That first visit to work in the mortuary made a deep impression on me, and on the following Sunday when ‘Rockie’, as we called Mr Rock Carling, came to lunch I went for a walk with him in Battersea Park and he talked most understandingly to me about such things, so that I felt better about it all. He told me that he and Richard had visited mortuaries in all parts of the country because one of his jobs was to ascertain what form of death resulted from the blast or actual bursting of the bombs. He told me that once when they were in Gillingham mortuary and a terrible raid was on, Richard had remarked coolly that at least they were in the right place if they were killed.
On September 15th Buckingham Palace was bombed, and mingled with the people’s anger at this outrage was a kind of warm gratitude at the personal sharing by the monarch himself in his country’s ordeal. Two bombs fell on the Palace but neither of them exploded. Unexploded bombs were a nightmare – sometimes we would awake to find ourselves surrounded by barred-off streets because of these UXBs. There had been one recently in Cheyne Court, a few doors down from No. 33, and we had been obliged to evacuate while it was removed. The young, eager-looking officer of the REs who came to take it away was blithely contemptuous of the danger to himself while insisting that we all go away while under his directions the bomb was removed. Bombs were his life, he told me – he knew them as a mother knows her children. I wondered if his mother knew of the appalling risks which he was running continuously – he looked so young and so full of life.
I had gone to Suzanne while the bomb was being removed, as we were not allowed in the neighbourhood. She had a deputation of Belgians full of complaints. I was surprised at the way in which they were standing up to the nightly shelter life. I thought they were splendid. Madame C. said to me when I commented on this, ‘Well, we are frightened, you know – and if we were alone we would make a noise – but you British are so quiet that we dare not make one wail!’
Just occasionally a list of places which had been bombed was released on the news. The withholding of the whereabouts of the incidents seemed ridiculous to those Londoners who passed the gaping holes and melancholy mounds of debris on their daily journeys to and from work, but we were told that it was important that the Germans should not get to know exactly what they had bombed. That they had a pretty good idea was apparent from their own news, which included details of many buildings destroyed by them.
Richard and I were married during one of London’s heaviest day-light raids. Because of this none of our guests turned up for the ceremony – and, what was more important, neither of the witnesses did. We went out into the deserted street and found two taxi-drivers, who were philosophic about bombs – saying that bombs or no bombs they had to eat and what was the use of staying alive if one’s stomach was empty? They acted willingly and charmingly as witnesses, and afterwards tossed up as to which of them should drive us to the Guards’ Club where we had invited our friends to lunch. The All Clear sounded before we reached there and most of the guests turned up, although some were late because they had been on duty during the raid. Anne had got leave from her office and came with Kathleen. When we got back to Cheyne Place Mrs Freeth had tied a white ribbon round Vicki’s neck and had put flowers everywhere and Mr Ferebee had sent over some champagne.
In the evening some friends came in to drink our health, but the sirens went very early and most of them had to rush away on duty. We spent the first night of our marriage putting out incendiaries with Anne and Cecil and Larry, who had now moved out as a billetee but was welcome to come in whenever he liked. It was exhilarating, especially as we drank champagne in between the bouts of fire-fighting. When there appeared to be a lull in the dropping of these small fire bombs we decided to go to bed. There were now high explosive bombs being dropped and the barrage was very noisy. One bottle of champagne had been opened but not drunk, and as we appreciated the fact that French wines were already scarce we put it in a pail of ice, intending to drink it last thing before going to bed – but we forgot it.
In the early hours of the morning we were both awoken by a loud explosion in the room. ‘It’s a fire-bomb come through the window,’ I said, for the plop was exactly like the plopping explosions of the small incendiaries which we had now become accustomed to extinguishing. But there was no sign of a fire-bomb – the champagne cork lay on the bed and the ceiling was splashed all over with champagne! I was astonished that it could explode to such a height and make such a mess as we surveyed the diminished remains of our wedding toast.
