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Chapter 1 :
Curious glances were being thrown our way as we negotiated the uneven cobble sets of the wide Liverpool street with difficulty. There were twelve young women in the group, the latest batch of ATS recruits from the Army recruiting centre at Renshaw Hall. We were being shepherded to the railway station by a self confident ATS sergeant. We had been told to wear ‘normal clothes’, to bring the minimum of personal possessions and toiletries, as there would be little storage space at the training camp, and would have to retain our civilian clothes until we went home on a short leave at the end of a fortnight. The fact that the majority were wearing tight skirts, fashionable at the time, and high heels, made our progress precarious. The self-conscious smiles we exchanged confirmed our conviction that we looked and felt somewhat ludicrous.

There was almost a sense of relief when we finally reached the comparative safety of the opposite pavement, where the sergeant quickened the pace. At that moment a rackety tram drew level and slowly passed. On the platform waiting to get off were two Army privates. When they saw us their faces creased into broad grins and they enacted a spontaneous pantomime, the gist being that we should abscond while we still had the chance. Then as the tram drew away they gave us a thumbs up farewell, shouting ‘good luck.’ We had the distinct impression that we would need it. Throughout this comic act our escorting sergeant kept her face sternly rigid — we hoped that it was not an ominous sign of things to come.

Our destination was the basic training centre at Wrexham. It was a relief to mingle with the busy anonymous crowd at the station. Once on the train we felt that the die was cast, and as the train chugged slowly out of the station we struggled with a jumble of mixed emotions. We were on our way, though none of us had the slightest idea of what awaited us at the other end.

When the lorry, which had picked us up at the station, turned into the camp, the sight of the orderly avenues of wooden huts, and the uniformed individuals of various ranks wearing a variety of badges, added to our lingering apprehension. We had arrived. This type of setting would be the background to our lives until the war was over. It was March 1942, and although the general conviction had been in 1939 that the war would not last very long, we knew in our hearts that it would be a long hard slog.

The rest of that first day was taken up with ‘kitting out’ — the completion of various forms, the issue of uniform, and that vital document, a pay book. By now the ATS uniform had become standardised, and although it could not be described as glamorous, it was sensible and practical having regard to the vagaries of our climate and the wide range of duties, many of them outdoor.

You finally emerged from the Quartermaster’s store with a kit bag containing two skirts, two jackets, a great coat, two pairs of shoes, two pairs of pyjamas, two towels, and the necessary underwear. Among the various odds and ends of small items essential to the preservation of good order and discipline were knife, fork and spoon, a mug, a ‘house-wife’ for small mending jobs, and a button-stick and shoe brushes.

Perhaps the oddest item to our appraising eyes was a rubberised ground sheet, which doubled also as a waterproof cape. I had seen pictures of Tommies wearing this same item as they slogged through the rain and mud of Flanders. The trouble was that they had been designed for men, probably with the guards in mind, and swamped us. In addition to the heavyweight khaki lisle stockings, we were encumbered with three pairs of the most voluminous khaki rayon knickers with elastic at the waist and legs, referred to as ETB’s (elastic top and bottom) and ‘passion killers’ by the girls.

Mention of our oversized ground sheets prompts me to comment on our counterparts, the men, who made up the bulk of the Army. I was to find in the next four years that the camaraderie that existed between the men and women was, with rare exceptions, excellent. Occasionally a soldier might have a chip on his shoulder and refer to ATS as ‘officers ground sheets’, a remark that always gave deep offence.

The system for issuing uniforms was somewhat haphazard. A quick look by a member of the stores staff, and you were handed what they thought was the appropriate size. You then paraded and were inspected, and then detailed to take the most ill fitting garments to the camp tailor for alteration. Consequently, for the next few days there was a motley collection of recruits resembling the remnants of Fred Karno’s Army! Depending on their deficiency of physique and the margin of error of the stores staff, they appeared in a most unmilitary condition of half uniform and half civilian clothes.

My friend Freda and I were among the misfits who were told to report to the tailor.I to collect a skirt, and Freda a jacket. It was only our second day in the Army and we were wearing our new unfamiliar mis-shapen uniform caps perched on our heads, khaki stockings, heavy flat shoes, and between us a mixture of civilian and military dress.

It was while we were on this errand to the tailor's shop that we gained our first experience of the heavy hand of military authority. Coming towards us were two ATS officers. Not yet familiar with the Army’s special courtesies, we both glanced at them uncertainly and passed by. Three steps further on we froze in our tracks as a shrill voice, with an edge like a sabre, hit us.

‘Privates…’ it shrilled.

I am sure that we both had a foot poised in mid air, like a pointer in a Victorian print, as we regained our breath and turned to face this unusual assault.

‘What do you do when you meet an officer?’
‘Salute…Ma’am…’ we replied in nervous unison.
‘W±ð±ô±ô…t³ó±ð²Ô?’

Our right hands wavered towards our eyebrows, as our heads lolled sideways to meet them.

‘You will also salute when you are dismissed’, she barked. ‘Dismiss…’

Once more we went through the pantomime, inwardly seething. She then returned our salutes, and they went on their way.

‘Silly old bitch’ Freda muttered.
‘If she could have read our thoughts we’d be on a charge for dumb insolence’ I rejoined, glancing back to make sure that they were out of earshot, ‘and then probably shot.’

Freda giggled, and then said with feeling, ‘In which case I hope that we would be allowed to die in our civvy underwear’

‘Remember what the recruiting officer said? That the big difference between the women’s service and the men’s, was that the women smile as they salute. Can you imagine what would have happened if we had? She’d have had our guts for garters’

This was also the day when we were inoculated and re-vaccinated to ensure our operational fitness in our future roles. Some of the girls were badly affected and a few were admitted to hospital. The rest of us struggled on — more dead than alive.

