Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  ‘Shall we go for a walk around the grounds when we’ve done this?’ Frankie suggested.

  ‘Someone told me there’s a tennis court behind that row of trees,’ Peggy said.

  ‘Tennis!’ cried another girl. ‘Oh, do let’s have a game before we turn in.’

  But back in the dorm they were all issued with white tape, some indelible ink and a pen with a scratchy nib.

  ‘Mark all items of clothing with your name and number on the tape,’ said the Squad Corporal, and as she handed round a small sewing kit, she added, ‘You have all you need here in your housewife.’

  Frankie groaned inwardly. Looking at the pile of clothes in front of her, she knew this was going to take ages. ‘No stroll around the grounds or tennis tonight,’ she said ruefully as the Squad Corporal left the room.

  She was about half way through when the dinner gong sounded and her one consolation was that the meal was more generous than Aunt Bet could manage.

  Later that night, as she lay in bed she could hear the incessant drone of aircraft. It was followed by loud bangs and rumbles. Some seemed awfully close. Had the Germans come at last? Eventually, unable to sleep, she got out of bed and looked through the window. In the distance she could see a red glow against the black sky. Frankie took in her breath. Whatever it was, it was big. Another girl came to join her. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘Looks like a big fire,’ said Frankie. ‘The Germans must be bombing a factory somewhere.’

  ‘My God. That’s not a factory,’ the girl said. ‘That’s London. London is on fire.’

  *

  The six-week course went by very quickly even though the horrors of the nightly bombing of London disturbed everybody’s peace of mind. The tuition was good but for Frankie it was a bit of a doddle. She already had plenty of experience in driving, riding a motorbike and vehicle maintenance. Of course, military ambulances and large lorries took a bit of getting used to, especially when she had to remember to double de-clutch when on the move, but having spent years helping her uncle and cousins, she adapted quite quickly. There were some things which were new to her. Map reading was one of them. This turned out to be a real challenge because all place names and sign posts had been removed at the beginning of the war. The government felt that should there be an invasion, the enemy would have as little help as possible. Frankie had to learn how to use a compass and the stars at night.

  Proper sleep was a luxury when they could get it. In the main, their nights were filled with the sound of aircraft overhead, ack-ack guns and the bombs dropping over London. The city had had a pasting and it had been going on for weeks. It was hard to get any sleep. Frankie would lie on her bed wondering how many poor souls had been ushered into eternity tonight. If her nights were interrupted, her days were filled with drill, physical training, first aid classes (another easy one for Frankie), shoe cleaning, button polishing, and getting their inoculations up to date. There were compensations along the way. There were male officers and soldiers on site and the girls met both in the NAAFI canteen when they were off duty. It was an opportunity to play cards, or darts, have a drink and a chat or to have a bit of a sing-song whenever some local singer turned up to entertain them. On Saturdays there was usually a dance band and twice a month they held a talent show. Of course most of the acts were rather mediocre or rubbish but occasionally there was a flash of real talent. One, Lance Corporal Malcolm Hawke, was a fantastic trumpet player and everybody clapped like mad when he’d finished his performance.

  While she was at Camberley, Frankie became best friends with Rita Bartlett, who came from the East End of London, and Lou Haynes, who lived in Potters Bar. Rita was a fun-loving girl who had an eye for the lads. A wicked flirt, she drew the cream of the gathering on dance nights. The men who flocked to her table looking for a twirl on the dance floor with Rita often had to make do with ‘her friends’ but Lou and Frankie weren’t complaining. They made the most of it and had a good time.

  Rita never lacked a beau and she took risks. They were supposed to be in bed by ten and lights out at ten-thirty but quite often, because Frankie’s bed was right next to the window, she would hear a tap on the glass some time after midnight. It would be Rita, with one foot on the guttering over the porch and hanging onto the drainpipe down the wall, waiting for someone to open the window to let her in.

  ‘Blimey,’ she whispered one night when Frankie opened the window, ‘I thought you was never coming, gal. It’s bleedin’ perishing out here and I been banging on the winder for hours.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Frankie sleepily. Rita tumbled in and Frankie closed the window. ‘Did you have a nice time?’

