The War Before Mine

by Caroline Ross

  After breakfast, Rosie made the mistake of going to back to the barrack room for a hairslide, emerging to find all the others had disappeared. The camp seemed an endless succession of low huts surrounded by barbed wire. To her right, girls were marching, a male officer bellowing commands. To her left, a group in vests and horrible balloon khaki knickers were doing PT.

  Two girls with little blue ribbons fluttering from the shoulders of their jackets, came towards her carrying a huge tea urn. In the hurried exchanges of information over breakfast, Rosie had learnt blue meant they had already done two of their four weeks of basic training, ‘Do you know where I go to be measured for my uniform?’ They waved her over to large hut and as she set off at a run they burst into song to send her on her way,

  ‘She’ll be wearing khaki issue when she comes

  She’ll be wearing khaki issue when she comes

  She’ll be wearing khaki issue and it’s not exactly tissue,

  She’ll be wearing khaki issue when she comes.’

  The only good thing you could say about the uniform was that everybody looked awful in it. After Rosie had been measured up, she was sent to various locations around the camp to collect other items of clothing and equipment. The Army gave you everything – down to pyjamas and even bras. She even received a big bag of sanitary towels, because Lord something or other had provided the funds to keep all the ATS girls in STs for the duration of the war.

  ‘Amazing what they give you for free, isn’t it?’ said Myrna as together they hurried over to the barrack room carrying their piles of booty.

  ‘I’m not wearing the knickers,’ said Rosie.

  ‘What about them stockings? Reckon my dad could use them to sandpaper planks.’ They had only a few minutes to stuff their lockers before it was time to report to the parade ground and learn how to march.

  The first three days were a blur of square-bashing, lectures and endless spit and polish. On the fourth day, it was inoculations. A blue-ribbon girl told Rosie inoculations were good because you had to have 48 hours off afterwards, but standing in a queue of sixty other girls stripped to their underwear, Rosie felt it a doubtful privilege. The smell of stale sweat was very strong, and some of the more sensitive girls with pinker, talcumed skin, began to look a little unhappy. It was hot, the room stank, and needles were about to be plunged into flesh. A plump, freckly girl in front of her fainted. Rosie helped her to a chair at the side of the room.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh yes. How embarrassing. It’s the smell. And I’ve never liked injections.’

  ‘Stick your head down between your knees for a moment.’

  The girl obeyed, breathing noisily for a while. ‘Don’t lose your place in the queue on my account.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’m not too keen either.’

  The girl pushed her wispy fair hair out of her eyes and put out her hand. ‘I’m Stella Goodwin.’

  ‘Rosemary Mullen.’

  ‘Before I came over so peculiar, I was admiring your slip. Satin, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I adore satin.’

  ‘It belonged to my aunt,’ said Rosie, feeling the need to be honest.

  ‘Lucky you. My aunts all wear Smedley’s best woollen vests. Not very glamorous.’

  ‘Feeling all right now?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks awfully.’

  They were obliged to join the back of the queue, behind three girls from the East End who even Myrna steered clear of. One of them, a girl with a flat, pale face blotched with acne, immediately sniffed out Stella.

  ‘What’s up Fatty?’ she hissed. ‘Too posh for pricks?’

  Stella coloured and looked down at the floor. When it became clear to Rosie her new friend was not going to respond, she jumped in herself. ‘Keep your nasty comments to yourself, you big spotty moon face, or you’ll get some back you won’t care for.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said the girl, her arms slightly raised as though to ward off a biting terrier. But she said nothing more.

  ‘You’re a brick,’ whispered Stella.

  Walking woozily back to the barrack room after the injections, Stella suggested, ‘Why don’t you and I try to bag a bunk together tonight?’

  ‘Are we allowed to change bunks then?’

  ‘I think I will be. I had rather a nasty experience last night. Girl on top peed on me, came pouring through the mattress. I woke with the noise of what I thought was rain, sat up and got it all in my hair…’

  ‘No!’ But it was irresistibly funny. ‘Was that you, then, in the night, shouting?’

