The train was full of troops, so it was standing room only. She sat on her case.
People were sitting on the dirty floor all around her and in the compartments some were even lying on the luggage racks, but everybody was cheerful and helpful. Going to the lavatory was difficult, because it was also being used as a seat, with somebody on the floor under the basin. They struggled out as she struggled in, cracking jokes all the time, but she knew she was blushing.
Rosemary arrived along with the fresh intake at the basic training unit on the shores of Loch Lomond in Scotland on the following day, tired out, feeling dirty and wondering what on earth she had done.
The place was dreadful, full of Nissen huts with deep waterlogged ditches between them.
They were starving, but all that was on offer was one sardine on hard toast which had been in the oven since breakfast two hours before.
It didn’t get any better. There wasn’t enough room for them, so for that night they had to get mattresses to put on the floor in one of the washrooms, stacking them against a wall. Several of the girls found them too difficult to carry on their own, so they all mucked in together – a first sign of what they would do in the years ahead.
In the afternoon they collected their free issue of basic uniform: greatcoat, gabardine raincoat, two suits, three shirts, collars and ties, and two pairs of shoes.
They were told that their pay would be twenty-four shillings per week, with a one-off grant of forty-eight shillings towards the purchase of further naval underclothes, and another pair of shoes worth thirteen shillings and sixpence.
They were also given thick navy lisle stockings, a hat, gloves and a housewife kit (called a hussif), containing needles, cotton, spare buttons and darning wool. There was much banter and talk of ‘passion-killing’ as they examined their two pairs of cotton pyjamas.
They were told that on no account were they to alter any of the items, a rule that was soon to be broken – girls were girls, after all.
They heard a bugle as they were sorting themselves out on the concrete floor, and a petty officer appeared in the doorway and ordered lights out. They scrambled to get into their beds before the petty officer threw the light switch, plunging them into near blackness, the only light coming through a small frosted window.
It seemed strange to be sleeping with so many girls, like being back at boarding school. As she tried to get to sleep she could hear somebody softly weeping into her pillow, just as she had done a decade before.
At 6.30 in the morning the door burst open and a piercing whistle was blown three times by the duty officer. Cold and half-asleep they scrambled to the washbasins. It was only then that they discovered that they had been sharing the floor with cockroaches, which scuttled away in the light. Later, they were to find that they shared their food with them too.
Assembled outside, they saw the other Wrens at divisions, looking smart in their uniforms, and they admired their straight-backed bearing, their precision marching and crisp saluting as the White Ensign was raised and the Royal Marines band played the National Anthem.
‘How do they know what to wear?’ Rosemary whispered to the leading Wren who had been assigned to look after them.
She nodded at a small flag on the mast.
‘If the ‘0’ signal is at the top, wear raincoats; half-way and you carry them, and if there isn’t one – it’s no raincoats.’
Breakfast consisted of scrambled dried eggs that came out as if they were floating in water, one piece of bacon and piles of greyish-looking bread.
Six weeks of square-bashing followed, and when she wasn’t doing that she scrubbed floors, cleaned basins, taps and lavatory bowls and prepared for kit inspections. Shoes had to be kept polished, especially the heel, and between the sole and heel under the shoe, and all buttons were to be shining and stockings darned if necessary.
They learnt that the floor was always called the deck, the bedroom a cabin, the kitchen the galley, a corridor a gangway, just as if they were on board a ship.
They were all called the ship’s company.
Slowly at first, then with increasing confidence the squad drill improved, and soon they were marching in step, and swinging their arms up in rhythm, which seemed very hard work. But they were proud of themselves.
The stiff collars left red weals on their necks, and were painful until they toughened up – like their feet. Some people took longer than others to get the knack of tying their ties neatly.
One day they were marched to the ranges, and were instructed in rifle shooting. At first some of the girls were very anxious but Rosemary and one other had been allowed to shoot by their fathers. Seeing them do it settled the rest.
Lined up in the medical centre, arms already bared, the staff gave them their tetanus jabs with what seemed like very blunt needles.
It left Rosemary with a stiff arm for a couple of days.
Further training in protecting themselves in an emergency, and what to do in a gas attack followed, and always there was the scrubbing of floors, drilling, keeping fit and barrack inspections. Their blankets had to be removed from the bed and folded in a special way so that the last one wrapped around the other two, then placed tidily at the head of the bed on top of the pillow. All their kit including their tin hats had to be laid out as directed.
At last the day came for their passing-out parade. Rosemary was the front marker, and as they passed the saluting base they all thought they were a very smart bunch indeed.
It gave them great satisfaction to see the dishevelled, disorientated new girls arriving, and to think they had been like that not all that long before.
Now they filed one at a time into the commandant’s office to be given their postings.
The officer ran a pen down the list after Rosemary had given her number only.
‘Banks?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Satisfied that they had the right woman the officer said: ‘You are going to be trained as a plotter.’
