by Anton Rippon
Leila Mackinlay, London
I was working in the NAAFI and was happy at the barracks I’d first been posted to, but in wartime nobody was a fixture so, when the need arose for my services elsewhere, I had my marching orders. My next posting was at a canteen by a gun site perched on farmland overlooking the town and docks, and here I was nightly tumbled out of bed to the tune of a naval gun booming its anger at German aircraft. This gun shone beautifully when viewed by daylight. But, when darkness fell, it became an angry dragon spitting fire.
The stove on which I had to cook was an antiquated ‘iron maiden’ which was heated by coal. This monster required a lot of care and attention if it was to serve me well. I had already met one like it. The gunners on KP duties had no idea how to treat this thing. They forgot this baking machine had vents and holes in various places and that, unless these were kept free of soot, my rock cakes would turn out like pancakes . . .
After a few days of using a temperamental oven, I decided to discontinue the services of the KP brigade and clean the stove myself. When I had complained about the stove, the boys always had some excuse. The wind was blowing from the wrong direction, or it was poor-quality coal. I found the flues full of soot. Anyone with such a dirty bottom had a right to misbehave. But after a vigorous brushing from me the oven carried out its work once more.
At the barracks it had not been too noisy, but on the gun site the sound of voices shouting ‘Who goes there?’ and the gun booming kept us awake at night. As I lay awake I began to worry about the oven and whether it would let us down the next day. One particularly nervous girl predicted we would get murdered in our beds and, by the end of a trying day, I predicted that I should be the one to murder this complaining female!
Gwyneth Wright, London
Besides being at Group 2, I did off-duty driving for the WVS and shall always remember a visit to a hush-hush aircraft place where they drew plans, in the heart of the country. It was a lovely hot day. My job was with an official who was checking whether such a small place was entitled to receive an ENSA show. I shall always remember the rictus of a smile on the face of the poor little soubrette attempting to do the splits on the non-slip factory floor.
Leila Mackinlay, London
It wasn’t a happy gun site. The faces I saw over the canteen counter were anything but jovial; I had a feeling they were depressed because they hadn’t bagged a Jerry plane. And, in their present mood, might shoot at one of our own aircraft by mistake.
Desperate to get to sun-drenched shores, I filled in an application form. I had little time to myself so had to do this while running between the stove and the table, and I hoped that I had not left any greasy fingermarks on the form. I posted it myself, not trusting anyone else enough to allow them to ruin my chances of a posting to a faraway place. In the meantime, I found myself transferred to a new canteen a few miles away. Although the voice of the guns could still be heard, they could not be felt and this new canteen was a much more pleasant environment. I began to forget about the possibility of endless blue skies and to enjoy the rain and fog of the British climate.
Eventually I received my reply. I had to go to Manchester for another medical and, since I would be under the protection of the army while posted overseas, I would need a few weeks of training.
I arrived in Manchester just as the heavens opened and landed at the YWCA looking like a refugee with water dripping from all directions. My shoes squelched as I walked to the reception desk. Here I spent the night. By morning the warm atmosphere of the building had partially dried my coat, but my shoes still had that musical tone about them.
My stomach churned at the idea of the medical. I do not like doing the stripping act before strangers and I knew before the day was over many MOs’ beady eyes would find fault with my chubby torso. I was prodded and poked in many delicate areas. Questioned about my grandparents and parents.
Many more personal questions were asked about me and I wondered if I was to enter the Intelligence Corps, rather than be a baker of buns! The amount of blood taken from me could have caused anaemia, and the urine I had been expected to produce left me feeling empty. The MO who took my blood pressure nearly had me joining the barrage balloons with his pumping. By the end of the day, any modesty I had had been taken away and I felt like a ‘fallen woman’.
A large cup of tea soon had my kidneys in working order and my blood pumping once more. I left Manchester to its rain and made my way back to the canteen to wait for the letter that would beckon me towards the training course.
