its male personnel) the most dashing of the three services, and warns of possible pitfalls. For Grindlay, soldiers are every bit as good as airmen.
TO I. CRUDEN
Go, dainty maid, your needle ply
Among those daring men who fly,
But oh, my dear, be wary.
For compliments, like aeroplanes,
Are sometimes bent on hostile gains,
Though sometimes the contrary.
You have a clear, well-balanced mind,
So need not be just too unkind,
When offered some attention.
The good and bad you’ll separate,
And not just rise to every bait,
But surely I may mention,
That in our conversations here,
We may have been a bit severe;
For ’mong our fighting brothers,
There is a black sheep now and then,
But most of them are good, brave men,
The sons of noble mothers.
(3617) I. Grindlay
‘The willing girls who plodded on the land’: Women’s Land Army
In July 1915, Maurice Hankey, Secretary to the War Cabinet, reminded colleagues that on his three recent visits to France he had been deeply impressed by ‘the amount of work [done] on the land by old men, women and children’. Whilst not suggesting that Englishwomen should emulate Frenchwomen who, according to both photographic and written records, ‘harness themselves into the rakes and wagons and pull them in the place of the horses – and they so seldom complain,’ Hankey concluded, ‘it would be a splendid thing if we could get the women on the land in this country too.’ Cabinet members disagreed and initially little was done to get woman on to the land in an official capacity.
Nevertheless, by 1917 the food situation had reached crisis point. The government employed one of its favourite methods for hectoring the population: posters appeared instructing women to engage in National Service and ‘Speed the Plough’. Recruiting rallies and agricultural demonstrations occurred up and down the land and those who wished to fight the food war became members of the officially recognised Women’s Land Army (WLA) under the leadership of Lady Denman and Meriel Talbot.
Women were given a khaki uniform (unless working in dairies, where the chosen colour was white) to indicate that they too were soldiers. Long overshadowed by the Women’s Land Army of the Second World War, these women were eager to contribute their labour and saw their service in patriotic terms.
TO THE TUNE OF KEEP THE HOME
FIRES BURNING
We were summoned from the city, from the cottage and the hall,
From the hillside and the valley we answered to the call,
For we’re fighting for our country as we till the fertile soil,
And our King and Country need our help and ask for earnest toil.
Keep the home crops growing,
In the soft winds blowing,
Though your work seems hard at times ’tis not in vain.
Golden cornfields waving,
Means your country’s saving,
Golden sheaves at harvest time will the victory gain.
In the farmyard and the forest we are bravely doing our bit,
Some are milking cows for England, some th’ giant oak trees split,
We are working for our country and we are glad to have the chance,
By increasing England’s food supply to help the boys in France.
Keep the home flags flying,
England’s food supplying,
Help to bring our gallant lads victorious home.
Though the Germans raid us,
English women aid us,
Keep our food stores fortified till the boys come home.
K M E Gotelee
However enthusiastic they might have been when they joined the WLA, women knew that their life would be transformed once their brief training was completed. This anonymous poet sums up what many women were feeling,
A LAMENT
I’m a-thinking and a-thinking of the Farm where I’ll be sent,
Of the lonely little furrow where my days will oft be spent;
Of the harmless cows that poets say do naught but chew the cud,
Tho’ I know when I go milking they’ll be sure to have my blood!
I’m a-sighing and a-crying when I think of chilly morns,
Of creeping from my cosy bed to take the bull by horns;
Of goats that butt me in the back when I am off my guard,
Of stupid fowls and pigs and owls that squabble in the yard.
I’m a-moaning and a-groaning at the thought of beets and swedes,
Of digging beastly little holes and filling them with seeds,
Of planting all the luscious stuff that other folk will eat,
Of finding crumpled chicks and things beneath my spreading feet.
I’m a-grieving but believing, that I’ll take the train to town,
That I’d rather see the streets pulled up than watch the grass mown down;
I’d sooner swallow Nestle’s Milk than have to face a cow,
And much prefer to give up pork than have to keep a sow.
Anonymous WLA member
This anticipated loneliness was, in contrast to the lifestyle of the other women’s services, a reality for many volunteers. Women were often sent to remote farms, frequently working amongst those who resented their labour; many farmers were sceptical about the Land Girls and their wives could be openly antagonistic.
However, by November 1918 many of the sceptics had acknowledged that, contrary to expectations, the experiment had been successful. One WLA member preserved this anonymous ‘Tribute’ amongst her archived papers:
A TRIBUTE TO THE LAND ARMY
What made our lives endurable when war with all its woes,
Was devastating countries, over-run by bitter foes,
Who tried their best to beat us by their frightful hammer-blows?
