Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  This edition published 2015

  by Lothian Custom Publishing,

  264 Danks Street, Middle Park, 3206.

  © Copyright L. E. Pembroke 2015

  www.lothiancustompublishing.com.au

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any other information storage of retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from either the author or publisher.

  Any copy of this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form or binding without prior consent from the author or publisher.

  ISBN: 9781921737176

  eBook 9781921737152

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Creator: Pembroke, L. E., author.

  Title: Two women went to war : a story of WWI / L.E.Pembroke.

  ISBN: 9781921737176 (paperback)

  Subjects: World War, 1914-1918--Women--Fiction.

  World War, 1914-1918--Participation, Female--Fiction.

  Women in war--Fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  Digital edition distributed by

  Port Campbell Press

  www.portcampbellpress.com.au

  eBook Conversion by Warren Broom

  For Bushy Pembroke

  CONTENTS

  Part 1 England, 1911–15

  Part 2 Australia, 1911–15

  Part 3 The War, 1915–17

  Part 4 The War, 1917–19

  Part 5 Returning Home, 1919–21

  Part 6 Australia, 1922

  Part 1

  England, 1911–15

  CHAPTER 1

  MADELEINE

  In 1911, soon after my fourteenth birthday, I met a man who subsequently became more precious to me than life itself. His name was Charles. He was twenty at that time, and we met at the graduation parade and garden party at Sandhurst Royal Military Academy in Surrey. Impressing him was the last thing on my mind. I was far too excited to be there to watch my cousin Stefan graduate. I adored Stefan with all the precocity of a spoilt adolescent. My desire to attract Charles came later.

  Stefan had come into my life soon after my father was killed, and I had quickly transferred my filial affection to him. Directly after the parade cousin Margaret introduced me to Stefan’s close friend, Charles Phillips, who was also a graduate, and as Stefan was off in the distance with his latest girl friend and her family, I was quite content to spend some time with Charles.

  Stefan was only one of my many cousins. I had no brothers or sisters, which was not surprising because my father was killed, when I was four years old, at Ladysmith during the Boer War. My mother had run off and left my father when I was a baby. Thereafter she lived with some man somewhere in America. According to my grandmother, Mother was a flibbertigibbet who broke my father’s heart. She came in 1896 with her parents to England from Australia to be presented at Court. She met and lusted after my father, a handsome man by all accounts, who would have looked especially impressive in his uniform. And she left him a year after their whirlwind courtship and marriage.

  For the following years, I lived with my grandparents. My grandmother did her best to make up for my lack of parents. Spoilt? Inclined to be wilful? Yes, I was both of those things. And that was because my grandmother gave in to my every whim, thereby incurring my grandfather’s wrath. I did not much like my grandfather. He was a bristly old man, and I had the feeling he deeply resented my presence in his home; probably because he considered I took up too much of his wife’s time, which should have been spent on him.

  My wealthy grandfather made his money in the City of London and with it was able to maintain a large house in the country as well as our London home. He had five children; three of whom had several children. Stefan, like me, was an only child. When we went to the house in Wiltshire for special family occasions I had lots of young people with whom to play, and I never regretted my lack of parents.

  Margaret was my favourite girl cousin, soft-hearted, gentle Margaret who was my mother substitute and patient playmate. Stefan, my favourite male cousin, was six years older than me. His name is Stefan because one of my aunts married a Polish chap. They lived in Poland and sent their only son to England to be educated. That is how I formed such a close relationship with him, because during school and Sandhurst holidays he lived with us and, like Margaret, paid particular attention to his young ‘orphaned’ cousin. By attending Stefan’s graduation I met the man who above all others played the most important role in my life.

  When Stefan rejoined our family group at the garden party, he introduced Charles to our grandmother. My grandmother asked, ‘Umm, Phillips did you say? Are you related to Hugh Phillips, Charles? He does something in the City.’

  Stefan then said quickly, extremely quickly, ‘No, Grandmother, Charles’s father has interests in breweries and distilleries.’

  We were all aware that our grandmother had one great weakness. She was a snob. Who your parents were and what school and church you attended were very important concerns for her.

  Although I thought Charles was a nice young man, when we first met I had no prescient feeling that he might be my soul mate. That happened two weeks later. Charles was very polite, although there was nothing about our first conversation to give me a clue that this was the man. He asked me how I enjoyed the parade, and I said that I enjoyed it very much and that the cadets were all so clever keeping their lines so straight and their arms swinging in unison. He assured me that that sort of precision took months of practice. He was a pleasant young man, tall and slim, dark hair, straight nose, piercing blue eyes and a strong profile. So it was a thrill for me that he even bothered to talk to me and, what’s more, wasn’t treating me like a child. For that reason, and because he was nice-looking and charming, I talked to Charles for quite some time.

  My grandmother was planning a musical evening at our home in Eaton Square. It was to be a farewell to Stefan who was returning to Poland for a brief leave before his first posting with the British Army in India. I asked Charles if he would be attending the musicale. He said he was and looked forward to it.