It took the army a few weeks to decide if the enemy was ready to face me and my rock buns, but a letter eventually came inviting me to spend twenty-eight days at a barracks in Wigston near Leicester.
I arrived there with a few more rookies and here a new era in my life began. The day at the quartermaster’s stores was a great laugh. I joined the line of girls at the stores and saw a few soldiers standing behind the counter. And behind those soldiers were shelves holding various pieces of ladies’ underwear. As I came towards the counter, a large kitbag was thrown in my direction and into this I placed ‘three of everything’ which was thrown over the counter at me. Each soldier behind the counter must have had a perverted sense of humour because, with one look at each girl, they passed those garments without enquiring the size, and when I dared question the size of one garment coming my way I was told, brusquely: ‘You can swap with someone!’
Would I find a Tessie O’Shea to fit the drawers I held in my hand? I managed to get to the end of the line without starting a civil war, whereupon a topcoat was thrown over my head to stop me arguing with the supply corporal, and a cap planted in a drunken manner over that!
As I moved my load I knew there was one thing they had forgotten to issue – a porter to carry this lot to the barrack room.
I struggled back to my room and, with some relief, dropped the bag of tricks upon my bed. As I unpacked, I discovered various sizes of underwear from one that would have fitted Twiggy. So a swapping session began, with screams of delight coming from the girls who managed to find something to fit.
The khaki shade of ‘passion killers’ would have turned off even the most sex-starved male, but maybe the army had a point there! When I tried to exchange a pair of these khaki bloomers for a smaller size, I was told that they would soon shrink in the wash. I never found out if that were true. I used them as shoe shiners and very good at it they were too.
Gwyneth Wright, London
I worked on the buses during the war and had many a laugh. One day a man climbed aboard with a monkey. We had special ‘dog’ tickets, but not monkey tickets! So I punched a hole in a dog ticket for the little thing. The monkey snatched it out of my hand as I proffered it to its master and began to chew it. ‘Please yourself,’ I told the monkey, ‘but if the inspector gets on, you’ll have to pay again!’
Mrs Z. Price, Withington
Foundation garments were made like chastity belts, and these were placed in the bottom of my kitbag for the duration, along with bras that pulled down rather than uplifted the bust, and a few more khaki ‘fashions’ saw the light only on inspection day.
The shoes issued almost crippled me for life when I introduced them to my feet. We had been advised to have a size larger than we would normally wear, but I found I had to shuffle my feet to keep them on during marches. I demanded a size smaller, only to find that my feet were soft and the new shoes hard. I squeezed and prodded the leather of those clodhoppers to soften them, but only after several blisters did those shoes and my poor feet become good friends.
I feel sure the girls who, like me, had been attracted by a spirit of adventure, regretted making their application after a few days at the barracks. Each morning in PT kit, looking like a bunch of schoolgirls, we pranced around the parade ground for exercises that the male sergeant insisted was ‘making the blood circulate’.
My blood was always at boiling point after being called many unpleasant names if we did anything wrong
on parade. With all this arm stretching, I thought mine would leave their sockets, and I discovered many muscles that I had never used before.
When the sergeant told us we were the ‘doziest lot he had ever met’, we became determined to show him. Muttering our hatred of him, we marched like dedicated soldiers kicking hell out of the tarmac as we gritted our teeth. We were entirely unused to this sort of thing. The only walking I had done lately was between stove and table, and I ached in every bone in my body. All visions of faraway places died, because I felt sure that if I ever left those barracks alive, it would only be as a permanent invalid. Somehow I survived and left the world of marching and exercise, and pressing uniforms and cleaning shows and lectures on VD and how not to become pregnant, a much fitter person with a few pounds off my rump.
I was now a Lieutenant Corporal and I found out later why it was necessary for all that exercise. To give us muscles to carry our kit and strength to ward off all those wrestlers among the soldiers we would meet while earning our ‘defence’ medal.
