The Girls Who Went to War

by Duncan Barrett

  She made her way back to her hut and collapsed, exhausted and happy, onto her bed. Through the window she could see the light of the bonfire gently flickering outside.

  17

  Margery

  One evening in the spring of 1945, Margery received an urgent call from Kasfareet. It was one of Doug’s friends telling her that he was on his way to see her.

  She dashed to the station and caught the next train into Cairo, before heading for their usual meeting place, the YWCA. She arrived just after 6 p.m. and settled down with a cup of chai tea, wondering what could have prompted Doug to rush into town so suddenly. Did he have something important to tell her?

  But by the time Margery had finished her tea there was no sign of Doug. An hour and then two hours passed, and still he hadn’t arrived. By 8.30 p.m. she had had enough, and returned to Turah utterly perplexed.

  ‘Oh, Doug was here looking for you,’ Elspeth told her, as soon as she got to their tent. ‘He only left about half an hour ago.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Margery cried. She had waited all those hours in Cairo for nothing, and now it was too late to catch him.

  The following morning Margery and Doug finally managed to meet at the YWCA for coffee, and exchanged their stories of crossed wires and missed connections. ‘I was waiting two and a half hours for you here yesterday!’ Margery told him.

  ‘Well I was waiting longer than that for you,’ Doug laughed. ‘When you weren’t at your camp I came looking for you here, and I didn’t leave until 11.30 at night.’

  Suddenly, he stopped laughing, and a serious look passed over his face. ‘Margery, I wanted to tell you something,’ he said. ‘I’m being sent back home.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Margery, surprised. Although other people at her camp were gradually starting to return to England, and the so-called ‘boat parties’ held when they left were becoming more and more frequent, the idea that Doug might one day not be around any more had never really crossed her mind.

  ‘Of course, we could still get married before I go,’ he added quietly.

  Margery looked at Doug, thinking for a moment. Everyone was always telling her what a nice chap he was, and they were right. He was gentle, kind, and good fun to be around. Her friends had all started asking what on earth she was waiting for.

  But still the old wariness lurked at the back of her mind. A lot of people were fun, she told herself. That didn’t necessarily make someone a good person. How could she know what Doug would be like in Civvy Street – living a normal life, in a normal house, back in England?

  ‘I can’t marry someone who’s still in the service,’ she replied. ‘I’d have to see what you’re like back home first.’

  Doug didn’t try to push the subject, although Margery could tell he was disappointed. They decided to make the most of the rest of the day, heading by taxi to the Alamein Club to watch Cairo play Alexandria at football. Then they paused by the river so that he could take a last look at the Nile.

  When they parted that evening, Doug promised to write to Margery from England. And then, just like that, he was gone.

  The following morning, Margery was woken by an unfamiliar noise on the canvas above her head: the pitter-pattering of a thousand tiny raindrops. When she peered out of the tent she could see that they were being deluged by a rare desert storm. For some reason the sand, unlike earth, seemed to resist the rain rather than absorbing it, and soon the entire camp was ankle-deep in water.

  When she returned to her tent after work that evening, Margery discovered that the rain had found its way inside, and the area around her bed was completely flooded. As she did her best to mop up the soggy mess, she could hear the strains of singing coming from the NAAFI. Evidently someone else was leaving for England, and another boat party was underway.

  7 May was a particularly hot day in Egypt, and the camp was also sizzling with the rumour that victory was about to be declared. A little before 6 p.m., a Scottish girl called Chris came rushing over to Margery’s tent and shouted breathlessly, ‘Come quick – I’ve got my wireless on!’

  Margery, Elspeth and Ann followed Chris back to her tent, where a few other girls were already huddled around the radio to hear the official announcement of the end of war in Europe. ‘That’s it,’ said Margery. ‘It’s all over then!’

  She rushed to the NAAFI to share the monumental news. ‘Did you know the war is over?’ she called out to the girls who were sitting in there. But to her surprise they barely looked up. ‘Apparently it’s not VE Day until tomorrow,’ one of them said, ‘so there’s no point doing anything now.’

