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This story is by Louie McClean, and has been added to the site with their permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions. The story was collected by Joyce Gibson, transcribed by Elizabeth Lamont and added to the site by Bruce Logan.
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After leaving the Brownies, instead of becoming a Girl Guide, I joined the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade. When war broke out the Public Elementary School in Castle Street, Bangor, was taken over as a Military hospital, and one of my first training jobs was having to lay out an old lady who had died there. I never did find out why she was in that particular place.

As the war progressed a lot of people I knew were joining up (no conscription in Northern Ireland) and a girlfriend and I decided to become VADs (Volunteer Aid Detachment). We were eventually accepted and I was posted to a Camp reception Station in Honiton, Devon which turned out to be a make-shift hospital attached to an Army Regiment. My friend’s mother, meanwhile, had intervened and stopped her going, so I was on my own. Well not quite, as no accommodation having been arranged for me, I had to share a bed on the first night with a pleasant older nurse, a new experience for me. I was the eldest of six, with three brothers following, and was used to my own room.

Another shock, as I was only just over seventeen I wasn’t allowed to do any nursing until I was eighteen, so in the meantime I mostly did the hospital clerical work. Other tasks like taking the mail around the wards caused a lot of banter and guessing what my accent was, the majority vote was Canadian. I may have known what a verruca was, but I soon had to learn what VD stood for, and when the young soldiers were lining up to get their injections I had to help when one passed out at the sight of the needle, never mind the actual jab! I also learned that Vera Lynn was not the most popular singer on the wireless. Everyone was very friendly. There were about eighteen on the medical staff — the food was cooked by the Army and the least I can say about it was that we survived! However, despite rationing, Devon cream teas were still available in the lovely village of Honiton, famous for its lace making.

My next move was to Teignmouth and I was able to do some sightseeing as supplies had to be collected by ambulance from places like Tavistock and Plymouth. But there was talk of a German invasion and our billets were in private houses taken over by the Army. Our baths had to be filled with water every night in case of incendiaries. Plymouth was being badly bombed at this time, and once for three nights in a row, we watched the bombers from the top of a hill near our house. We weren’t afraid, just angry and sad, and wanting to get on and see the end of the war.

Exeter and Bath Military Hospitals were next on the posting list and we were billeted with local families this time, who soon became our friends. I can still remember breakfasts of bacon and tomatoes that must have come out of their rations. In Bath the Pump Rooms had wonderful afternoon Tea Dances with an orchestra and tables ranged around where we could enjoy an hour or two forgetting about the war.

Eventually, there was talk of invasion by our side. I was still a Clerk Class Two, posted to HQ, Southern Command (Medical) in Salisbury at the end of 1943 (more sightseeing at Stonehenge). Security was tight. There was a small room off the General Office which only senior officers were allowed to enter. We knew something big was being planned. There was talk of anti-gas equipment, field hospitals, staffing, advance staffing, etc. etc. The secrets of the invasion of Europe were all in that wee room.

Unfortunately I never got to see the fruition of all these arrangements - as in 1944 I had to return home because of illness in the family. I wanted to help my mother, so I got compassionate leave and heard about the D Day Landings on a lovely day in June during my lunch hour in Belfast where I had obtained a job. Of course I was disappointed not to have been in England, but it brought back to me all those young wives and mothers left at home to look after their families when their husbands went off to war; the loneliness of waiting for a letter and praying it wasn’t a telegram.

During my three years in England, leave was granted every three months. Hours were spent travelling from the south of England by very crowded trains via Heysham to Belfast and on to Bangor, but on the boat there was always someone in uniform you knew from school or just to see round the town to have a yarn with. When I told my colleagues this on returning from leave, they wouldn’t believe me, they thought I’d picked them up!

But memories aren’t all like this. We had fun with sports days and, as I could run a bit, I ended up on the Medical Relay Team in Salisbury and we won the race! Concert parties were set up in most big camps, and I even had a song written about me, The Nurse with the beautiful Legs, - must have been the black stockings we had to wear!!

Ah — c’est la Guerre.

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