On September 19th the King and Queen came to Chelsea. Their visit was unofficial and quiet, but news of it leaked out and a large crowd lined the King’s Road when they were driven to Bramerton Street, and cheered them loudly. They were taken to Dr Castillo’s demolished house and shown how Mildred Castillo had been rescued from it. All the Rescue Squad were presented to their Majesties and shook hands with them. George Pitman told the Queen how they had got her out safely, and the King commented, ‘You have done absolutely grand work.’ Pitman answered, ‘It’s all in the day’s work, sir, we all get the same pay.’
Wally Capon was fifty-four at the time of the rescue and amused the Queen by saying, ‘People in these days think the old ’uns are no good and only the young ’uns matter. Now the old ’uns are showing what they can do.’ Their Majesties walked through a number of side streets to Cheyne Row and the Church of the Holy Redeemer and were given an account of the terrible holocaust there on the night of the 14th when Bert had been killed with the shelterers. I had only just learned that Bert had been in the RAMC at St Mark’s Hospital during the 1914-18 war.
There were many of the Borough’s officials and dignitaries lined up to receive the King and Queen although their visit was supposed to be informal. I had been visiting Dr Pennell and so got a first-class view. When the crowd was approaching the damaged Holy Redeemer Church the Queen walked away from the group of officials surrounding her and going up to a group of wardens, mostly women, asked to be introduced to them. Amongst them was Jo, and Len Lansdell, the Deputy Post Warden, both of whom had done such magnificent work in the Holy Redeemer incident, and the Queen spoke to them all. Len Lansdell is a shoemaker with a wonderful personality and as many wisecracks as an American movie, and I had heard everywhere of his bravery and devotion to duty. I liked this incident very much. It seemed to me that Queen Elizabeth, with her usual thoughtfulness and perception, had understood and appreciated the merits of those who, though not perhaps the star performers, nevertheless formed the vitally necessary core of the whole structure without which such deeds as those of the three heroes of the Castillo incident could never have been achieved.
Hundreds of us had a close-up view of the King and Queen that day, and the knowledge that their London home had just been bombed made a link between them and the victims of the tragedies about which they had just been told. They left a warm glow of pride and affection wherever they went. Queen Elizabeth, exquisitely dainty and so much prettier than any of her photographs, gave us all her lovely heart-warming smile, and King George, looking careworn and strained, had a sincerity which was unmistakable as he talked with the ARP personnel, giving everyone the feeling that he shared our sufferings to the full.
On the following Sunday, when he broadcast from Buckingham Palace, King George spoke of the wonderful work of the ARP Services and of the creation of the George Medal which was to rank next to the Victoria Cross in honour. His praise must have cheered thousands of ARP workers who had begun to lose heart at the prospect of a whole winter of experiences such as September had brought them. He spoke of the loss of the evacuee ship City of Benares, which was torpedoed on September 17th without any warning 600 miles from land. It carried ninety children and nine escorts. Eighty-three of the children were killed or lost, and seven out of the nine escorts also. Most of the crew and the ship’s Captain went down with the ship and Colonel Baldwin Webb, MP, who was accompanying the children to Canada, also lost his life.
This had cast gloom o
ver the hearts of many parents who were contemplating sending their children across the Atlantic under the Government scheme. When the few survivors were able to tell their stories of the last moments of the City of Benares the nation’s fury broke out. What must have been the feelings of the parents who had sent their children away as they thought to safety? Their little friends sent into country districts in England, Wales, and Scotland were still safe and happy. ‘Sink their ships, sink their ships,’ was the cry everywhere, just as those who had been bombed begged, ‘Give it them back, give it them back.’ We were apparently doing both those things, judging from the reports of neutral countries such as Sweden. Fury, resentment, and detestation of the crime of the City of Benares was expressed all over the world. Two of my small cousins lost their lives in this disaster. Their mother, who had worried herself sick as to whether or not they should go to Canada, had given in finally to her husband’s wishes and parted with them.
