Margery found the sight of the crowd mesmerising, but Moxie was horrified. ‘They’re going to kill us!’ she exclaimed.
Margery did her best to reassure her companion that the Egyptians wouldn’t do them any harm, but the girl could not be persuaded, so she put her on a metro train to El Gedida and headed off alone in the direction of the Kasr-el-Nil barracks, hoping that she might find Brownie there.
By the time she arrived, the barracks too was surrounded by a large crowd, and a man with a megaphone was whipping them up into a frenzy. Margery couldn’t understand the Arabic words, but the sentiment was perfectly clear – the young men were angry, and they wanted to do something about it.
Suddenly, she felt a hand on her arm. ‘I think you’d better come inside before this turns nasty,’ a British soldier told her. ‘Some of the men out there are carrying sulphuric acid.’
For the first time, Margery felt a chill run down her spine. Perhaps the soldier was right and this wasn’t the best place to be standing. She followed him through the gate, casting an anxious glance over her shoulder.
As the soldier had predicted, the protest did indeed soon turn nasty, with injuries running into the hundreds. Jewish department stores were looted, homes were ransacked, and a synagogue was burned to the ground, with holy books thrown onto a bonfire. Meanwhile, in Alexandria, five Egyptian Jews were murdered by the crowds. A few days later, in nearby Libya, the situation was even worse, with 140 Jews killed in a series of copycat riots.
Margery remained in the Army barracks in Cairo until things had calmed down outside, and that night she took the train back to Turah rather than hitch-hiking. The city that had always seemed so welcoming had taken on a distinctly darker edge.
With Christmas approaching, Margery was, as ever, doing her bit to make sure the season was celebrated in style. Some of the airmen had managed to haul a tree into the NAAFI canteen, and she set to work decorating it with sweets and coloured paper, as well as helping to bake some mince pies.
On Christmas Eve, everyone gathered in the canteen to celebrate together. Brownie had travelled in from Cairo to spend the evening with his old friends, and the whole camp was getting into the festive spirit. Even Chico, an Egyptian boy of about 11 who made the tea, seemed caught up in the celebratory atmosphere. Margery watched in astonishment as he leapt up onto one of the tables and began performing a traditional dance, with a crowd of airmen cheering him on.
‘That’s not like Chico,’ she remarked to one of the officers. ‘He’s normally such a shy little boy.’
‘I know!’ the man replied with a laugh. ‘We had to spike his drink with rum. Poor chap hadn’t the faintest idea what he was drinking.’
Just then, Margery was startled by the noise of a knife clinking against a wine glass. She turned to see Elspeth and Red standing at one end of the room, evidently planning to make some kind of announcement. A hush fell over the noisy rabble.
‘It’s so lovely to see all your smiling faces,’ Elspeth began nervously. ‘We’ve got something we want to share with you all.’
Red squeezed her hand as he stepped forward and announced loudly, ‘We’re only getting married!’
Right on cue, a cheer went up around the room.
Margery turned to Brownie, who was sitting next to her. ‘Well, well,’ he said wryly, ‘I suppose we’d better get some drinks in.’ Then he went off in the direction of the bar.
Margery sat alone for a moment, watching as a queue of people formed in front of the happy couple, lining up to offer their congratulations. The announcement shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise to her, but still it had somehow felt sudden.
Seated in the corner of the room, Margery was surprised to see Elspeth extricate herself from the throng and make a beeline for her. ‘Congratulations!’ she told her friend warmly, budging up a little on her bench so that Elspeth could sit down.
But the bride-to-be remained standing. ‘Thanks, Margery,’ she replied. ‘Look, I was just wondering if you could do us a little favour.’
‘Of course,’ Margery told her. ‘What is it?’
‘Could you keep Brownie away from Red for the rest of the evening?’ Elspeth asked awkwardly. ‘It’s just … you know what he’s like. He’ll tease Red about getting married, and it’ll put his hackles up.’
The request seemed extraordinary to Margery, since if anyone enjoyed winding other people up, it was Red. But then, she thought, it was true that he never liked having the tables turned on himself.