That night as I lay on my bunk reviewing the various events of the day, I became aware of muffled sobbing from the bunk across the hut, opposite mine. It was occupied by a girl of about eighteen, who had looked very miserable for the two days since our arrival, and had sprained her ankle that morning. I got the impression that it was the first time that she had been away from her home village in Wales. The blackouts were in place so I was unable to see, but groped my way across the hut, and asked her if her ankle was hurting. I managed to find a cardboard box I had brought with me, and suggested that she use it to keep the bedclothes from pressing on her ankle. Not that two blankets and a sheet would be a crushing weight, but I hoped that the gesture would help her feel less forlorn. Next day she looked a lot brighter.

We were excused the daily routine of stripping our beds and arranging the blankets and kit in the prescribed form, while we recovered from our inoculations. We were allowed an easy day, even permitted to lie down on our bunks if we felt unwell. Freda occupied the bunk above me and was continually leaning over the edge to talk, or I was getting half out of my bunk to do the same.

We had worked in the same Civil Service department for two years, and had volunteered to join up when it was agreed that a limited number of reserved staff would be seconded to the Forces, to placate civilian firms suffering from the call-up. Our antics seemed somewhat silly to me, especially as our arms were sore, so I decided to sit on the edge of her bunk to facilitate our conversation. The other bunks were occupied by girls dozing, or writing letters, as we had been excused normal reveille.

I had been perched on her bunk about five minutes when the door of the hut opened and the Lance Corporal who was in charge of the hut walked in. Our bunks were immediately opposite the door, and when she saw me sitting on Freda’s bunk the poor girl nearly collapsed on the spot.

‘Get down immediately, private’, she barked …
‘Beds will never be shared’ Her face was a study in scarlet.

Feeling somewhat puzzled, and wondering what all the fuss was about, I climbed down. It was some months before I became aware of the full implication of her concern, and marvelled at the ignorance of a city girl.

The next two weeks were occupied with lectures about Army Regulations, hygiene, and care of uniforms. We were also broken in to discipline with square bashing, and short marches, which left many who had previously only worn light, high heeled shoes, with painful ankles and blisters. At the completion of this never to be forgotten fortnight, we were granted a short home leave. On our return we were to be tested and mustered for our future jobs.

I arrived home in a uniform, which still felt and looked strange, to face the amused scrutiny of my family. I stood in front of them, while they viewed me quizzically from all angles. My father who was, we were convinced, a throwback to eccentric Irish ancestors, decided at once that my tunic didn’t fit.

‘I know an excellent little tailor. He’ll fit it for you in no time, and be glad to earn a few bob. I’ll take you to him now’

‘Thanks Dad, but I’d better not … it has been passed as OK’

‘Nonsense … it will look a lot better if it’s taken in a little … make all the difference. Come along’

With a heavy heart, but anxious to please him, along I went.

The gentleman in question, a gentle Jewish tailor, working in the front room of his home, greeted me pleasantly. Judging by the sewing machine and the amount of work lying around, he seemed fully qualified, which did something to allay my initial misgivings. He inserted a few pins here and there, and assured us that it would be ready next day. With lingering doubts I returned home with my father.

Later in the day I was pleased to receive a visit from George, who had been a background figure for some months. He had completed a tour of operations in Bomber Command, and had managed a weekend leave. He had hoped to see me arrayed in uniform, but that was a sight he was denied, as I had lost no time in reverting to my ‘normal’ clothes. In the course of conversation he told me how galling it was to see the meagre display of searchlights in this country as compared with the German defences on the continent. He reckoned that you learned to accept the hazards of flak, on the basis of hit or miss. There wasn’t much that you could do about getting out of the way of a bursting flak shell, but searchlights were a different matter. They harassed you, their groping beams were a constant threat, and to be caught and coned, to become the target for every gun within range, was a nerve-wracking experience even for seasoned crews.

Next day my father returned with great excitement from the tailor’s bearing the vital tunic. I was somewhat perturbed when I saw that the stitching had been carried out in black thread! When I put it on there was an ominous silence.

‘It looks very nice … very trim’, my father assured me, sensing my concern.
‘Provided I don’t gain even a pound in weight’, I glumly replied.

I reckon I spent the next three months consciously pulling in my stomach. Fortunately I was detailed for aspecial parade, for which we paraded before hand for the inevitable uniform inspection. After a close scrutiny of my tailored tunic, I was handed a chit authorising me to get a replacement tunic, much to my relief, physically and mentally!

The following weeks were spent in camp getting us fit, and sorting us into various categories with a view to our future roles. As far as possible we were allowed our personal preference, but inevitably some categories, such as drivers, were over subscribed, while the less glamorous jobs, such as mess orderlies, might be considered the very last choice. There were bound to be some disappointments, and some mis-fits also. The groups were transport, clerical, signals, medical, catering, equipment and anti-aircraft. We were given lectures on the type of work involved in each group.

It was suggested that girls who felt that they were good ‘home-makers’ should choose catering. This suggestion was treated with derisive mirth, as we had seen the cookhouse, and had even had a spell of peeling mounds of potatoes, and that was quite enough for most of us.

The lecture given by an officer of the Anti-Aircraft Command held special interest for me. He outlined the various jobs on a large gun site, such as plotting, aircraft spotting, clerical duties and transport. Girls were working with the men on heavy AA sites, and had built up an excellent reputation. He then told us that a new regiment was being formed, the 93rd Mixed Searchlight Regiment, RA, which was to be largely manned by women. Recalling George’s comments, I whispered to Freda, ‘That’s my choice’ and without a moments hesitation she replied, ‘Me too, I’ll do the same’

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