  ‘He was all right,’ she said with a non-committal shrug. ‘I’ll say one thing though; he was a great kisser.’ She giggled.

  ‘Shh,’ a voice further down the dormitory complained. ‘Some of us are trying to get some kip around here.’

  ‘Sor … ree.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ said Frankie with a grin.

  ‘Just a lickle bit,’ Rita said as she finally wobbled to her feet. ‘Now where’s me bed?’

  Frankie took her by the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  As they made their way down the dorm, Rita bumped into a couple of other beds and woke the girls in them before she reached her own. Frankie helped her off with her coat and Rita kicked her shoes under her locker. She’d undressed as far as her petticoat when the heard the sound of footsteps outside in the corridor.

  ‘Quick,’ Frankie hissed. ‘Somebody’s coming.’

  Rita tumbled between the sheets but when the door burst open and the light went on, Frankie was still standing beside her bed. She stared ahead in a daze.

  ‘What are you doing out of bed, Sherwood?’

  It was the Sergeant, an absolute dragon of a woman who stood no nonsense. Several sleepy heads were roused from their pillows. Rita pretended to snore. Frankie was struck dumb.

  ‘I said what are you doing …?’

  Frankie still stood like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

  ‘I say, Sarg,’ Peggy called out in ringing tones, ‘do be careful. I think she’s been sleepwalking.’

  The Sergeant looked at Frankie suspiciously. ‘But her eyes are open.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, Marm,’ said Lou. She slipped out of her bed and came up to Frankie. ‘Come on, love,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s get you back to bed.’

  Peggy came to join her and the pair of them helped Frankie back to her end of the room. ‘You know, it’s dangerous to wake sleepwalkers,’ Lou went on as they tucked the sheets around Frankie.

  The Sergeant, clearly not completely convinced, stood in the doorway, glaring.

  As she padded back to her bed, Lou added, ‘Anyway that’s what my old man says and he’s a doctor so he should know.’

  The Sergeant snorted and snapped off the light. After she’d closed the door again there was a silence in the room for several minutes until Rita spoke out a muffled ‘Thanks, girls.’

  ‘Is your father really a doctor?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Na,’ said Lou. ‘He’s a coalman.’

  And gradually the sound of people chuckling filled the darkness.

  *

  Friday was always pay day. Everyone assembled on the parade ground in front of a trestle table. Two officers sat on one side and a wages clerk sat at one end of the table. As each girl’s name was called, she had to break ranks, march smartly to the table, salute and give her name, rank and number. After she’d stood to attention, one of the officers handed out her wage which worked out at 7/6 (1/6 a day) and the wages clerk showed her where to sign for it. Another snap to attention and she’d march back into line. Afterwards, Frankie went back to her hut to write a letter to Aunt Bet. She’d been saving her money so she slipped a ten bob note between the pages. ‘Now that Alan is home, treat him to a pint from me,’ she wrote. ‘Give him my love, won’t you.’ Aunt Bet hadn’t said how he was in her last letter but Frankie hoped h
e was back to his normal self.

  At last the six weeks were over and they had received new orders. Frankie was posted to Kent and Lou was coming too. Frankie had never been there but Lou had family nearby. Rita was going to Southampton. They commandeered the NAAFI for their farewell party and had a great time. Lance Corporal Warren – Bunny, to his friends – brought along a bottle of scotch. Frankie had never had it before but was willing to give it a try. It burned all the way down her throat, and she coughed until she had tears in her eyes.

  ‘Have a bit more, love,’ said Bunny when Frankie had finished coughing. He had sat next to her and put his arm around her in an intimate way. ‘You’ll soon get used to it.’

  ‘Bugger off, Bunny,’ Lou said protectively. ‘She’s had enough.’

  They said their farewells, swapped addresses and then turned in for some sleep but once again it wasn’t to be. Before long, they heard the rumble of aircraft engines as the Luftwaffe came over thick and fast once again. Frankie closed her eyes and willed herself to shut the noise out. She needed all the rest she could get. Tomorrow she would be going to her first posting. The time for play acting and exercises was over. She was now a fully trained member of the ATS and like thousands of others, she was part of the British fighting force with the sole aim of turning the tide and bringing the Nazis down.