  ‘Yes! I yelled “Oh no!” and she said “What’s up?” as though nothing had happened!’ Stella was stuffing a handkerchief in her mouth to stop herself laughing. ‘You don’t wet the bed, do you?’ Stella seemed to know how to organise things, and that evening, when most girls were feeling too ill to protest, she moved into the next bunk.

  Apart from a two-day camping trip with the church when she was twelve, Rosie had never spent time away with other girls, and despite her worries about Philip, she began to enjoy herself. She felt as though she had gone to sleep one night and woken up in the middle of a comic book story about friends at boarding school. There were lots of rules, some frightening authority figures, but mainly it was a great adventure. Square-bashing was the most fun. Rosie was quick on her feet and had a good sense of timing. In her own head, she likened it to the dance lessons she had longed for as a child. Changing step on the march… Change step! Dress right! Left wheel! The movements entered her consciousness to such an extent that she woke in the night shouting the orders and kicking her legs under the hairy army blankets; highly amusing to Stella and the girls on either side.

  After two weeks, Rosie found to her surprise that she had made a lot of friends. Her prettiness, combined with her accent and capacity for blunt language, made her a bit of a pet. She was generally seen to be ‘sweet’ and entertaining. Then she surprised herself and everyone else by showing she was also clever. In the intelligence tests her scores were high; she was good at PT; the shouting officers began to say quite complimentary things about her.

  ‘Turn on your heel! That’s good Mullen! Show the others how it’s done!’

  Even more odd, she became an object of envy. ‘How come you’ve got everything, Ro?’ Stella said. ‘It’s not fair to heap a girl up with looks and brains…’ She leaned in confidingly, ‘And a simply gorgeous boyfriend.’ Rosie had shown Stella the photograph of her and Philip together, but not told her he was missing, just that he was ‘overseas’. It was true, after all, and reflected her conviction. After lights out, in the pungent whispering dark, it was her nightly ritual to squeeze her eyes tight together and bring his face into focus. When she had conjured up his features, the way his mouth went up more on one side than the other when he smiled, she would place him in a landscape, make him walk, swim, climb, duck down – whatever was necessary to avoid harm as he made his way home. After lights out, she murmured prayers out loud, from a superstition that to be silent would mean they would not work.

  ‘Hail Mary full of grace. The Lord is with thee…’

  ‘Ro? Oh, sorry. Can we have a gossip when you’re finished?’

  ‘Blessed art though amongst women. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.’

  ‘Finished? You are good.’

  After the first three weeks, Rosie had to make a choice. Recruits could go on to specialised training in cooking, plane spotting, driving, administration or gun location. Gun location meant using radar, and only attracted the real swots. There was only one other ‘active-sounding’ option, and Rosie, followed quickly by Stella, put her name down for spotting. That meant a further training course in Guildford.

  On the last morning in the Southampton camp, Rosie and Myrna carried bins round to the incinerators. They were on ‘bleeding Lord Rags-in duty,’ as Myrna put it. ‘You should be a clerk
and all, Rose,’ she said. ‘Not much work after the war for plane spotters.’

  Rosie realised this was as near to a declaration of affection as the younger girl could get. ‘I’ll miss you Myrna,’ she said. ‘Keep in touch, won’t you?’

  They emptied used sanitary towels into the flames, inoffensive, newspaper-wrapped parcels from some girls, bloody exposed lumps of soggy fabric from others. ‘Look at the state of that!’ Myrna put her hand over her face and poked at the horrible things with a stick. ‘Way some of these were brought up. Bloody disgrace!’

  Rosie agreed. She always wrapped up her STs. Though, come to think of it, she could not remember when she’d last had the curse. Her periods had never been regular, and she’d heard other girls say the change of environment always upset them. In her mind, full of the excitements of moving on, of becoming something better than she had ever imagined, the fact that Lord Rags-in’s present lay undisturbed at the back of her locker sounded only the faintest of alarms.

  Isle of Wight, 1932

  Triumphantly, Philip leads Abel, Davy and Will down the stone steps and into the vestry. Nobody had gone along as far as he had. Nobody had touched the bell except him.