  Margery was astounded. How could the other girls be so nonchalant? But it seemed that even the desert didn’t want anyone to celebrate. Before long a terrible sandstorm had begun – the worst, in fact, that Margery had ever seen. It was impossible to spend any time out of doors, and when the storm did finally abate, Margery and her friends discovered that the washing they had hung out on the guy ropes of their tent was not only covered in sand but scattered all over the camp. Instead of celebrating, they spent most of the rest of the evening hunting for stray pants and bras, and then washing them all over again.

  When Margery finally settled down to bed that night she was startled by the sound of far-off explosions, and looking out of the tent she saw a series of beautiful starbursts in the night sky. ‘Fireworks!’ said Elspeth, joining her in the doorway. At least someone was celebrating the end of the war, Margery thought.

  But the following morning a less cheerful sight met the girls’ eyes. Looking up towards the hills where they worked, they saw that one of the caves was blackened, and smoke was pouring out of it. The ‘fireworks’ they had seen the previous night had in fact been explosions caused by canisters of poisonous gas being set alight by a raucous group of airmen, who had decided to celebrate victory with a little wanton vandalism.

  The camp’s commanding officer ordered everyone to carry their gas masks around for the rest of the day, in case the wind changed and blew the noxious fumes in their direction. The last thing he wanted was for his troops to be overcome by gas intended for the Germans, just when they had finally surrendered.

  At RAF Turah, VE Day was formally marked with a drumhead service on the parade ground. The hymns were led by the camp choir, gathered around a little piano that had been dragged out from the NAAFI, while the chaplain stood on a wobbly wooden platform, his cassock flapping in the wind as he shouted out a few prayers to the rows of assembled airmen and WAAFs. When the brief ceremony was over, the CO announced that they all had the rest of the day off, and they were dismissed.

  Margery felt more disappointed than ever. There was to be no party, no dance – in fact no celebration whatsoever laid on for the men and women who had stuck it out in Egypt for so many years. She could scarcely believe that it was true.

  But there was something else on her mind that morning, and if anything it was bothering her even more. She had just received a letter from her mother, in which she mentioned that she had recently been visited by Doug. Once he’d got back to England, he and his father had apparently cycled over to the Pott residence in North Wallington to introduce themselves.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’ve met someone,’ Margery’s mother wrote. ‘Doug seems like a very nice young man, and he tells me you’re going to get married.’

  Margery was astounded that Doug should have taken it upon himself to turn up at her mother’s door, without even asking her first – and even more so that he had spoken of marriage as if it was something already agreed between them. Hadn’t she told him that she couldn’t make a decision until they got to know each other at home? Yet now it seemed their families were meeting up behind her back, before she’d even got on the boat!

  Margery dashed off an indignant reply, informing her mother that she had never made any promises to Doug, and she couldn’t imagine what had possessed him to go round and visit. Then she sealed the envelope and dropped it off in the mail room to be posted, her irr
itation momentarily soothed.

  With that out of the way, she headed over to the NAAFI, determined to find some friends she could head into Cairo with, to make up for the pitiful lack of celebrations at Turah. But as she looked round the room, Margery realised that pretty much everyone else had already left. Over recent months the girls at Turah had begun to couple up with the men there, and most of them were probably off celebrating in their little romantic pairs.

  In fact, even the normally timid Elspeth had managed to get herself a boyfriend – a rather cheeky airman called Red. Margery wasn’t exactly thrilled at her friend’s choice. Red was a nice enough bloke, but he was the kind of man who, while he loved playing practical jokes on others, couldn’t take it when the tables were turned on him. On one recent outing to the swimming pool at the Alamein Club he had jumped on Margery and held her under the water until she was struggling to hold her breath. It was a cruel trick to play on such a weak swimmer, and although Margery had laughed off the prank at the time, it had bothered her. Elspeth was so sweet natured that she always saw the good in everyone, but privately Margery thought she deserved better.