  Twenty-Three

  Broadwater, Sussex, December 1940

  ‘Come on, son,’ said Lorry. ‘You’ve been sitting staring out of that window for long enough. Put your coat on and come down to the Wigmore Arms for a drink with Ronald and me.’

  Alan rose wearily to his feet. He’d been home five days and already he was bored out of his skull. Life on the farm and indeed, life with the family had lost its appeal. Everything and everybody annoyed him. No, he didn’t want to help clean out the pigs. No, mum could collect the eggs when she got back from the shops. Of course he hadn’t seen the coalman or heard him shout. Too bad he’d driven away without making a delivery but what the heck, he’d be back tomorrow, wouldn’t he? Why the hell didn’t they all leave him alone? Every time his mother asked him, do you want a cup of tea, would you like to read the paper, shall I put the wireless on for you, dear, he wanted to scream ‘For God’s sake put a sock in it, will you?’ He knew she meant well but it was more than anybody could take.

  Any loud noise made him jump and then the pictures in his mind would start up all over again. That chap floating in the water with one side of his head nothing more than a bloody mush; the machine gunfire ripping alongside the long queue of men standing in the water (and he was one of them) until it picked out some poor sod, seemingly at random, and ended his life; the sea itself, full of pee and shit and blood as it lapped the shore. Every now and then the air had been pierced with the cries of someone in pain; some poor, horribly wounded soul blaspheming, or some poor kid weeping for his mother or sweetheart or wife as the last of his life ebbed from his body. If only it would all go away, if only he could switch it off.

  And then there was Ginger. How could he have not known his best mate was dead? When had he been shot? He racked his brains trying to work out when it had happened. How come Ginger hadn’t cried out? If only he’d made a noise, or said something, Alan would have realised. Someone suggested it was because Ginger knew there was nothing he could do, so he’d laid there and bled to death. But he could have done something, couldn’t he? He could have stuffed something into the wound to stem the flow of blood or called for a medic and told him to hang on … anything. Alan hit his head with frustration in an effort to stop remembering but it was no use. The Doc had said he was all right but he didn’t feel all right.

  They walked to the pub in Leigh Road. Alan was aware that his father and brother were talking but he didn’t join in. After a recommendation from a member of the Worthing office, Ronald had been asked to go to the Admiralty in London for some sort of interview. He didn’t know what it was about but it was for some sort of hush-hush thing in Buckinghamshire.

  ‘What time did you say the train is in the morning, son?’ Lorry asked.

  ‘Seven-fifteen,’ said Ronald. ‘I’ve got no idea what I’m getting into, but it might give me a chance to do my bit.’

  ‘Your mother and I will miss you, lad,’ said Lorry giving him a clap on the back, ‘but you can go with our blessing.’

  They’d reached the pub. The Wigmore Arms was a popular pub about half a mile from The Cricketers in the centre of the village. As the three of them walked in they were greeted warmly by the regulars and several men offered to buy Alan a drink. While his father and Ronald played darts and shove-halfpenny, he was content to tuck himself into a corner and drink. It was a pleasant evening until someone remarked about the length of time he’d been in hospital and asked him when he was going back. Alan immediately saw red.

  ‘You suggesting I’m a shirker, pal?’

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ the man protested. ‘I’m sure stopping at home for a bit of your mum’s cooking is just what the doctor ordered.’

  All at once, Alan was on his feet, pushing his chair over. Nobody actually saw what happened but the next thing they knew, the small round table full of empty glasses had been knocked over and the chap was sprawled across the floor. Lorry rushed to calm the situation but by then Alan had already punched two more men.

  ‘Come on,’ he goaded as he put his fists up. ‘Want a fight, d’ya? Come on then. I’ll knock the lot of you to kingdom come.’

  The barman sent the potboy to fetch Constable Harris, then joined in with his regulars to get Alan out of the pub. It was not so easy as it looked. With the drink inside of him, Alan had gained the strength of ten men.

  Lorry was mortified. As he attempted to restrain his son, Alan lashed out again and his father ended up on the floor. Alan was eventually ejected unceremoniously onto the street as Ronald helped his father to his feet. Lorry, his nose bloodied, apologised and offered to pay for any damage as the barman picked up a chair.