Gwyneth Wright, London
Several refugees from the Bath blitz were staying at a Somerset farm near Burnham-on-Sea, where I spent several wartime breaks. It seemed the ladies of Bath had the idea that the wearing of corsets would somehow help protect them against the blasts.
The farmer had three spinster sisters-in-law who had moved in with them for the duration. One day, with the bathroom door half open, he was heard to pray for God to ‘give him patience with his lot’.
One of the Bath refugees died while staying there. Petrol restrictions made funerals difficult, especially when the nearest crematorium was not nearby. All that was permitted was one hearse. Mourners were expected to travel by train. The farmer said that if the relatives of the lady wouldn’t mind his coming with them – he needn’t attend the service if they preferred – the necessary petrol coupons would be available, since he had to be back for milking.
Leila Mackinlay, London
Some of the other bus conductresses used to wait for me to come in, so I could relate some of my experiences. We did have some fun! I once had to appear at Derby Assizes when a lunatic hit me at New Mills. He was what they called a ‘moon maniac’. His wife, poor dear, waited for me because she wanted to apologize for him. It appears he had trouble that day with the police and they were looking for him when he attacked me. His wife had just had her eighth child, and was only thirty-four. He went home at dinner time and asked her to go to bed with him. She refused, saying she wasn’t fit. So he chased her out of the house with an axe. He gave the police a letter that read: ‘I hereby state, that tonight I will murder my wife and eight children.’ The envelope was addressed: ‘To anyone, anywhere.’
Mrs Z. Price, Withington
During the war, the Venerable Archdeacon of Gibraltar used to stay at the farm with his wife. He had an old-fashioned ear trumpet, which my friend and I found extremely amusing. He felt anxious to help and, as conversing was a bit dicey, he liked to pour out the tea or coffee at breakfast. Alas, he was apt to mix them up somewhat, so we used to rush down to avoid ‘Te-offee’, as we coined it. He loved painting and, without his ear trumpet, would station himself in the road sketching. Looking over his shoulder at one particular sketch, my friend said: ‘But there aren’t any apples on that tree!’
A little reproachfully he replied: ‘No, I like them there!’
Leila Mackinlay, London
For seven years I was a nurse on an ambulance – and many times during the war I had to be its driver, too. At night I used an American ambulance because I was in with the patient and, if I was alone, I could still drive and keep my eye on them.
Once, after taking a casualty from Hurn Aerodrome to a London hospital, and having done a twenty-four-hour stint, I stopped on the Hog’s Back near Guildford for a short sleep before continuing south to my base. When I awoke, a convoy of Americans was passing, going on to embark at Southampton. I tagged on the end of this convoy and, a few miles further on, they stopped for refreshments. Of course, I stopped too. An orderly came up to me and said: ‘I’m bringing your coffee and sandwiches, sister.’
I realized that they thought that, being in an American ambulance, I was part of their convoy. I was desperately hungry and scoffed up the coffee and eats before they realized that I wasn’t with them. When they moved off, I again tagged on until we came to the crossroads where the convoy went on to the docks and I turned right for home. I’ve often wondered since if, once they got to Southampton docks, they thought they’d lost an ambulance.
Irene Stevenson, Christchurch, Dorset
I was serving in the ATS and my greatcoat was much too long, so I decided to shorten it by several inches. After cutting off quite a bit of material, I tried it on to check the length. But when I put my hands in the pockets, I had a shock – the articles therein weren’t mine! I’d cut up the coat of the girl in the next bed by mistake. Fortunately, she was my best friend and saw the funny side of it.
B. Cole, Mablethorpe
I was in the ATS during the war and one Christmas was determined to go home. As all travel for us was cancelled, I had civvies sent from home. They included a two-piece suit comprising a skirt and a jacket. The skirt was much too big but, as it was Hobson’s Choice, on it went. On the train journey home I was in a compartment with naval personnel and civilians, all of whom were teasing me, saying that surely I must be in the forces, a girl my age, etc. . . . I kept denying it until the train drew into my station, whereupon I jumped up – and down fell my skirt to reveal a pair of khaki knickers! It was with much laughter – and my blushes – that I hurriedly hauled the skirt up again and made my escape.