  The other boys watch as he opens the cupboard and brings out one of the tiny glass paste pots that his mother and the other lady helpers use to put flowers around the edge of the font. He fills it with communion wine from the heavy glass decanter.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that Seymour,’ says Abel.

  Philip takes a swig and hands the pot to Will.

  ‘Ugh,’ says Will, giggling. He passes it to Davy.

  ‘That’s blood, that is,’ says Abel.

  Davy drinks and grins at Philip. Will pulls one of the choir boys’ gowns over his head and dances around the room, singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. Philip, drunk with the delight of the moment, laughs and claps.

  ‘We’ve had enough of churches,’ Abel announces, pushing the back door of the vestry open and revealing the hummocky graveyard outside. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  Davy joins him. Will hesitates for a moment, then yanks the gown off and drops it on the floor. Outside in the fading sunlight, Philip feels his power evaporate. He thinks quickly. ‘Shall we go into the orchard?’

  ‘The orchard. Load of bloody trees.’ Abel has his arms folded over his chest.

  ‘The plums are ripe.’

  Abel thinks about the plums for a moment, before mimicking Philip’s clipped, high-pitched tones: ‘The plums are ripe. He’s bin eating too many plums by the sound of ’im – got a plum stuck in his throat.’

  They laugh. Abel pushes him in the chest. ‘You think you’re it, don’ you, Seymour, just because your Dad’s the rector.’

  Will is waving something in the air. A piece of old rope. ‘Let’s tie him up!’

  They drag him past the crypt towards the farthest side of the cemetery. He knows where they are taking him. According to the recently erected headstone, May Louise Monckton had fallen asleep, Aged 72 on June 3rd 1930. In fact, as the entire village knew, Mrs Monckton had died horribly from lockjaw.

  He kicks, he spits, he punches, but the three of them tie him tightly to the stone and stand back, panting and laughing. Then they run from the graveyard, shouting in excitement and terror, racing towards their teas and the reassurance of indoors.

  ‘Pigs pigs bloody bloody pigs!’ Philip struggles with the rope. Did the gravestone move? What if he pulls so hard it comes out of the ground? Then what will happen? A vision of May Louise Monckton, head pulled over to one shoulder, hands like claws, rises before him. He fights harder, desperate to free himself, and realises it is the rope, too thick to knot effectively, that is moving. He wriggles it down his body to his knees and tries to lift one leg over it. But his ankle catches and he pitches forward on to the awful sponginess of the grave itself. Retching in terror, Philip kicks his other leg out, scrambles off the grave and runs. Beyond the entrance, in sight of the lights of the village, he slows to catch his breath and wipe his face with his sleeve. There is a scrunch of footsteps.

  ‘Phil? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘Your mother was getting anxious.’

  Together they walk up the drive towards the rectory, in darkness except for one bright corner where his mother, because it’s Mrs Edwards’ night off, is preparing supper. Philip goes into the cloakroom to wash his hands and then joins his parents in the kitchen. It is a cavernous, cold room, even in summer, but Philip feels terribly hot. He slides his stiff napkin from its silver ring, spreads it over his knees, and stares down at his Technicolor® plateful of beetroot, tomatoes, radishes and lettuce. There is a silent passing of dishes of ham and potatoes.

  He will get rid of the radishes first. He forks one into his mouth and bites down. His father breaks the silence. ‘Looking forward to going back to school, old chap?’

  The radish feels huge in his mouth. He nods, feeling the tears pressing behind his eyes and fights them, because he is too big, at twelve, to cry. But the realisation that even school is better than the loneliness of home overwhelms him. He wishes he was poor, wishes his parents were dead. Half-chewed radish bubbles from his mouth and tears spill down his cheeks. Philip weeps for Will, for the loss of Will and all that comes with Will; howls for the hole in his life where love should be. Like landlubbers adrift in rough sea, his parents cling on to their cutlery and wait for the storm to end.

  18

  Guildford and Wimbledon, July – September 1942

  Rosie sat on her bunk copying up the notes she’d taken in the lecture that afternoon. Spitfire: A low wing monoplane with equal taper on both leading and trailing edges of the wing, making it a perfect oval. It was an hour before lights out. The barrack room vibrated with female chatter, the voice of Al Bowlly from the gramophone and the shuffling feet of several couples dancing.