  After that, he excused himself and moved over to talk to Margaret, whom he had invited to the Graduation Ball that night. Shortly after, Graduation Day came to an end for me. Of course, even I accepted that fourteen was too young to attend the ball. Stefan, who noticed that I was loathe to leave the garden party, came over to us and hugged me. He told me not to be too disappointed that the day was over for me and said that in three or four years time I would be turning up to everything that was going. And, being such a pretty child, he guaranteed I would have dozens of young men lining up to take me out.

  All very well, but that was scant comfort to me as a forward fourteen-year-old. Three or four years sounded like a lifetime away.

  *

  Another cousin, Millicent, came home with us to spend a few days with our grandparents and to keep me company. On the Saturday after the graduation, rather than take a short stroll in the Eaton Square gated green, which was often crowded with residents and uniformed nannies pushing large prams, we went for a walk in Hyde Park to feed the ducks and watch boys sail their boats on the lake. One of the young maids came with us as chaperone.

  At the Oxford Street end of the park, we noticed a noisy, jeering group gathered around a well-dressed lady standing on a platform addressing a relatively small audience. I immediately guessed who she was.

  ‘Look, Millie.’ I grabbed my cousin’s hand. ‘That must be Mrs Pankhurst and her daughter.’

  ‘I don’t know them,’
Millie replied.

  ‘I don’t either, silly, but you must have heard of them. Grandmother admires the work they do on behalf of women.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  I then had to explain to my disinterested younger cousin everything Grandmother had told me about women wanting the vote and wanting to be treated the same way as men – in terms of ownership of property. ‘Our own grandmother secretly supports the suffragettes. She can’t go to their meetings because it would cause scandal and Grandfather would be extremely annoyed, but she sends them money to help run their organisation. When I grow up I will join them and fight for women’s rights.’

  My silly cousin said, ‘I won’t. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.’

  When she grew up she would obviously be one of those vacuous women who are perfectly happy to leave all the decisions to their husbands. ‘Mrs Pankhurst and her daughters have even been put in gaol because they are sticking to their principles. They refused to eat in gaol, and MEN held them down and force-fed them. What do you think about that?’

  ‘I still don’t understand why they bother,’ a bored Millicent replied.

  We waited in the park until the meeting concluded; whereupon I clapped loudly, and Mrs Pankhurst looked towards me and rewarded me with a smile. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Grandmother. The experience exhilarated me, and I determined to attend further meetings. Our grandmother encouraged me. She said that she would find out when and where the next meeting was to be held, and we would go together.

  The suffragettes were meeting again in Hyde Park on the following Saturday. The problem was that, by Friday, my grandmother was laid up with an inflamed throat and didn’t feel well enough to attend. I did not care to be put off. I told the housekeeper I was not well and asked for lunch in my bedroom on a tray. As soon as I devoured it, I put the tray outside my door and wrote a note saying ‘DO NOT DISTURB. I am asleep’, and stuck it on the door. I wrapped myself up in overcoat, gloves and hat as it was drizzling outside and, unseen, I slipped out of the front door.

  Unfortunately we were enduring a dreadful summer that year, and in the awful cold and damp weather most people were staying indoors. At Speakers’ Corner I found around twenty suffragette ladies listlessly handing out pamphlets to the small crowd. Mrs Pankhurst was not speaking from the platform but talking to three of her lieutenants. Having worked myself into a peak of excitement, it was extremely disappointing. So much for my adventurous afternoon!

  A few moments after my arrival, Mrs Pankhurst called the suffragettes together and issued orders that they march to Parliament Square and ruffle a few feathers on the way. So saying Mrs Pankhurst and her lieutenants picked up their placards and began their march. In pairs the women formed a line behind them and turned in the direction of the river.

  I grabbed a handful of leaflets from one of the suffragettes, then, trailing along at the end of the line, tried handing them out to spectators. Thrilled to be a member of this movement for solidarity among women, I grew more and more excited to be striding along behind those brave women. The loudness of my voice matched my mood. Never backward in coming forward, and fired with enthusiasm, I began repeating to the watching passers-by various snippets from conversations I’d had with my grandmother. ‘We are not second-class citizens, We deserve equality in marriage. Why are we not permitted to vote? Equal pay for equal work – reform for women.’

  By the time the suffragettes gathered at the Houses of Parliament quite a crowd of men and women surrounded us. Some were jeering, some laughing. A group of police waited in the background ready to pounce if the meeting turned violent. It seemed that the exciting events of the day were over, but in fact they hadn’t yet begun. Mrs Pankhurst was doing her best to address the small crowd of onlookers, but unfortunately she lost control of the meeting. Over-enthusiastic members of the group had picked up stones during the walk through the park and secreted them in their capacious handbags and began throwing them. Windows were broken. The police moved in.

  Four horse-drawn paddy wagons appeared from nowhere. I momentarily considered running away, but with so many policemen about I didn’t think I’d even make it to the park. Of course I was terrified, but I refused to show it as they bundled me into one of their wagons. I sat in its gloomy interior with about six women. I alone was removed from the vehicle after a very short trip. Looking around, I thought the area appeared familiar and realised they were taking me into the police station near Victoria Station. The papers later reported that most of the others, the old hands, were taken back towards the City to a place with which they were familiar, Holloway Prison for Women.