‘Please, Margery?’ Elspeth asked. ‘I just don’t want it to spoil Red’s evening.’
‘All right, then,’ Margery replied, unsure what else she could say.
Elspeth shot off back to Red, leaving Margery alone again, and before long Brownie arrived with the drinks. ‘Here you go,’ he told her, placing a mug of Stella Artois down on the table. ‘Why don’t you make a start on that while I go and give my regards to Elspeth and Red?’
‘Oh, stay and have a drink with me first, won’t you?’ Margery begged him awkwardly.
‘All right, then,’ Brownie replied. ‘Whatever you say.’
Margery spent the rest of the evening trying to keep the two men apart – which, given that Elspeth and Red had become very much the centre of the evening, meant that she and Brownie were consigned to the periphery. They sat quietly in the corner, knocking back mugfuls of Stella and growing increasingly tipsy.
‘Margery, I really think I ought to congratulate them,’ Brownie told her, after she had put him off for the umpteenth time that night. ‘Otherwise they’ll think I’m being rude.’
‘No, you honestly don’t need to,’ she told him. The frustration was beginning to show in her voice.
‘Look, I don’t know what your problem is,’ Brownie snapped at her. ‘If you’re jealous of Elspeth getting married, then why do you spend all your time sitting around with me?’
‘I’m not jealous!’ Margery protested. But she couldn’t tell him the real reason that the two of them had spent the evening hiding away in the corner, rather than enjoying the party.
At the end of the night, Brownie went to catch the train back to Cairo, still visibly annoyed with Margery. The whole experience had left her feeling lonelier than she had been at any time since she arrived in Egypt.
18
Kathleen
On the evening of Monday 7 May 1945, when official news of the German surrender reached HMS Hornbill, the timing couldn’t have been better for Kathleen. She was just about to start a day’s leave, and had been planning to spend it down in London anyway. Now she would be visiting the capital in time to join the big party.
Like everyone up and down the country, Kathleen greeted the news of Victory in Europe with enormous relief. But as she sat looking out of the window on the train to Paddington, there was one thought paramount in her mind – and in a way it was even sweeter than the knowledge that the war was almost over. Soon her beloved Arnold would be coming home to England, and at last they would be able to marry.
By the time Kathleen managed to find a YWCA hostel all the beds had already been taken, but she was allocated a small section of floor space. Next to her was another Wren called Sally, and as they bedded down for the night the two girls chatted about what they should do in the morning. Tuesday had been officially designated as VE Day and crowds would be gathering all over London to celebrate and watch the speeches.
‘Why don’t we just head to Hyde Park?’ Sally suggested. ‘It’s not far, and there’s bound to be lots going on there.’
That night, the city’s streets were lashed with rain as a terrific thunderstorm opened up, illuminating the night sky with forks of brilliant white lightning. In the cramped dormitory of the YWCA, the girls struggled to get to sleep. Quite apart from the bright flashes of light and the occasional thunderclap, the day’s momentous news was still swirling around in their heads.
But despite a fitful night on the hard wooden floor, Kathleen awoke the next morning ful
l of energy. After breakfast, she and Sally set off together, through streets already thronging with people, many of them wearing paper hats or rosettes and carrying streamers and flags. There were servicemen and women of every possible denomination – and not just English ones either. In among the khaki and blues of the British forces were the uniforms of American GIs, Canadians, Free French and Poles as well.
Crowds of people were singing and dancing wildly in the streets, complete strangers embraced one another and couples kissed with abandon. Kathleen watched as two dozen people with their arms around each other’s shoulders gave a spirited performance of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’.
By the time the girls reached Hyde Park, they had been swept up in a sea of bodies. They made their way along the tail end of the Serpentine until they spotted a magnificent bronze statue of a man on a horse. Some of the people around it were already clambering up onto the plinth. ‘Let’s go up there,’ Sally said. ‘We’ll get a better view.’
