´óÏó´«Ã½

Chapter three

We left Rhyl in a special troop train, bound for Watford, and as we had rightly speculated, the London Defences. As we left the train, watched by bemused civilians, in what must have seemed an invasion of Amazons, encumbered by all our kit, we must have looked a formidable force, though most of us I suspect felt anything but heroic.

We formed up on the platform in full marching order. Heavy boots, gaiters, battle-dress, overcoats, gas masks slung and steel helmets attached, and the rest of our belongings in our kit bags. Our heads were crowned by the unbecoming ATS hats. In an effort to make us keep our hair short and tidy, by Army standards, we were informed that hair must not touch the collar. This was quite impossible, unless you had a neck like a gazelle. Hairgrips were forbidden and were also in very short supply, so we resorted to other means to retain some individuality, and thwart this unnecessary restriction. The humble bootlace came into its own. Tied around the head, it enabled us to roll our hair around it, like a long sausage. The cap then took its chance on top! On inspection parades a Sergeant Major would often prod at hair that looked too abundant to discover whether it was supported by the forbidden grips. If it were the culprit would be ordered to get her hair cut. On site we ignored these restrictions, but by various means kept within the regulations.

For our arrival at Watford our hair had been tortured into the regulation length, and after forming up like pack-mules, with our headgear precariously balanced, we marched out in good order to our transport. Each team had been allocated a truck to take us to our various sites. As always on such occasions it was a relief to climb aboard and get moving, wondering what lay ahead, and glad to be out of the gaze of curious onlookers. After a short journey through leafy lanes we arrived at our site, about three miles from Watford. It was typical of so many small wartime sites — patches of concrete, and a mixture of huts, wooden and Nissen. Assembled and waiting on arrival was a group of soldiers, also in marching order, kit bags at the ready, waiting to leave. As we got down they slung their kit aboard, and with a friendly ‘Hello … and good luck’ they were on their way, leaving the site to us.

A quick reconnaissance of the site revealed the nature and extent of our new home. One Nissen hut, one fairly large wooden hut, and a smaller wooden hut completed the inventory. The Nissen served both as recreation space / mess for the team and at one end the cookhouse. The larger hut was the dormitory, and attached to it a small ablutions block with hand basins and one bath. The smaller wooden hut served as the site office, and the sergeant’s sleeping quarters.

A short distance apart stood another smaller necessary unit — the lavatories. These were primitive cubicles, four in all, containing large back metal buckets, over which were fixed well scrubbed wooden seats. The doors had an air space top and bottom — presumably for ventilation. Not exactly the Ritz!

Two questions were posed by this discovery. Who had the job of carting these substantial containers away, and bringing in the necessary replacements? The answer we discovered was a contractor, much to our relief. We drew the line at this form of National Service. Fortunately we were able to see his easily recognised vehicle approaching. He would toot his horn at some distance, and so warn anyone who might be in occupation of one of the units of his imminent arrival. As access to the buckets was from the rear of the units he could draw up close, on the blind side, and discreetly make the exchange.

For a short time, we had the luxury of both a cook, and a mess orderly, but not for long. A general shortage of personnel soon left us without our mess orderly; so all the girls took it in turns to help Gladys, our cook, who was a farmer’s daughter. She made valiant efforts to cope with the inevitable problems caused by the temperamental freestanding stove, which had a fierce appetite for coke, or wood, or anything combustible that we could lay our hands on. The large blackened pans and kettle were heavy enough when empty, but when full could only be lifted with real effort using both hands. To speed up the process it was necessary to remove the top plate, and put the pans or kettle directly on the fire, which didn’t help to keep them clean. Gladys, like so many more, coped and kept her sense of humour.

As there wasn’t a mains electrical supply to this site, we relied on Tilley lamps for illumination, and rapidly became expert at priming these hissing contraptions. Our hot water supply came from another small solid fuel boiler, always providing that we had enough fuel to meet our modest needs.

Having surveyed the amenities we set about making ourselves at home. Having chosen our beds, unpacked our belongings, and laid out our kit, we lined up outside for instructions.

Our site sergeant handed out two pairs of overalls to each of us, and shoulder flashes to be sewn on our blouses and tunics before parade next day. These were the symbols of the London Anti-Aircraft Defences, and showed what was supposed to be a German Dornier bomber transfixed by a sword! A year or so later it was decided that all Anti-Aircraft personnel should wear the same badge, a black bow aiming an arrow at the sky, against a red background. It seemed strange to me that we should cling to the weapons of the Tudor period to symbolize our efforts in a war in the twentieth century.