Chapter Thirteen
CHEYNE HOSPITAL, now that most of the refugees had been found homes, had been receiving bombed-out people from the City and East End. After the docks fire at the beginning of the Blitz there had been a number, and more came as the East End, and especially Bermondsey, suffered heavy attacks which rendered thousands homeless. Some of these people were very dirty – so dirty that the others, put with them into the former wards of the hospital now used as dormitories, refused to sleep there with them. They ‘stank’, they said, so much that it was beyond bearing. Some of these offenders were ordered to take a bath by the Medical Officer, but they were people who had never seen a bath, let alone taken one. Most of them were very old and to us VADs there fell the task of bathing them against their wish. To see the bodies of some of those to be bathed was a revelation in the way others in our capital lived. Peggy Rowles [now Mrs James Dowdall] and I, who were often paired together, had to bath an old woman whose body literally resembled the bark of a tree – so thick and ingrained were the layers of dirt. She was resentful and indignant at this outrage performed on her by ‘young chits’, as she called us. I explained to her that she was going to have a special medical bath which would do her rheumatics good – and she was somewhat mollified. We had trouble in coaxing her into the bath and it took loofahs, flannels, and scrubbing brushes to get the dirt off her. We were sweating and soaking when this revolting task was finished and the poor old soul dried and dressed in some of the clothes from Crosby Hall. After this there came the loathsome task of delousing their heads – and then treating the hair for nits. For hours some of us would sit in a small room overlooking the Thames dealing with lousy heads. One woman whose long and beautiful hair was literally alive asked me if I did it because I liked it. I said no one could like such a job. ‘How much do they pay you for it?’ she then inquired. When I said that I was a volunteer and was paid nothing she said tartly, ‘Why don’t you leave the bloody things in peace then – if I don’t mind ’em why should you?’ Why indeed?
When I got home Mrs Freeth would insist on my washing everything in carbolic and said she couldn’t see why such filthy people couldn’t be ‘just fumigated and done with’.
Many of our East Enders never took their clothes off at night in peace time, and since the Blitz thousands had never taken them off at all. But others, who, in spite of all they had gone through, were clean and respectable, resented the dirty ones being near them. Another revelation was the sanitary or rather insanitary habits of the bombed-outs. They seemed to have got used to using buckets or the floor in the shelters where they had been sleeping, and rather than find their way in the dark passages to the lavatories they used the fire buckets. As these were filled with sand and constantly needed when we had incendiaries, the horrible surprise of those dealing with the bombs can be imagined. When we remonstrated with them they demanded chamber-pots, and it seemed to me that the easiest way to get rid of their revolting habits would be to obtain some of these articles.
As usual, I went to Margerie Scott. She said she had a case of them – but no transport to get them to the hospital. So urgent did the problem seem to me for hygienic reasons that I said I would take some down myself for the forthcoming night. I left the Town Hall with half a dozen of these articles piled high in my arms. Paper was a commodity impossible to obtain and except for a newspaper which we wrapped round the unwieldy pile they were bare, shining, and vulnerable. I staggered down Shawfield Street with them. There was unfortunately a wind and the newspaper was blown away after a few preliminary flaps. Now I thought, it only needs the sirens to go for the whole lot to tumble down when the bombs drop. I could only just see over the top of the things, which were growing heavier and heavier as I walked. It became increasingly evident that sooner or later I would either have to put the pyramid down and rest or it would fall! The moment came when I could go no further. I heard steps hurrying behind me but I could not turn round, and, pausing by the steps of a sand-bagged house, I was endeavouring to lower the things without cracking them when a familiar voice said, ‘Sit down on the steps and I’ll take them from you.’ I slithered onto the steps, almost causing a tragedy by not judging the distance, but a firm hand steadied me and the pile of china was removed deftly from my aching arms and set down on the steps. I looked up. My saviour was a slim khaki-clad figure with a lock of fair hair falling over his eye in a way it always had. Rex Whistler [he painted the frescoes in the dining-room of the Tate Gallery], in the uniform of the Welsh Guards, consumed with mirth, was counting the pots as he laid the pile down. ‘What in God’s name are you doing with these lewd articles?’ he said. ‘Oh, oh! If I only had a pencil and paper! You can’t imagine how you looked staggering along with these.’ I could imagine only too well. The wind had blown my hair about as it had his. I was surprised that his was still quite long – Richard had told me that the Guards were strict about close-cuts. My face must have been red with anxiety and exhaustion and the squat round cap of the Red Cross uniform did not suit me. I said I knew I looked awful. ‘Awful? You looked enchanting – who would expect to find a girl staggering about in broad day-light with these!’ and he went off into hoots of infectious laughter. Rex could always make me laugh. He had a quality of never having grown-up yet being completely mature.
