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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Elizabeth Perez of Stockport Libraries on behalf of Mary Blood and has been added to the site with her permission. She fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

Mary’s story, together with the war story of her husband, Harry Blood, was transcribed onto a floppy disc by Fred Kennington, thereby saving Stockport Library Service staff an immense amount of work!

Wartime weddings were common. One of the girls from Kirton lived at Grimsby. She went home on seven days leave and met a sailor. They were married within the week, she returned to camp and, a week later, got a letter from his Commanding Officer to say her husband had been killed at sea.

By this time, the air raids, which had been a part of my time at Coltishall, had largely ceased, and we had only the odd raid at Kirton. Life settled down. Lincoln did get some raids. As the city was surrounded by R.A.F. Bomber Command Bases, the Cathedral had to have four red lights attached to the central tower to warn our aircraft on take off and landing. That gave German aircraft a target, too. I had one personal experience of a raid on Lincoln, when I was home on leave. I had gone to the Regal Cinema on the High Street, between the Stonebow and the High Bridge. Suddenly there was, ‘f-f-f-f-‘, and the seat shot up. We stood up for a minute, unsure what to do. All was quiet, so we sat down again and carried on with the film. A bomb had fallen in the river not far from the High Bridge, or from us. The river here has a sandy area, and the bomb had fallen into the sand and failed to explode - otherwise I wouldn’t be telling this tale! It took several days to dig this bomb out, as it kept moving along in this river of sand.

Apart from getting home on the allotted leave, I could get home for the day, or maybe the weekend, always assuming duties were covered. The Corporal, Olive, who did the opposite shift in the Airmen’s Mess, and myself always worked together to cover. We did a full weekend sometimes, so that the other could get away, and it worked well. To get from Kirton to Lincoln, there was a bus service. More often we used to hitch-hike, normal practice for everybody, despite a dearth of road traffic. You were rarely refused a lift. To get back from Lincoln, there was a late bus, for forces only, leaving the city at 10 pm and calling at the various R.A.F. bases en route, Scampton, Ingham, Fillingham, Hemswell, then Kirton. It was always packed, but we usually got on. If we didn’t, we had to go to the R.T.O. at Lincoln Station, and get a pass allowing us to get the first bus next morning. My mother was very hospitable, and friends would come into Lincoln to our house for the day. My Instructor friend, Mac. lived near Grantham. His bus used to arrive in Lincoln at 5 pm, with five hours to wait for the bus to Kirton. He went to our house to pass the time with cards, or whatever.

The camp got a cinema. They used the upper floor of the Airmen’s Mess. At first it was the flat floor, but they had got proper cinema seats from somewhere. Some of the camp staff managed to incline the floor just like a cinema. Mac used to book the same two seats every week, and we had a change of programme twice a week. We were not short of things to do with a range of entertainment when you were not on duty. They built a small N.A.A.F.I. for the W.A.A.F. just near our billets, and we went there some evenings to collect rations of chocolate, cigarettes, etc. To this day, I am still in touch with Margaret, whom I used to meet there.

Margaret came from Temple Normanton near Chesterfield. She had gone home on leave on one occasion and when she got back, she was told she had won a pig in a raffle. Now it seems that raffle prizes are not always as good as they seem. The pig was a piglet, so that was a good start. But it had to wait until her next chance to go home. Meantime it was kept in a cupboard in her billet. Everybody kept an eye on the pig, fed it, and prayed there would not be an inspection while it was there. Margaret was determined she was going to get the animal back home, come what may. Her usual route home from Kirton was by hitching a lift on one of the stone lorries from the local quarries. A lorry was not the ideal route for the pig. One of the young R.A.F. officers found a suitable box to carry it home, arranged for a taxi to Kirton Station, and off Margaret and pig went by train. The journey to Chesterfield meant changing trains at both Retford and Sheffield. Piglet had to go in the guard’s van, but when they got to Retford, Margaret changed trains, the station staff failed to transfer piglet. Arriving at Sheffield, there was no piglet. The staff there said she could collect it tomorrow. ‘No, I’m not shifting until I get my pig!’ After a two-hour wait, piglet reached Sheffield and another taxi trip across to the other station there for the trip on to Chesterfield. The next possibility was a bus home, but that was not ideal. With another bit of luck, a lady from her village appeared with a delivery van and they all got home. Her mother had no suitable space and was unsure what to do to house piglet, so she blocked off a corner of the kitchen for a run for piglet. In the long term that was not ideal either, so she gave the piglet to a nearby pig farmer to look after. The sad story ended with poor piglet taking ill and dying.