Our dormitory hut was furnished in the usual Services style of spartan simplicity. Each bed space, which means the space beside each bed, was covered by a strip of lino about 6ft x 2ft, to be kept highly polished using our precious shoe polish. In training we had been told that our pay included an allowance for cleaning materials, such as Brasso for our buttons and badges, shoe polish and soap. Needless to say our meagre pay left us very little for these essentials.

Our beds had wooden slats for a base on which rested three firm ‘biscuits’, which made up the mattress. Three blankets, a pair of sheets, and one pillow, completed our bedding. The biscuits had to be stacked during the day, blankets and sheets folded as per regulations. Behind each bed was a small shelf for personal items, such as photographs. The base of each shelf was fitted with three hooks, on which was hung your greatcoat, gas mask and webbing equipment. For inspection all equipment had to be laid out on the bed in a prescribed manner, so that the inspecting officer could see at a glance whether there were any deficiencies.

Girls made their own bed space individual by personal little touches. An empty paste or Bovril jar made a small container for wild flowers, which were plentiful in the adjoining fields and hedgerows. The recreational hut was furnished with a large scrubbed table, a small side table, on which stood the radio set for the hourly contact with Troop HQ, several wooden chairs, and two very battered easy chairs. There was also a portable gramophone of ancient vintage, minus its handle. This wasn’t as useless as it first seemed, as it could be made operational by turning the turn-table in the reverse direction, which put the necessary tension on the spring, then holding it firmly while the record was put on. Unfortunately records were few in number, precisely six, and the most popular was ‘South American Joe’, since it enabled a little light hearted jiving to ease the tedium of waiting for action in the long evenings.

Warmth came from a black iron stove in the centre of the recreation hut. It had a long chimney pipe, which went up through the roof. The fire was enclosed, like a modern room heater, and although it looked battered, and was a thorn in our flesh because it had to be kept black-leaded, it was efficient. It was the standard type of stove in general use, and known to all Service men and women from Lands End to John O’Groats. There was a similar stove in our sleeping quarters. We soon found that the supply of fuel was not sufficient for two, so we never lit the stove in the dormitory. It was only by dint of sieving coke cinders, used on the paths around the site, and by scouring the surrounding woods and lanes, that we managed to meet our minimum needs.

I recall that this was my first chore after unpacking my kit. I set out with Jessie who was a very practical Scot from John O’Groats. Mindful that the cookhouse needed a fire until dusk, to provide the obligatory hot tea meal, and that everyone needed enough hot water for at least one good wash, and that the fire in the mess hut must be kept in all night, we set out to forage for anything that seemed combustible.

‘Here’s the saw’ Jessie said briskly, eyeing a heap of wood left by the departing soldiers. ‘And that’s the sawing bench’. It’s as well that she recognised it, for I never would! The bench that she indicated was formed by two cruciform ends of roughly sawn timber, joined by another member, and the whole thing nailed together by someone with more enthusiasm than skill. Jessie smiled at my willing but inexpert handling of the saw, and relegated me to the subordinate role of an assistant, steadying the sawing bench while she set to with commendable energy and expertise to reduce the available wood to manageable pieces for the stove, while I made suitable noises of encouragement. That was one of the good things about our team : coming from widely different backgrounds we shared our strengths and weaknesses, and were supportive of each other.

We soon settled down to our new routine. Life on site was largely controlled by the number of hours of darkness. If there was no enemy activity during the night, which was unusual, reveille was at 6.30 am. Breakfast was at 7.30, and by that time we had to be washed, dressed in overalls, ready for site and equipment maintenance. Beds had to be stripped, bedding and equipment layed out, rooms made tidy. Immediately after breakfast there was a work parade, when each of us would be allotted tasks, from assisting the cook, to cleaning the ablutions or latrines, or checking over the equipment.

By mid-morning, we were ready for a short tea break, supplied by our cook, or occasionally a voluntary YMCA mobile canteen, which visited isolated gun and searchlight sites. In addition to tea and buns, they also carried small items such as soap and writing materials. Our mid-day meal was at 1 pm, and we were then free until 2.30pm, when we paraded again in battle dress. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with training, aircraft recognition, dummy drills, and on occasions daylight exercises with the Lysander, simulating a hostile aircraft. One important aspect of our training was learning the other team roles, so that we were interchangeable in an emergency. Drill was still considered a necessary part of our routine, and often took place in the lane adjoining the site. Route marches gave us an opportunity to collect the all-important firewood on the return leg. The really vital part of the day came an hour before sunset. By then we were in full battle order. The plotters would receive the ‘prepare for action’ from HQ, and we would man and test the equipment, carrying out a full drill. They would then report back, ‘ready for action’. This was the daily and invariable routine, which was to be tested sooner than we had imagined.

