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Chapter 4 :

We had our beam exposed and were following a target on the radar, when the No. 4 saw the plane at the edge of the beam. ‘Target seen’ she yelled, and took over manual control, and for a brief moment we had it fully in the beam, but before other beams could concentrate and make a formidable cone, the plane took evasive action and we lost it. ‘Target lost’ reported No. 3, and there was no mistaking her disappointment. By this time we were trailing and had to douse. Something of an air of anti-climax was felt as we received the ‘Stand easy’ for the second and final time on our first night of action.

By now we felt dog-tired, and the reaction set in from the state of high tension that we had experienced from these two alarms. We hung about waiting to hear from Troop when Revelle would be, allowing for our lost sleep. It was set at 07.30 hours — some concession, just an hour later than normal! With mutinous mutterings we fell into our beds.

And so began what would become a regular nightly experience for the next four weeks, by which time we had shaken down into a very competent team. Any uncertainty we might individually have felt at first was banished by the confident team spirit that we rapidly acquired.

Freda and I had been promoted to the rank of lance corporal. Our next surprise came in the shape of a visit from the Troop Officer, arriving for the Friday pay parade with several large cans of green paint, and one of whitewash. We were summoned to the mess to be informed of the secondary purpose of her visit, to brief us on the imminent visit of a Member of Parliament. The significance of the paint now became clear.

This particular gentleman had been strongly against the deployment of women on searchlights, on the grounds that life would be too hard for us. The site was to be smartened up, and we were to present ourselves to the visitor as able and willing to do the job. The green paint was to be used to brighten up the mess hut, and the whitewash to brighten all the posts, the edges of the paths, and the area surrounding the swill bins. All very futile, and not likely to shorten the war by any measurable amount. I was reminded of the advice I had received from George, when I had written about our ordeal at basic training. He had quoted the old sweat’s dictum — ‘If it moves, salute it! If it doesn’t, paint it’!

We all felt as though the bags under our eyes were reaching our knees! Freda in particular was suffering from lack of sleep, but we got on with the job of painting for victory. Our efforts would not have impressed a professional painter, but what we lacked in expertise we made up for with moderate enthusiasm. The brushes seemed to be relics from World War 1. We had no ladders, but nothing daunted us, we stood chairs on the tables to reach the top areas. All went according to plan — until we began to run out of paint. When we reported this, we were supplied with an ample quantity of thinners! The result was a rather novel patchwork of variable density.

The big day arrived. Two cars and a utility parked in the lane signalled the arrival of the visiting party. We all grabbed our caps and assembled as previously instructed in the mess hut. In the British Army, personnel only saluted if they were wearing headgear, and since discipline would collapse without this gesture, we had to have our wretched caps handy at all times.

The party consisted of two civilians, our Battery Major, and two ATS Officers, one of them our Troop Officer. We were standing in line, at ease, in the mess, and the sergeant brought us to attention as the visitors entered. The MP moved along the line, shaking hands and passing the usual innocuous pleasantries that one expects on such occasions. Then he stood in front of us and complimented us on our work etc., and asked us whether we had any problems. We stood in silence, looking I suppose rather sheepish. For some reason he picked on Freda.

‘Well, Corporal, have you anything you would like to say … any complaint? Don’t be afraid to speak out .. Well?’

He leaned forward expectantly. If there was one person in the team who was not in need of that encouragement, it was Freda.

‘Well Sir’ she said, clearing her throat,
‘I understand in civilian life that seven hours sleep a night, on average is considered necessary for health and efficiency’.

He seemed slightly surprised by this prompt and forthright reply.

‘How much do you reckon you have?’
‘Four, sir’

He was obviously taken aback and turned to the Major, who was looking positively thunderous.

‘There must be some mistake’ the Major parried.
‘As you know there is a lot of enemy action, but compensation is made for broken sleep by late reveille … isn’t that so?’

The Major turned to our Troop Officer for support. She looked flustered by this unexpected turn of events, and agreed that this was so. The MP turned back to Freda, who had grown a foot taller in our estimation.

‘This matter will be looked into Corporal’ he assured her.

In a decidedly chilly atmosphere the party took its leave.

We didn’t have to wait long for the sequel to the MP's visit, and Freda’s spirited defence of our right to a more generous attitude to our broken nights by compensating with a later reveille.

Next day an officer arrived and summoned the sergeant to the office. Then Freda was sent for and asked to sign a paper admitting that she had made a mistake, and had an average of seven hours sleep a night. This she refused to do.

We debated the pros and cons of the situation, and wondered what would happen next. We realized that of necessity we could not expect normal hours of sleep, but we didn’t think it unreasonable to be given a concession of a later reveille, linked to the time lost. Whatever formula they used at Troop HQ, it didn’t match the time we lost.

We were not in the least surprised that this visit did not bring about any noticeable change in the routine. In fact the only positive outcome was a posting for Freda! This was explained by the fact that our NCO establishment allowed for one sergeant, one corporal, and one lance corporal — so in official terms we were top heavy. Freda, quite naturally felt that she was victimised, but her stand against authority did not hinder her future promotion. Her natural qualities of leadership were noted, and duly rewarded.

The onset of winter gave us some respite regarding our patterns of sleep — for although the nights were longer, bad weather reduced the number of nights when enemy aircraft operated.