The girls pushed through the crowds until they reached the base of the statue, where they begged a lift up onto the plinth from a couple of burly men standing below. Kathleen leaned back against one of the bronze horse’s sinewy hind legs and gazed out at the scene in front of her. She had never seen so many people in her life before. Every inch of the park seemed to be filled with human beings, and the numbers were swelling by the minute. Looking around, she could see that the statue wasn’t the only thing to have been climbed – in fact every post-box, every lamppost, and every monument in view appeared to have people draped over it.
It was a party the like of which Kathleen had never seen. Joyous men and women were joining hands to sing ‘Roll out the Barrel’, and strolling up and down together, dancing the Palais Glide. Many had brought their own musical instruments with them and were doing their best to bash out popular tunes on banjos and harmonicas, or blowing furiously on little paper trumpets they had purchased on their way to the park. The ground around them was littered with ticker-tape and confetti.
The spring day was an unusually hot one, but the soaring temperatures only seemed to increase the mood of elation – not just in Hyde Park, but all over London. In Trafalgar Square, revellers paddled in the fountains, gazing up at the bombers flying in formation over their heads. At Piccadilly Circus, there were bands playing, and a conga line snaked around the statue of Eros. From the windows of the nearby Rainbow Club, where American GIs had gathered throughout the war for a taste of home, toilet rolls were being thrown into the street in lieu of streamers.
The largest gathering was at Buckingham Palace, where more than 20,000 people arrived to see the royal family on their balcony. Seven times that day the King came out to wave at them, accompanied by his daughter Elizabeth in her ATS uniform. Meanwhile, at the Cenotaph, a more sombre crowd had gathered to admire the floral tributes and pay their respects to the fallen.
That afternoon Winston Churchill addressed the assembled masses in Parliament Square. ‘This is your victory,’ he told them. ‘Everyone, man or woman, has done their best. This is not a victory of a party or of any class. It’s a victory of the British nation as a whole.’ When the jubilant crowd began singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, the Prime Minister joined in proudly.
On her plinth in Hyde Park, Kathleen was having a wonderful time just sitting and watching the celebrations around her, but after several hours up there she found she had grown desperate for the toilet. ‘How are we going to get down again?’ she asked Sally. The distance to the ground was too far for them to jump.
Luckily, a couple of naval officers who were sharing the plinth with them overheard Kathleen’s words. ‘We’ll get down first,’ one of them suggested, ‘and then you jump and we’ll catch you.’
‘All right,’ Kathleen agreed, a little nervously. She waited for the men to climb down from the statue and then, on a count of three, hurled herself into their arms. Sally followed suit a few moments later, laughing as she leapt from the plinth. It certainly wasn’t the kind of ladylike behaviour that had been drummed into the girls by the WRNS, but on a day like this, who cared?
Looking over at the public toilets, Kathleen was horrified to see a line of women snaking all around them. ‘Don’t worry,’ one of the sailors told her, ‘I’ve got an idea.’ He took Kathleen’s hand and pulled her towards the front of the queue. ‘Excuse me!’ he shouted. ‘My wife is pregnant and she needs to go immediately!’
Kathleen was promptly ushered into the next available cubicle and tried her best not to giggle, as the man called after her, ‘You’ll be all right now, darling!’
When she emerged a couple of moments later, she found the two sailors still outside, chatting to Sally. ‘I hear you girls have never been on board ship in your whole time in the Navy,’ one of them told Kathleen. ‘Is that right?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ she replied ruefully.
‘Well, we can’t have that,’ the officer replied. ‘You’ll just have to come to our frigate for some grub. It’s moored down on the river at Chelsea.’
‘Ooh, yes please!’ Kathleen replied. With the war coming to an end, it could be her only chance to go on board a naval vessel before she was demobbed – and she wasn’t about to pass up a free meal either.
The sailors led the girls out of Hyde Park, past the Albert Memorial and the Natural History Museum, and through the bustling streets of South Kensington until they reached the embankment, where, sure enough, a small battleship was moored. As they ascended the gangplank, one of the men motioned to a bosun standing on deck, who piped them aboard with his whistle as if they were honoured guests. Giggling, Kathleen and Sally followed the sailors onto the boat.