Rosemary had to suppress a nervous giggle. Was she to be parachuted into enemy territory to help plot things?
Instead she said; ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ took one step back, threw up a smart salute, did a sharp about turn, and left – to become a ‘plotter’.
Outside, in the corridor, the giggles could no longer be contained.
Biff climbed nervously up the ladder in the gathering gloom, weighed down with his Mae West and parachute, and carrying his bag with his Thermos and sandwiches. This was his first mission against the enemy since the terrible month of the battle of France.
He settled into the co-pilot’s right-hand seat. It was policy for ‘new boys’ to have an experienced captain on the first couple of trips, just to keep an eye on things.
They went through the checks as the rest of the crew: the wireless operator, navigator and the two air-gunners settled in. At 10.00 hours that morning they had assembled at their flights, and had been selected for the night’s operations.
Biff had then gone to his aircraft, and told the ground crew. Engines were run up, the wireless and guns checked and later ‘G for George’ would be bombed up with the ordnance detailed for the operation.
He had had lunch at the mess, and then reported to the briefing room at 14.00 hours.
When the CO had entered they all stood up, but he gestured for them to sit down again.
‘Right, gentlemen, we’re going back to Ostend. Give the invasion barges another pasting. First aircraft off at twenty-thirty hours will be F for Freddie.’
The order of the following crews had been given, and then other ops on that night were detailed.
After the CO the intelligence officer had briefed them on the aiming point, and given details of the known defences. Special target maps had been issued.
Biff started his engines and they went through the check list.
He wondered where Rosemary was, what she was doing, was she safe? The blitz was in full swing and Churchill had warned that German shi
ps and barges continued to build up for the expected invasion.
They were given the signal to start moving out on to the perimeter track. His gloved hand eased the throttle levers forward, the aircraft shuddering and thumping as they passed over the concrete divisions.
The signals officer had notified them of the position of the airfield identification beacon which was situated eight miles from the runway and was moved each night to a different site. It flashed two letters of the morse code – different for each airfield.
Moving forward, he gently swung the tail from side to side to improve his forward view of the shaded lights guiding him out.
The signals officer also gave them the colours of the day: Very lights which they had to fire in the correct order when crossing the English coast on their return, to be reported by the Observer Corps.
They’d been warned: failure to get it right and they’d be fair game for their own fighters or anti-aircraft guns.
After the signals officer, had come the armoury man, who had briefed them on the bomb load, ordering the right mix of high explosive and incendiaries required for the target.
They reached the end of the runway and were held as the Wellington ahead of them, straining against its brakes, fiery exhaust from the nearest engine showing in the blackness of the night, finally started moving. Biff watched as the twin exhausts marked its path down the runway before it eventually lifted off and the burning points mingled with the stars until they were no longer visible.
He was given clearance to move into position and face the lights of the runway, but it would be several minutes before they would be allowed to go, to minimize the risk of collision.
He checked his fuel once more. The engineer officer had given them the allotted amount for the raid.
As he waited Biff looked again at the sky – clear and full of stars. The Met officer had given them the expected weather en route, over the target, and landing conditions on their return.
A single green light from the Aldis lamp on the roof of the control van shone out. It was time to go.
Rosemary had finished the ‘plotters’ course and had passed both oral and written exams, and with a sense of real achievement, used her hussif to sew on her dividers’ badge.
Now she was being taken to a Glasgow station with two other Wrens, under naval escort, having been chosen for ‘Special Duties’ and having signed the Official Secrets Act.
It was nine o’clock at night.
‘There we are, Jennies.’
The petty officer in charge used the nickname for the Wrens as he pulled back the compartment door. The girls struggled down the corridor with their kit.
‘Afraid I’ve got to lock you in.’
When they complained he said: ‘Orders are orders.’
‘What about the …’ one of the girls coloured, ‘you know…?’
‘Don’t you worry, just give the window a tap and we’ll escort you.’
‘Wonder what’s so special about us?’ said the last one in as the door was slid shut and locked.
It was a troop train, and not long afterwards the platform filled with marching columns of men with full kit and rifles. There was a lot of stamping of boots, then they started boarding with all their equipment. Several tried the door as the carriage became chock-a-block, and the Navy petty officer motioned for them to lower the blinds, which they did.
The journey was long and was interrupted by innumerable stoppages for bomb-damaged lines ahead, sometimes they were shunted into sidings to let other trains pass.
The only dim light they had was from the one blue bulb allowed during the blackout, too dim to read anything by.
The journey went on and on, with nothing to eat or drink except the bottle of water and one round of corned-beef sandwiches that they’d been issued with.
When daylight broke at last they couldn’t see much of the outside because of the glued-on anti-splinter net on the window. After several more hours they slowed down and lurched over lots of points. Through the small triangular area left clear on the window, taking it in turns, they could only see marshalling yards and a fog of dust that hung in the air. A smell of burning came into the carriage.