  In the police station they took my name and address, then a constable escorted me down a narrow, short cement-floored corridor with three doors on each side. Separated from the women I had come to think of as my comrades in the fight for equality, I lost much of my ebullience; in fact I was trembling with fear of the unknown. They placed me in a small, dark cell. There were no windows.

  A young woman, who looked extremely scruffy, was lying on a narrow bunk that took up half the floor space. She glanced briefly at me, then turned away to face the wall.

  I was at a loss; all my former bravado long since disappeared. Six o’clock in the evening – what would be happening at home? They would have reported me missing. My grandmother would be frantic, and what about my grandfather? I shuddered at the thought of his ill-controlled temper. I stood uncertainly in the unpainted, brick-walled cell. The only other item I noticed was a bucket in the rear corner – there was no chair.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I asked timidly, because I thought the unfriendly woman might attack me, ‘do you mind if I sit on your bed?’

  For answer the woman moved her feet slightly closer to the wall so that I could perch on a few inches and ponder my situation, but I was soon distracted by a most unpleasant smell. Later, I found it to be a pungent mixture of urine and you know what, vomit and strong disinfectant. Where was it coming from?

  What would they be doing at home? Margaret returned to London yesterday following several graduation parties, and tonight was the musicale that Charles Phillips said he was looking forward to, as I was. However, my thoughts of the upcoming evening entertainment were soon replaced by a more pressing worry. I badly needed to go to the lavatory. I hadn’t been since lunchtime.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I asked, once again speaking tentatively. ‘Could you direct me to the bathroom?’

  A mixture of a snort and a gurgle followed. I was forced to repeat my question because the matter was urgent. In fact the pressure on my bladder was almost unbearable. Sharp pains were shooting up into my abdomen. I was terrified I would wet my underclothes.

  ‘This ain’t bloody Buckingham Palace – use the bucket over there.’

  I glanced towards the bucket in the corner from which I soon discovered the nasty smell emanated. I walked over to it, peeked in and reeled back. Shocked, my hand covered my nose and mouth. ‘It’s full of stuff.’

  ‘Wotcha expect? But suit yourself. Your “stuff” ain’t no different ter the rest of us.’

  Disgusted, I crouched above the bucket holding my nose. There wasn’t even a jug of water and basin. I adjusted my clothing. My cell mate continued to ignore me.

  *

  The following day, my grandmother told me in no uncertain terms how thoughtless my actions were and how, after the telephone call from the police station, she was loathe to disturb my grandfather. As Stefan had left the house to pick up his latest girlfriend for the soiree, she had been forced to ask a virtual stranger – Charles Phillips – to collect me at the police station after my disgraceful involvement in the affray with the suffragettes.

  By the time they unlocked my cell door I had long since resumed my position perched on a tiny space at the end of the bunk. I was tired, frightened, cold and hungry when the policeman beckoned to me.

  ‘Come with me, my girl, someone waiting in reception. You’re going home, and mind you, if you get mixed
up with that lot again it’ll be Holloway for you.’

  I followed him along the corridor and looked around in fear and trepidation, hoping against hope that my grandfather was not waiting for me. God was good. Much to my surprise and delight, I saw Charles standing by the desk. I saw him and fell in love with him right then and there, a love that never diminished.

  ‘Thank you, sergeant. I’ll take care of her now.’ He smiled warmly at me and held out his hand.

  My fear of retribution vanished. Charles Phillips, in my mind, took on the appearance of Sir Lancelot or Galahad or one of those courageous Greek heroes. Who was it who tied himself to the mast of his ship to avoid the sirens getting at him? Warmth flooded through my body; I very nearly cried with relief. I grabbed hold of his outstretched hand and said, ‘Thank you, Charles, thank you, oh, thank you, Charles.’

  ‘Chin up, Madeleine.’ He gently put his arm around my shoulders to direct me to the outer door. What a warm and gentle person he was.

  Straightaway I told him everything about my horrible experience.

  He grinned. ‘I expected you would be a bit shaken. Can’t be too pleasant in a prison cell.’

  ‘I’ll say, and do you know what, Charles? The lavatory is a stinking bucket.’

  He laughed, and when he did his whole face lit up. I thought that indeed he must be one of the most handsome men I’d ever met. Was he having a serious affair with Margaret and, if not, would he be prepared to wait until I grew up?

  ‘I’d better go in the servants’ entrance. Don’t want to bump into my grandfather.’

  ‘Very wise, Madeleine. I’ll inform your grandmother that you are safely home.’

  My grandmother came up immediately to my bedroom. ‘Oh, my dear, you should never have allowed yourself to become so embroiled.’

  Anxious to regain her sympathy; I told her how really frightening my experience had been and how the police were grabbing women indiscriminately – and roughly. ‘Wouldn’t you think, Grandmother, that the women had a right to defend themselves?’