We sat there on the stone steps surrounded by white china chamber-pots and smoked a cigarette and exchanged news. I had no idea that he was in the army and he did not know that I was in the Red Cross. He was curious as to the destination of the china articles and in spite of his elegant uniform he insisted on accompanying me to Cheyne Hospital and carrying half of them. We giggled all the way and tried some juggling with several very near accidents to our precious burdens. ‘Do you often walk about with such interesting things?’ he inquired as we approached our destination. I told him about the East Enders, of our having to bath and de-louse them, and I told him about the old woman whose body was like the bark of a tree. Rex always liked unusual and fantastic models and he was absolutely fascinated, and when we had deposited our burdens and he had seen with what joy they were received, I introduced him to some of our ‘patients’. He came back with me to Cheyne Place and enjoyed one of Mrs Freeth’s famous cheese omelettes with me while I told him more about what I was doing.
He was stationed ‘somewhere on the coast’, he told me, and it was all quite fun. Yes, he was painting and drawing there. My aunt had known Rex’s mother when she had lived in Abbot’s Langley and he and his brother Lawrence were children. We had both been taught drawing by Professor Henry Tonks whom we had both loved.
Rex was very encouraging about my work and implored me not to give it up but to try and do some drawing every day – even if it were only a sketch or a scribble. He said that I could get a permit to draw bombed buildings from the Ministry of Works and that they were excellent practice.
To see and talk to this original and delightful person was indeed a breath of fresh air. Just as he was leaving, after parting reluctantly from ‘Miss Hitler’, as Vicki was now called, he held out a sixpen
ce. ‘I owe you sixpence – don’t you remember?’ he asked. I didn’t. But apparently several years previously I had once lent him sixpence at a party at which he had arrived without any money. He had refused to take more than his exact fare back, which was typical of him.
A few days later I received a post-card from him and on it was the most delightful drawing of myself with the pile of articles which had so amused him. Richard and I loved this drawing – as did all our friends. The card bore no postmark – war-time censorship on coastal towns forbade it – but from something he had said I concluded that he was stationed somewhere in the Brighton area.
We VADs had to do day and night duty in pairs at Cheyne Hospital now that the bombed-outs were there. These poor souls – especially those from Bermondsey, Poplar, and West Ham – had already been through terrifying and appalling horrors about which they loved to talk, each vying with the next in gruesome details of the heavy attacks on their boroughs in which they had lost their homes. They were panic-stricken when the raids became localized and noisy, as they frequently did. Cheyne Hospital, being on the river, got the full impact of the bombs, intended for the power station and the bridges, which missed and fell in the Thames. We all hated being sent there on night duty because the old people panicked easily.
One night Peggy and a VAD named Elizabeth Mason were on duty there and there was no Sister-in-charge. The Blitz was bad, and the old people became hysterical and Peggy, not knowing how to calm them, gave them all sleeping tablets. Later in the night when she went the rounds they were all sound asleep. The guns barked, the bombs whooshed down unnoticed by the sleepers. When she was ready to go off duty early in the morning some of them were still asleep. Peggy had a sudden horrible fear that they had died of an overdose of sleeping draught. Supposing they had? What would happen to her? She had acted on her own initiative. She waited about and then as time went on she began trying to rouse them, and then crept from one to another, her heart beating with apprehension. But they were all awaking quite happily, and one old woman said to her, ‘Oh, nurse, I haven’t had such a lovely night since the Blitz started.’
A Chelsea Concerto Page 14