  As it turned out, Margery wasn’t quite the last person standing in the NAAFI that evening. A lad called Don, who was only 19 and looked about five years younger, had also found himself all alone. ‘No one wants to celebrate with me,’ he told Margery plaintively, his young face crumpling as if he was about to burst into tears.

  Margery couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor lad – and as she looked around the otherwise empty room, she realised that she didn’t have any other options. ‘I’ll go out with you, Don,’ she sighed wearily.

  The two of them caught the train into Cairo together, where Margery took Don to the Tedder Club for a slap-up meal. When they arrived, he insisted that they sit at a table in the corner so that no one could see him eating. The request struck Margery as rather odd, but as soon as Don began digging into his food she began to understand it. The poor boy had no idea how to handle a knife and fork, and his table manners left a lot to be desired. It was no wonder that he had struggled to find a date for the big day.

  Margery was beginning to grow tired of life at Turah, and when a notice went up asking for girls to volunteer for a transfer to Aden, she quickly put in an application. She’d heard that Yemen was even hotter than Egypt, but right now she really didn’t care. She’d had it with 111 Maintenance Unit and was ready to move on.

  A few weeks later Margery was thrilled to learn that her application had been accepted, and soon a new blonde corporal called Dora arrived at Turah to take her place running Equipment Accounts. As Margery shook hands with her replacement she couldn’t help wondering how long she would last out in the desert. The girl looked in quite a state already – she was coughing badly, and her voice was barely raised above a whisper – but perhaps, Margery reasoned, she was simply tired from the long journey.

  Margery returned to her desk with more enthusiasm than she had felt in months, finishing off various little bits of paperwork so that Dora could make a fresh start when she took over. But, a couple of hours later, she was told that the new girl had been carted off to hospital in the camp ambulance – apparently she was now running a high fever and her lymph glands had swollen up like golf balls. Margery couldn’t believe it – now her own departure would have to be delayed until Dora recovered from her illness.

  A few days later, Margery went to visit Dora in hospital. She was hoping to see an improvement in the girl’s condition that might indicate she would soon be back on her feet, but what she found did nothing to reassure her. Dora looked ghastly – her blonde hair was limp and greasy, her face deathly pale and her neck horribly swollen.

  ‘I’ve brought you some things,’ said Margery, emptying out a bag she had filled with Dora’s clothes and belongings. As she leaned over the patient to arrange a few cosmetics on her bedside table, Dora let out a sigh, and a rancid gust of air met Margery’s nostrils. It was the most disgusting thing that she had ever smelled, and she struggled not to vomit on the spot.

  When she left the ward, Margery spoke to one of Dora’s nurses, who informed her that the girl was suffering from a very bad throat infection, and would likely have to have her tonsils taken out. There was no way she would be returning to work any time soon.

  Demoralised, Margery returned to camp – only to be greeted with even worse news. A decision had been taken to stop sending women out to Aden altogether, since it was no longer considered to be safe. Her ill-fated escape plan had failed completely.

  With so many of the other girls at Turah now coupled up, Margery was increasingly spending her spare time with an older, married sergeant known as Brownie. He worked in the camp’s metal-plating shop, which, like Equipment Accounts, was in one of the caves up in the hills, and since she was purposefully avoiding romantic attachments he proved to be the ideal companion. Brownie and his wife had always wanted a girl, he told her, and he treated Margery as if she was the daughter they’d never had.

  Margery often took Brownie to the YWCA in Cairo, where they would sit and drink chai tea together, just like she used to with Doug. But one weekend he suggested a more exciting excursion. They hired a cab to take them to see the Great Pyramid at Giza, and scrambled up the enormous limestone blocks all the way to the top. From there, Margery could see the caves at Turah, including the burned-out hole that had been made when victory in Europe was declared.