  ‘We’ve known each other for years, Lorry,’ said the barman. ‘You’re always welcome into my pub, but that son of yours …’

  ‘I understand,’ said Lorry, pressing his handkerchief to his nose to staunch the flow of blood. ‘No need to say more.’ The two men shook hands and Lorry went outside to find Alan and take him home.

  Sadly they were too late. Another man lay on the ground and PC Harris had just arrested Alan for being drunk and disorderly.

  ‘But he’s got to be back in the barracks tomorrow,’ Lorry protested.

  ‘I can’t help that,’ said PC Harris, ‘He’ll be in the magistrate’s court first thing in the morning.’

  Twenty-Four

  Deal, Kent, Summer 1942

  Two more Christmases came and went but the opportunity to celebrate was sparse. The war had been going for three years and little had changed. Starting in September 1940, the Germans kept up their relentless bombing night after night and although much was made of the raids in London, many other cities were the victims of the bombing too. Southampton suffered serious raids followed by Bristol, Coventry and Birmingham. In December it was the turn of Sheffield, Liverpool and Manchester, the latter even having a terrible raid on Christmas Eve.

  ‘Call themselves Christians,’ one of the girls complained. ‘Bloody barbarians more like.’

  The New Year brought more of the same, beginning with the bombing of Cardiff on January 2nd, and so it went on.

  The Blitz on British cities lasted until May 1941 but the raids continued – the only change being the number of bombs being dropped. As time went on, the girls in Frankie’s battery were informed that thirty-seven thousand tons had been dropped in the capital in 1940 and that became twenty-one thousand tons in 1941. As 1942 came round, there were fewer still, but it didn’t feel much better. A bomb was a bomb and people still died.

  All this time, Frankie and Lou had been billeted in the same house. Mrs Kane was a homely woman who spent a lot of her time helping her neighbours. She was t
he main carer for an old lady three doors down, taking her meals and doing her washing and shopping. She helped out at a Red Cross shop two days a week and did a shift at the local telephone exchange on Saturdays, but, amazingly, she still found time to look after her lodgers. If they were off duty in the evenings she would get out the playing cards or some sort of board game; anything to take their minds off what was happening overhead. Throughout the long winter months there was always a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be done on a table in the corner of her kitchen-cum-sitting room (the only room she heated), and there was another one in the Anderson shelter should they need to go there during the night.

  Mrs Kane had been widowed in the Great War and had no children but she lived her life as if those around her were her family. Frankie and Lou considered themselves very lucky. Other girls were not so fortunate. They heard stories of bedrooms running with damp, sparse food, and lecherous relatives turning up in their bedrooms uninvited when they were trying to sleep.

  Lou worked a twelve-hour shift on the battery and by the time she came off duty, she had no voice because she had to shout instructions to the gunners over the sound of the guns themselves.

  Frankie’s duties were entirely different. Sometimes she had to take dispatches from one gun site to another or to HQ, and at other times she was an outrider for a convoy taking much needed supplies to a barracks or port. When she was dispatch rider, it often entailed riding her bike across unfamiliar territory in the dead of night with only one inch of light on her headlamps. Coupled with that, there was usually an air raid in progress.

  ‘I don’t know how you cope with it,’ said Lou. ‘You must have nerves of steel. I’d be absolutely terrified.’

  In truth, Frankie was scared but she had trained herself to concentrate on getting the job done rather than what was going on around her. This meant she could keep bad thoughts and panic at bay. The work was relentless and she was tired out but she kept going. She had a few narrow squeaks, and the worst was to come one evening in July 1942. Frankie was on her way to Divisional HQ when a bomb dropped in the next street. The blast between two houses blew her off the bike. For a couple of seconds, she lay in the road, completely stunned until the need to get vital information to the Port of Dover kicked in. Her leg was quite painful and when she looked down, there was blood. Limping heavily, she looked around for her machine. It was lying in the road. Ignoring the raid going on around her, she went back for it but the front wheel of the bike was completely misshapen. She couldn’t ride it and besides, her head was spinning. It was imperative that she get the dispatches to HQ so there was nothing for it but to run the last half mile.