At 01.00 hours, on our very first night, the alarm bell startled us from our slumbers and had us staggering out of bed in a dazed condition, throwing clothes over our pyjamas, as the sergeant yelled ‘take post’.

This was it, the real thing that we had trained and thought about for months. Our long and repetitive training paid off. We were ready for action well within the three minutes that was allowed. With pulses racing above normal, everyone keyed up to meet this first and crucial test of our team. The No. 4 had started pushing the long arm ahead of her, having raised the elevation. Our first information from Troop came through, ‘Hostiles approaching North-East’ was given to me over the head set by the plotters, and relayed by me to the team. The No. 4, then swung the equipment to face the direction indicated guided by small posts on the perimeter, which marked the four points of the compass. The radar scanning then began in earnest.

‘Target approaching …. 12,000’ reported No. 6
‘Stand by on strobe ’
‘Bearing on’ came from No. 7
‘Elevation on’ confirmed No. 8
‘On target ’ yelled No. 6, making sure that she was heard above the crack of the guns from a nearby gun site.
Back came the order from Troop … ‘Expose …’, to be immediately repeated by the sergeant through the megaphone. I thrust in the lever that brought about ignition, and our brilliant beam shot into the sky, to be joined almost simultaneously by two more, then seconds later by a fourth. Our immediate surroundings were now bathed in an eerie light — the whole atmosphere was charged with tension as the beams began the search for the incoming targets. From the number of beams, and their distribution, it was obvious that targets were being engaged over a wide area. London could expect a heavy raid. The AA batteries, which had until then been sporadic, now began a more intensive barrage. The thought of bits of shrapnel coming back to earth made one aware that the cumbersome steel helmets that we were obliged to wear might just save one from such a fragment of ‘friendly’ hardware!

By engaging the incoming bombers before they were over the heavily populated areas of London, it was hoped that some might be deterred, or shot down over the outer fringes of the capital, the so called Green Belt, where their return to earth might do less damage. The sudden order to ‘Douse’, from the sergeant almost took us by surprise, so intent were we on our job of tracking the hostile plane using the scanning radar. Our beam had begun to trail, it was getting too close to the horizontal for comfort. I pulled back the lever and our beam disappeared as if by magic as we swung around to face Northeast again and resume scanning.

On this first action we exposed our beam six times in forty minutes, as waves of bombers droned on relentlessly towards London. There was then a fifteen minutes lull, after which we were given ‘Stand easy’, much to our relief, for the intense concentration necessary when we were operating left us feeling drained. It took less than five minutes for us to clamber down from the equipment, fall in, make our individual reports to the sergeant, and be dismissed with the order ‘Stand easy … three minutes …’. That was to be our state of readiness to resume action if necessary. Even then at 02.00 hours, orders were given in the regular manner, as the saying goes ‘on parade … on parade’. My own personal responsibility at this stage was to estimate the remaining burning time of the carbons. For the others it was to report that their particular mechanism was fully operational.

Half the girls were Scots, from places as far apart as the Western Isles, Aberdeen, and Glasgow. This was their first experience of an air raid and gunfire. They had been absolutely calm and carried out the drill like veterans. We wasted no time in the mess, but after exchanging the briefest of comments went back to bed.

About half an hour later, when we had just about dropped off to sleep the alarm rang out again, and the yell of ‘Take post’ had us bemused and staggering about, getting into our clothes like automatons.

This was beyond a joke. We hadn’t reckoned on being called out more than once in a night, but we soon learned that this pattern of interrupted sleep would be the rule more than the exception. We had all got weary of hearing that repeated excuse for any query concerning deficiencies of services, goods, or rations of ‘don’t you know there’s a war on?’ It was usually said by someone a safe distance from the theatres of action. We were now fully and physically only too aware that there was a war on, and we were, in every sense, on active service — literally in the field.

This second wave of hostiles was approaching from the Southwest. Whether they were in fact a second force, possibly based in France, or the original raiders returning along the route of their approach, or even a secondary diversion heading for targets north of London, was academic as far as we were concerned. Our job was to harass them, and this we did to the best of our ability.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.