The two officers were evidently used to a much more luxurious lifestyle than Kathleen had experienced in the Navy. They led the girls into a dining room with snow-white tablecloths and perfectly arranged napkins. ‘It’s as good as the Ritz!’ Kathleen whispered to Sally.
The girls were attended to by a pair of stewards, who were as well trained as waiters in a fancy restaurant, serving from the left and taking away from the right. And then there was the food – perfectly cooked steak, something the girls hadn’t tasted in a long time, along with crisp roast potatoes and baby carrots. All in all, it was the best meal Kathleen had eaten for years.
Despite their impeccable manners, Kathleen thought she saw one of the stewards raise an eyebrow at the sight of her and Sally. ‘They think we’ve been picked up!’ the other girl laughed. But the naval officers made it clear that they were both quite happily married, and were just tickled to see the two Wrens enjoying themselves so much.
Later that day, after they had thanked the sailors for their kind hospitality, the girls wandered the streets for a while, soaking up the atmosphere. By the early evening, Sally was feeling tired and decided to return to the YWCA hostel, but Kathleen wasn’t ready to turn in just yet. Instead she walked into the West End, where amid the throng she was surprised to spot the familiar, ruddy-cheeked face of the master gunner from Hornbill. ‘Wren Skin!’ he called, making his way over to her. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
Kathleen’s boss insisted that she join him for a drink at a nearby pub called the Captain’s Table, a popular hangout for Navy personnel. There she followed him down a little flight of stairs into a room that was packed with naval officers. ‘What’ll you have?’ he asked her, as they walked up to the bar.
‘I’d love a shot of rum,’ Kathleen said.
‘And the same for me,’ the master gunner told the barman, who was looking at Kathleen’s uniform suspiciously.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the barman replied, ‘but it’s officers and NCOs only in here. I can serve you but not your friend.’
‘Well, that’s easily solved,’ the master gunner replied, whisking Kathleen’s hat off her head and replacing it with his own. ‘There you go – now she’s a warrant officer.’
The barman smiled. ‘As you wish, sir,’ he replied.
Kathleen was soon sharing a drink w
ith some of the Navy’s finest, for the second time that day enjoying perks that her lowly rank wouldn’t normally entitle her to. VE Day had far surpassed her expectations, and she knew she would never forget it. By the time she got back to the YWCA that night she was so exhausted that she barely noticed the hard floorboards beneath her head.
When she arrived back at HMS Hornbill the following morning, however, Kathleen discovered that the celebrations there had been even wilder than what she had witnessed in London. Everywhere she looked, men and women were lying prostrate on the ground, empty bottles clasped in their hands.
‘Ah, Skin, excellent!’ a Wren officer called out to her from the passenger seat of a low-loader lorry. ‘You can help me gather the troops.’
The order turned out to be more literal than Kathleen had imagined. As they drove around the camp, she came to realise that she and the officer were pretty much the only sober people there. Even the young sailor driving the lorry was still half-cut from the night before. Some poor souls were conscious but wandering about in a confused daze. ‘I don’t know where my cabin is,’ one seaman moaned pathetically.
‘Get on the back of the lorry!’ the Wren officer told him sternly.
Gradually, they combed the roads of the camp until they had picked up all the stragglers they could find. Then Kathleen went off to inspect the Armoury hut.
What she found inside was a scene of utter devastation. There were rifles and magazines strewn all over the floor, and from the number of spent cartridges on the doorstep she deduced that they must have been fired in the air in celebration. Worse still, every single one of her pyrotechnics was gone. Someone had evidently decided to mark Victory in Europe with an improvised fireworks display.
It wasn’t long before Kathleen received orders that she was to leave HMS Hornbill for good. With the war in Europe over, her skills as an armourer were no longer required, and she was now to learn the trade of a motor transport driver. ‘Get your things together,’ a warrant officer told her. ‘You’re off on the six o’clock train.’ She barely had time to say goodbye to the other girls in her cabin before she was setting off for London again. Although she was sorry to leave her friends, Kathleen was excited at the prospect of a new start. Maybe, she thought, being a driver would be her ticket to an overseas posting.
The Girls Who Went to War Page 25