  With Germany defeated, everything was gradually slowing down at Turah. Soon Brownie got word that his plating shop was being closed, and he would be leaving the camp for a new posting at the Kasr-el-Nil barracks in downtown Cairo. Margery was sad to see him go, but it didn’t make that much difference to their regular get-togethers – now, when they were both at a loose end, she joined him at the sergeants’ mess in the barracks, where he could put their meals on expenses.

  One evening as they were finishing their dinner, Margery asked if they could go back to Giza and see the Great Pyramid again.

  ‘What, now?’ Brownie asked her, confused.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, feeling a little self-conscious. ‘The thing is … I’d like to see it by moonlight.’

  Margery explained that she had watched a glorious Technicolor movie called The Garden of Allah, in which her idol, Charles Boyer, wooed the impossibly glamorous Marlene Dietrich under the stars. By the light of the moon, the desert had looked incedibly romantic, and Margery longed to see the pyramids that way herself.

  ‘Well, if that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do,’ Brownie told her indulgently. They hopped in a cab and set off over the English Bridge onto the west bank of the Nile. As they left the city behind them, the grand European buildings gave way to little villages of mud huts.

  By the time they arrived at the Giza Plateau, the moon was shining brightly, and they strolled arm-in-arm looking up at the famous monuments. There was the Great Pyramid, Khufu, which they had climbed on their previous visit, along with its smaller siblings, Khafre and Menkaure.

  Margery had expected the moonlight to add to the mysterious beauty of the pyramids, but if anything their looming shapes now seemed instead rather hulking and ugly. The Great Sphinx certainly wasn’t looking its best, either, with a blast wall between its legs, and sandbags piled up under its chin.

  ‘Can we just stop for a moment?’ Margery asked Brownie. They stood perfectly still, and she breathed in the night air, trying as hard as she could to summon up the spirit of the movie. But the romantic atmosphere was sorely absent.

  ‘It’s no good,’ she complained. ‘It’s nothing like it was in the film. The moonlight doesn’t seem to be working.’

  ‘Well,’ he replied gently, ‘maybe you’re just not here with the right person.’

  Before Margery could answer, a lorry came roaring into view, shattering the perfect silence of the night. As it pulled up, a noisy gaggle of British soldiers emerged, carrying a football. ‘Perfect flat bit here,’ one of them called, heading
the ball to his mate.

  Before long, a raucous kickabout was underway, while off to one side a couple of Egyptian men were busy setting up a little stall, where they began cooking eggs and chips for the soldiers. The greasy smell wafted through the still night air, and if Margery had been struggling to feel the atmosphere before, now her chances were slimmer than ever.

  Defeated, Margery headed over to the stall, where she and Brownie bought some egg and chips of their own before heading back to Cairo.

  While at Turah everything seemed to be winding down, with more airmen and women departing every few days, Cairo was also undergoing a period of change. Among the ordinary Egyptians there had always been a degree of hostility towards the British, and now that the prospect of a German invasion was off the table, the desire to see the back of them had only grown stronger.

  Britain had recently found itself in the midst of heated disagreements over the thorny question of its plans for Palestine. The formation of a Jewish state in the area had been a long-term aspiration – ever since the Balfour Declaration of 1917, in which the British foreign secretary had called for a ‘national home for the Jewish people’. But in the Arab world such proposals were generally met with resentment and hostility.

  On 2 November 1945, Margery hitch-hiked into Cairo to get some photographs developed, along with another girl from Turah called Moxie. They had no idea of the significance of the date, but it was ‘Balfour Day’, the anniversary of the British declaration, and for the anti-Jewish forces in Cairo that meant a call to arms. The Muslim Brotherhood and the Young Egypt Party had joined forces to stage a major rally in the city, along with a similar protest in Alexandria.

  The girls were dropped off next to Tahrir Square, where almost immediately they encountered the beginnings of the demonstration. Thousands of young men had gathered and were chanting loudly in Arabic.