  ‘It says here you can sit in a bath full of strong tea to get a nice tanned effect on your legs.’ Stella was stretched out on the adjacent bed reading a fashion magazine, her own pale, heavy legs visible from the knee down and crossed at the ankle.

  The tail plane, too, is elliptical. The back of the fuselage is straight, but the undercarriage curved. The Spitfire is known as the Mae West of the air – all curves and fast!

  ‘Ro? Are you listening?’

  ‘Stain the bath a lovely shade of brown, too, I should think.’ Rosie wrote Vickers Armstrong Wellington and underlined it. She swivelled a picture postcard of the plane around. It was easy really. The plane was named for the tallness of its tail. Looked at from this angle, it was just like a wellington boot. Trick was, being able to turn a plane upside down in your head when you saw it flying at speed through the sky. And had to identify it.

  ‘It’s all right for you, Ro. Your legs are naturally tanned. Where did you say your father’s family were from?’

  ‘You know he was talking about inverted gull wings? Was that like a W or an M?’

  Stella sat up and slotted her feet into a pair of backless pink slippers. ‘How would I know, darling? You’re being a perfect swot. Surely you don’t have to come top in everything.’ Another pair of slippers, tartan wool with pom-poms, was passing.

  ‘Vera? Do you know?’

  The girl stopped, walked over. ‘Think about how you draw a gull,’ she said, leaning over to remove Rosie’s pencil from her hand and scribble a shape in the margin. ‘So you do it upside down to make it inverted. That’s what it means, inverted – upside down.’ All three girls peered into Rosie’s book.

  Stella sighed. ‘What I want to know is how learning a lot about British planes is going to help us shoot down German ones.’

  ‘You are a fool, Stella,’ said Vera, straightening up. ‘We have to learn about British ones to ensure we never shoot one down by mistake.’

  Stella watched Vera’s diminishing back, sharp-shouldered under her dressing gown. ‘Well that certain
ly put me in my place. Why is she so smug?’

  Rosie wrote: Inverted = upside down. Plane spotting would be easier if you stood on your head.

  ‘I’m going to perform my ablutions, Ro. Are you coming?’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Jonkers 87 This German Stuka dive bomber is a low-winged single engine monoplane with an inverted gull wing. It has the appearance of a bird of prey and that, coupled with the screaming noise of sirens as the Stuka dives, makes this aircraft a menace to morale rather than for the effect of its bomb damage. The most prominent recognition feature is a fixed undercarriage with extremely large spats…

  There came shouts and screams from the washroom. Stella ran in. ‘Someone call an officer! Rosie come and look!’

  On the washroom floor, two girls were fighting. One sat astride the other, slapping the other’s face and shouting, ‘Don’t you dare touch her, you bitch! She’s mine! I love her!’ A small blonde girl called Janet was ineffectually pulling at the shoulders of the attacker, crying ‘Pauline. Stop! Don’t, Pauline!’

  Two officers rushed in and dragged all three girls off. In the clamour of gossip that followed their departure, it seemed that Pauline was reckoned to be ‘in love’ with Janet. After lights out, Stella explained. ‘Pauline’s a boy–girl, of course. Disgusting. Don’t you know about them? We had some at school. She loves Janet in the wrong way. Apparently, Celia just asked to borrow Janet’s hairbrush and Pauline went completely berserk, mad with jealousy. I know it’s hard for us normal girls to imagine…’

  Rosie was silent. Had she met any boy–girls before, without realising it? What would happen to Pauline?

  ‘Ro? With Philip… Did you have some really good necking sessions?’

  ‘Oh, yes. One or two.’ But Stella’s curiosity made her uncomfortable, because although she felt they were close, she could not be completely honest. No girl ever admitted to ‘going all the way’, there was a feeling that girls who did were not quite nice. Rosie hated the hypocrisy of this because she was sure some were much more experienced than she was, but on the other hand there were a lot, like Stella, who had probably never gone further than a kiss.