Joyce McDiarmid, Kirkintilloch
During one stay on the farm I had a young singer friend (later with ENSA) stay with me, and the farmer and his wife, who were keen Methodists, asked whether she might sing for them in chapel. She had to borrow both stockings and hat to make her appearance, where she planned to sing ‘Ave Maria’ and ‘Oh, For The Wings Of A Dove’. Doubting my ability to keep a straight face during her recital, I absented myself. As I stood to one side I heard the poor organ boy almost forget to work the bellows, in his wonderment at this glamorous creature.
Leila Mackinlay, London
An ATS driver was ordered to drive an army VIP from Caterham to Aldershot. There was no time for anything but to get going but, about halfway, she spotted a ladies’ lavatory and asked if she could take a very short break. The VIP said: ‘Yes, I don’t mind waiting a minute.’
While she was gone, the VIP thought that he might as well also take the opportunity and went to the gents. The driver came back, jumped in the car, and sped on to Aldershot. When she arrived, she opened the passenger door – and there was no VIP. She had left her vital cargo marooned outside a gentlemen’s lavatory miles away.
Anonymous, relating a story told to them by an army chaplin
I was in the ATS, stationed at Aldershot. It would be the summer of 1943 or 1944. One dinner time, the orderly officer doing the rounds asked the usual: ‘Any complaints?’
Normally, no one dared speak up. But this time, one girl said: ‘Yes ma’am, there are dead flies in the chips.’
The officer went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told us, ‘the flies are falling from the ceiling into the hot fat. Just put them to one side and eat the chips.’
Another danger at mealtimes was to do with the prunes and custard. Recruits passed the warning on to all newcomers: ‘If you get a prune with legs on it – it’ll be a cockroach!’
Barbara Leach, Skipton, North Yorkshire
I was a WAAF during the war and stationed on a balloon site near Portsmouth. We had a bucket toilet but we had to get two grappling hooks and carry the toilet to a great big well on the site, take the lid off, and empty the toilet into this well. One time we forgot to put the iron lid back on the well. We went to bed in the Nissen hut, leaving two guards on duty. One girl came home quite l
ate, crept away from the guards, then fell into the well. Her screams were awful and woke us all up. If you could have seen the mess of her and the stench. Poor soul! We got seven days’ pay stopped for not putting the lid back on and she had seven days’ jankers [restriction of privileges] for coming in late!
Our balloon blew away one night when we should have been on guard. You see, every time the wind changed, and the balloon is bedded on the ground, you had to turn the balloon into the wind. We were both having cocoa at the time. When we came out, the balloon had gone. We were panic-stricken. We woke the sergeant and she said: ‘You’ll have to get a new one up right away!’
So all twelve of us were up working all night long to put up another balloon as an air raid had started. We had a severe reprimand and fourteen days’ pay stopped. Didn’t we suffer? But we enjoyed it all really!
Mrs J. Evans, Loughton, Essex
I was in the ATS from 1939 until 1944, stationed most of the time with the Royal Army Pay Corps at Bournemouth. One of our number was returning from leave when she had a slight accident. She caused great amusement by sending the following telegram to the CO:
‘Unable to return. Fell at Waterloo.’
E. Barrett (née Clampit), St Leonards-on-Sea
We were in a large ATS barrack room sleeping in double-tier bunks. One morning I put out my hand for my shoes, only to find water, quite a few inches of it too. If that was a shock, imagine how I felt when I saw two ducks placidly swimming towards me. There had been heavy rain and wind during the night, the outside door had blown open, and in came the deluge – and the ducks.
Joyce McDiarmid, Kirkintilloch