There were Church Parades, which were not very popular, but quite a number of both men and women did attend Church then. I had been brought up as a Methodist and, within the camp, there was a hall used by Methodists, with our own Chaplain. Mac, whom I have mentioned, was a Methodist Lay Preacher. He was invited to give the sermon at the Methodist Chapel in Kirton on one occasion, and I was invited to go with him. While I was there, I glanced along the row and, sitting there, was a girl from North Hykeham, where I had been brought up. We had both attended the Chapel there. She was now married and lived in Kirton. Her husband was the miller in the big windmill. The sails had been removed and it was hydraulic operated. Alma invited Mac and me to her home for supper, and we always went there, when we went to the service at Kirton. Mac was a Lay Preacher throughout his life, receiving an award for fifty years service. After the war, he visited us at Stockport regularly, one of the many lasting friendships made in the W.A.A.F. The mill remains there. It has had the sails replaced and is now a visitor centre, but still grinds and sells flour.

About this time, the F/Sgt in charge of the cookhouse was instructed to run a Field Kitchen course. This was only for cooks and we were not involved. While I was at Coltishall in the W.A.A.F. Officers’ Mess, I didn’t see eye-to-eye with the cook, who was, like me, only an ACW. I think she was instrumental in getting me transferred out of there. However, I was now Cpl. Pettit. Who should appear on the course but this cook from Coltishall. She was then an LACW and extremely embarrassed at the sight of me. ‘It wasn’t me’, was all she said. No further comment!

I was given a new bike for my fifteenth birthday, replacing an elderly one. We were able to bring them from home into the camp and, very useful they were. It was a steady walk from our billet to the Mess and other places in the camp. The bike saved no end of time and many soakings. Rene used to come over and make a cup of tea for her and Miss Ross, the Messing Officer and we used to join her for a tea break. She made enough for Mac and me. One day, I told Mac that my back tyre was going down. He had a look at it and said, ‘You need a new tyre’. He took the bike away and returned a couple of days later with a new tyre fitted. It was not a time to ask questions.

I had to attend only one course. That was for N.C.Os. at, as a photo declares, the HQ W.A.A.F. N.C.Os. Admin. School at Wilmslow, lasting a fortnight. There were about seventy girls on the course, but I can remember little or nothing about the course. It is the other things that stick in my mind. R.A.F. Wilmslow was also a ‘P.D.C.’, where the new intake of both W.A.A.Fs and airmen came for their so-called ‘square-bashing’. An integral part of that happy period was the presence of Corporal Drill Instructors, who knocked the fear of death into the new recruits. It had not been like that when I joined. A couple of us Corporals had gone into the station Methodist Chapel, when I got such a wallop in the middle of my back. I looked round to find that a very new recruit had bumped into me and had wished herself into a hole in the ground. ‘S-s-s-orry, Corporal’! I told her not to worry, remembering the days of yore!

Wilmslow was a foreign land to me. The thing I recall about the place is that there was a caravan there occupied by a notable whose name escapes me. He used to be on the radio in a programme, ‘Out with Romany’. He was Romany and so well known at the time. We were there over a weekend and took ourselves into Manchester for my first ever visit. We wandered round the city and came to this great tall building. ‘This looks alright’, we said to each other. ‘I wonder what it is’. Up the entrance steps we went and turned right into a corridor to be faced with two soldiers, bayonets fixed and crossed with one another. It was Manchester Town Hall. We had thought it was the cathedral. However the guards were very nice about it.

I passed the course and returned to Kirton.

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