The cheerful girls who came out on the land.
Who kept us from repining then, while working morn till night,
We heard the big guns booming, although far away from sight,
Across the German ocean (so called but not by right)?
The smiling girls assisting on the land.
The girls who sang like skylarks when the sky was clear and blue,
The girls who to their sailors’ or their soldiers’ love were true,
The girls who helped to win the war as only girls could do,
The willing girls who plodded on the land.
The girls who fed the pigs, attended calves or milked the cows,
The girls who worked with horses, driving harrows, rolls of ploughs,
The girls who always peaceful, never joined in any rows,
The jolly girls who toiled upon the land.
The girls who kept on plodding to assist as maidens should,
To do the needful work that might ensure their country’s good,
The man who fails to praise them must have brains like rotten wo
od,
Unlike the brains of girls who tilled the land.
In after years, when grandmothers these maidens have become,
They may inform their grandchildren (of whom they must have some),
How in the crucial days of yore, they made the farm work hum,
Those girls who helped to save their native land.
Anonymous
‘Things which will abide’: Precious memories
Perhaps more than for any other groups of women, those who had served in a uniformed capacity had experienced the greatest wartime disruptions to their lives. Often it was the support of colleagues that got them through the worst of times. Service life profoundly marked many women and they would take their experiences forward into their post-war lives.
AFTERWARDS
In course of time our drill we may forget,
The many turns and movements which we’ve striven
To perfect in ourselves and others, given
Much of our patience to – and yet
It will not matter, for even when we met
We knew this was not an end, but means
To help us better bear our part in scenes
Most varied, where our changeful work was set.
But there are other things which will abide,
The friendships made, the fellowship of our band,
The memories for us all of work and play.
The spirit which carries on whate’er betide,
The brave example of our leaders, stand
Within our hearts to cheer us on our way.
(Women’s Volunteer Reserve Magazine, March 1919)
As time passed and women struggled to reintegrate themselves into civilian life, they sought to retain their links through Association Gazettes and newsletters which helped maintain contacts, kept members abreast of others’ doings, and preserved memories. Some organisations went even further. The WAAC/QMAAC leadership, aware of the harsh, post-war lives of many former members, established several holiday venues. There ex-WAACs could spend time with former colleagues at little cost, reminiscing and offering mutual support as they adapted to a peace-time world which was not always empathetic towards women who had served.
‘Shanghai’ at Old Windsor in Berkshire was an early experiment – much appreciated by many ex-service women. One poet who gave herself the pseudonym ‘Bristles’ visited it when it was hardly finished. In time, many facilities including a camp superintendent were introduced.
From SHANGHAI
In the boiling grilling splendour of a summer afternoon,
I sat glaring in my window near the street,
I’d a “grouse” and proudly aired it and was wallowing in gloom,
With a sulky glance each friendly girl I’d greet.
For one was off to Margate and another going home,
A third unto the country she’d hied.
And here was I without a friend, with no fair lands to roam,
Condemned to stay in town at Whitsuntide.
I pretended not to see the fun, each girl was madly keen,
I sniffed a sniff and wiped a tearful eye
Reading (carefully inverted) a month old WAAC magazine
And longing to enjoy a real good cry.
While I idly glanced at “adverts” (Yes, old Grey is growing fruit,
And Brown A.A.’s a nurse I do declare).
I saw “Try Shanghai Camp, all loyal Waacs it’s sure to suit” –
And suddenly it vanished, my despair.
So, I should have a holiday, oh! What a piece of luck,
Our “Ma’ams” have never failed us now or then,
So I wrote a little letter and I wrote with frantic haste
Till the words all spluttered ink from my pen.
In time I got an answer – “There’s a camp down there for you,
If you don’t mind joining four brave pioneers.
You’ll have to do the work yourself, it’s all quite crude and new”,
I felt quite brave and gave three hearty cheers.
Then the camp had no *McClosky, no verandah and no punt,
When it greeted me that merry Whitsuntide.
As I “swatted” from the station for the place I had to hunt,
Cart a suitcase and a hold-all too beside.
When at last the pumping station showed its friendly bulk in sight,
I felt tired out, and sad, and almost done.
When a wild “War Whoop” from campers drew me quickly to the spot,
Where a good substantial tea had just begun.
“Did I see you once at Bostall?” D’you remember how Ma’am strafed?”
“I believe I met you once at Connaught Club.”
Here are five good Waacs and merry, so we chatted and we laughed
As merrily the supper plates we scrub.
O! yarns and song and gossip, sitting underneath the stars.
Of dear dead days that never come again.