Wheat fields surrounded our site, and the late summer saw them ready for harvesting. The farmer who owned them made periodic inspections, and when he did, called on us and was invited into the mess for a cup of tea. One morning when carrying out such an inspection we saw that he was accompanied by an American sergeant.

Interest quickened, and there was a sudden increase in the number of jobs that seemed to be necessary near the perimeter fence. He was over six feet tall, somewhat heavily built, good looking, and in his twenties. Break-time, and ‘tea-up’ from Gladys, gave us the opportunity to enlarge Anglo-American relations by inviting him along with our farmer friend for a cup of tea.

With that disarming ease that seemed to characterize so many American servicemen he introduced himself as ‘Al from Chicago’ and before half an hour was up, he had given us more information about himself than we would ever have asked, or even expected.

He was in the American Air Force, working on aerodrome construction. He had managed to wangle permission to be billeted out on the farm, where he enjoyed better food and freedom from camp routine. In return he helped the farmer in his spare time, of which he seemed to have a generous amount. It was clear that Al was one of those people who knew how to make use of the system to his maximum advantage!

Next day they came again and started cutting the wheat, so our acquaintance was renewed. At our tea break the subject of food came up, and Al asked us about our rations. We assured him that we got enough to eat. although the meat we got left much to be desired. We had no means of refrigeration, and often it was delivered in what might be called a critical state. The end product, however treated, hardly have had us queuing up for second helpings. When we reported the condition of the meat, we were told that we should curry it! Our major stand-by was cheese, which though deficient in quality, was supplied in generous amounts, and with dried eggs formed the alternative protein in our diet.

Real eggs were a thing of the past. I had only had one real egg since enlisting. That one egg had been the focus of a Royal visit to Kinmel Park. The visitor was late — an hour late — so we found ourselves sitting in front of a congealed egg, set in the middle of a cold plate, for a whole hour. This presumably, was to demonstrate how well the men and women of HM Forces were fed.

But to return to Al and his interest in food. Looking directly at me he asked
‘Do you like pork chops?’
‘I’ve forgotten what they look like’
‘How about coming to the farm and I’ll cook you the best pork chop you’ve ever tasted?’

I looked uncertainly at Mr Banks, the farmer.

‘That’s a good idea. I’ll be there to keep him in order … and we’ve a family of evacuees living with us’

I welcomed the prospect of a change of scene and liked the idea of a meal at the farm. I arranged with Al for him to pick me up later that week when I would have a few hours off duty. Just how he would pick me up occupied my thoughts. I doubted whether Mr Banks could spare precious petrol for such a jaunt, and the home farm was several miles away.

The evening came for my visit, and I was correctly dressed in what was termed walking-out dress, tunic, skirt and cap. Slacks were strictly for restricted use on duty.

When Al arrived it was on a huge motorbike. He told me to hop on to the back. This was a novel experience for me. I made it, but not as elegantly as I might have wished. The girls looked on with undisguised glee.

Mr Banks and his brother, both middle-aged bachelors, owned the farm. They lived in a comfortable casual way, in a beautiful old farmhouse. The clutter seemed strange but homely after the severity of Army life. They seemed to prefer to keep some of their suits ready to hand, suspended on hangers on the back of the kitchen door. This may have been a temporary measure because they had made room for a doctor’s wife, Mrs Gibson, and her two children, who had been evacuated. They were living in half of the house. She was reluctant to move too far from her husband who had a practice in the East-end of London. She said that she felt that the country air would be good for the children, even if their sleep were hardly peaceful.

It wasn’t the most professional meal imaginable, a bit rough and ready, but I enjoyed it. We had fried onions, rather scorched pork chops as big as a peace-time Sunday joint, and hunks of fresh bread. After our meal we had a walk around the farm, which had been in the family for generations, and bore all the evidence of sustained family care. Mr Bank’s brother brought out the family album, which seemed to have been started in the very early days of photography, a fascinating glimpse of the past. It had been a most pleasant evening, a welcome change from the routine of camp life. Once again I clambered on to the pillion of Al’s motorbike, and was back in camp at 10 pm, half an hour before the dead line.

I had no further time off until ten days later, when I received an invitation from Al to have a drink at a nearby pub. Being cautious by nature, I told him I didn’t drink. I had decided before enlistment that the best strategy to meet this situation was to be strictly TT, rather than be involved in the inevitable and embarrassing business of refusing drinks I didn’t want. He made a half-hearted attempt to fool me by getting the barman to add a gin to my lemonade, but took my refusal in good part, and cheerfully got me a straight lemonade. He was a big amiable fellow, and exuded good nature. The barman, impressed by his bulk, commented: ‘I wouldn’t like the job of throwing you out, mate’

‘I guess you have more trouble with little guys than fellahs like me’ responded Al with good humour.

‘That’s right, mate … yeah, it’s the little guys that often give the trouble’ he agreed with some relief, as he was about half Al’s size.

Al, like many Americans, over for the duration, enjoyed the easy social atmosphere of the typical English pub, an institution missing from the American scene. Bars they had in plenty, Al explained, but nothing as congenial for getting to know people as our pubs. Bars were mainly the haunts of men, and it was not usual for respectable women to be taken to such places.

American servicemen soon became regulars at the local pubs, becoming enthusiastic darts and skittle players, taking on the locals, who readily accepted them with the same goodwill they would show to our own troops stationed in the area. Often they would be invited home to share whatever fare the family had, which wasn’t very much at that stage of the war.

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