‘Wherever we are, they’ve had a pasting last night,’ observed Rosemary when it was her turn to have a look out.
At eleven o’clock they found themselves on the platform in Liverpool. Rosemary was separated from the others, they all waved goodbye and went off to get their transport.
She was put on another train, this time without a locked reserved compartment, and had to endure another four hours sitting on her case until they pulled into Euston.
But her travels were not over.
Twenty-five hours after she had left Glasgow she found herself at Great Yarmouth, reporting to the Royal Naval Barracks: HMS Skirmisher. After that, Rosemary had to walk around the corner to the Victoria Hotel which was the WRNS quarters. Sandbags were piled half-way up the bay windows. She found she was sharing a cabin with several others. They seemed a jolly lot.
Her first watch was at 6 a.m. in the morning, lasting until midnight. She accepted a cup of something called Kye, which turned out to be a block of unsweetened chocolate with water, and boiled until thick. Evaporated milk was added, and sugar.
When she sipped it she found it had a really greasy texture, but it warmed her up and by the time she’d finished it her hunger seemed to have disappeared.
Her night’s sleep was broken by an air-raid warning. In the shelters they listened to the throb-throb of the German planes, but no bombs came down; they were presumably on their way to the Midlands.
She wondered about Biff. Was he going in the opposite direction at that very moment? She said a little prayer for his safety.
It was his third trip, his first as captain. A new fresh-faced young pilot officer sat on his right; the whole cockpit was lit up with intense whiteness by a searchlight. They were at 7,000 feet, flying straight and level on their bomb run, with heavy flak coming up all around them. Every now and then the Wellington gave a vicious jerk. Something was hitting them, but all the controls felt normal.
As soon as the navigator operating the Mark Nine bomb-sight decided they had reached the predetermined position on the two parallel wires, the bombs were released with a ‘Bombs away’.
They all knew it was a pretty inaccurate business, so it was absolutely essential to remain straight and level, and the German gunners knew that.
Biff immediately broke away, engines roaring, plunging into the safety of darkness, and turning for home. The weaving searchlights frantically searched the heavens, but they never found them again.
The tail gunner noted with satisfaction the fires starting down below.
On the return journey everybody kept a track of where they were by observations. After crossing the Dutch coast they strained for a feature in the East Anglian coastline that would help the navigator plot a course for home. It came from the front gunner.
‘Looks like Southwold down there, sir.’
It was.
Ten minutes further on they saw the red beacon flashing its Morse code, and later, the green light that told them that it was safe to land.
Biff brought her down on the runway passing over the gooseneck flare: a lit two-gallon water-can fitted with paraffin and a wick, and then between the two rows of twelve glim lamps that marked the runway’s borders.
When they had taxied to their dispersal point, and finally switched off the engines, the quietness was startling. He was so stiff that he could hardly get down the ladder. His muscles had been tensed up for hours.
Next morning the ground crew set about patching the fuselage and wings where shrapnel from the bursting flak had ripped through the fabric. Almost all the aircraft on the squadron were far from their pristine best: oil-stained and patched from continuous operations.
It was sometime before they could meet – briefly – in London. Biff strained his eyes to see her coming off her train at Liverpool Stre
et station, but she was right up to him laughing and holding up her arms before he recognized her in her navy-blue uniform and hat.
They rushed at each other. Biff swung her round. When, after many moments he set her down, they searched each other’s faces, not speaking. Suddenly she cupped his face and kissed him tenderly.
‘Darling, I’ve missed you so much.’
Conscious that they were both in uniform, he still kissed her back, long and passionately. Several times in the past few weeks he’d wondered if he’d ever see her again.
Arm in arm they walked out of the station and got on the underground.
‘Where are we going?’
Rosemary was wondering, hoping, she so wanted to be alone with him.
He gave her a squeeze.
‘I’ve got the use of a flat. Belongs to a chum’s auntie.’
The tube was crowded, so they were crammed close together, strap-hanging on the Central line all the way to Lancaster Gate. It was early evening, but already people were bagging their spaces and bunks for the night’s stay on the platform seeking safety from the nightly air-raids.
When they came out above ground, it was to find people running towards their entrance, some with children in tow, and air-raid sirens wailing.
He looked at her quizzically.
‘Would you prefer to stay here until it’s all over?’
She took a deep breath.
‘How far is the flat?’
Biff shrugged. ‘Three minutes’ walking – two if we run.’
‘Let’s brave it then.’
Hand in hand they ran down the street of Edwardian stucco-walled mansions and red-brick flats. The streets were rapidly emptying, and they could already see searchights criss-crossing the night sky, and hear the sound of explosions – probably the anti-aircraft guns in Green and Hyde Parks. The nightly blitz was at its height. Back in August Winston Churchill had given his now famous speech, saying of the RAF: ‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’
Tears of Autumn, The Page 16