Those far, queer days when sorrow and when joy, they both were ours,
And the war was not all sorrow and all pain.
Sleeping out beneath the stars, or gathered round a table bare,
Spread with simple fare and flowers grown near by –
We’re once again the care-free Waacs who’d done their little share,
To win the war and push the grey clouds by.
[Editor: * Former WAAC McClosky was given the position of superintendent, which she filled admirably.]
Some associations survived another war, folding only when many members had died. The longest surviving was that of the Scottish Women’s Hospital (Royaumont Unit) whose members had served at the Abbaye de Royaumont in France. It was mourned by the few frail survivors on its closure in 1973. ‘It’s just that I have outlived everyone I ever worked with … I among others miss the newsletter, it is a tender link and keeps us informed,’ wrote one former member. Their flimsy letters, (which a few women donated to archives, sensing an historical importance reaching beyond the sad catalogue of rheumatism and influenza), their cherished Gazettes and the poems they wrote, provide powerful evidence of the strength of servicewomen’s bonds.
Reading this preserved correspondence, it is hard not to be moved to tears by the strength of feeling and sorority between these now elderly women who, like old soldiers, jealously guarded memories of those indescribable, distant days and still recalled what VAD Lesley Smith called their ‘four years out of life’ when they served at the Abbaye de Royaumont
ROYAUMONT SONG
1
Do ye ken Royaumont, and the old high tower?
And the engine-house with its one-horse power,
And the cloisters calm in sun and in shower,
And the Blessés out there in the morning?
Yes I ken Royaumont and the jolly old crew,
The Doctors all in their uniform blue,
Sisters and chauffeurs and orderlies too,
And the rab-rabiaud in the morning.
Chorus
For the sound of the name to the heart brings a thrill,
And the spell that it cast, it is over us still,
Could we forget, even had we the will,
Royaumont, Royaumont in the morning?
2
Do ye ken Royaumont, and the Chief whom we love?
Compound supreme of the serpent and dove.
With Joffre and Pétain and Foch hand in glove,
And the pride of us all in the morning.
Yes I ken Royaumont and the blessed Curé
Trudging his twelve kilometres a day,
And the smile on his face as he used to say,
“Royaumont, c’est ma vie!” in the morning.
Chorus
For the sound of the name … etc. etc.
3
Do ye ken Royaumont, and the gallant Poilus
Black, white, and brown, in the horizon-bleu
And the wonderful things that they used to do,
In the
day and the night and the morning?
Then here’s to Royaumont with my heart and soul,
And here’s to *V.C. which was half of our whole,
And here’s to every name that is writ on the roll,
And loved Royaumont in the morning!
[Editor:* V.C. Villers-Cotterets was a SWH advance hut or field hospital about 65km from Royaumont and close to the Front. Many Royaumont personnel did a spell of duty there and in 1918 worked under shell-fire during the German advance. Joffre: French Chief of Staff until December 1916, replaced by Pétain who was moved sideways in May 1918 and was subordinated to Allied Supreme Commander Foch. Pétain played a relatively minor role in the remainder of the war.]
‘We were summoned from the city, from the cottage and the hall’
The opening line of K Gotelee’s poem to the Women’s Land Army applies to all the uniformed women of the Great War. Many socially privileged women marched out of their parents’ drawing rooms to volunteer as nurses, ambulance drivers, and orderlies. Some travelled thousands of miles from their native shores to succour the wounded and comfort the dying. In so doing, some lost their lives and a few became legends in their own lifetime.
Other women needed to earn their living. With husbands, fiancés, boyfriends, brothers and friends wearing His Majesty’s uniform, they discovered that it was up to them to step up to the mark and demonstrate patriotism and determination. Although life might not always have been easy ‘now I am a soldier’, camaraderie, commonality of purpose and the need to rise to the National Emergency and free a man for the Front, enabled them to accept, or at least find covert ways round, the restrictions that curtailed their liberty (and often their fashion sense).
By 1917, with thousands of tons of foodstuffs being sunk by enemy shipping, every acre of land had to be cultivated. Now it was women’s duty not only to prepare food in such a way that no crumbs were wasted, it became incumbent upon them to help to produce it. They responded to Lord Ernle, President of the Board of Agriculture’s plea to provide ‘the food bullet’ and ensure that the country was not starved into submission.
As the war that people had imagined would be over by Christmas 1914 stretched into months and years, women from all walks of life responded to their country’s ‘stirring call for [wo]men’ and through their uniformed service played a decisive role in helping to secure victory. And with victory finally secured many in the post-war world turned to those amongst whom they had served to keep alive precious memories of those days when they had done their ‘little bit’ to win the War.
Tumult and Tears Page 12