大象传媒

鈥淭his story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Bob Davis from Burgess Hill Adult Education Centre and has been added to the website on behalf of Goronwy Edwards with his permission and he fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions鈥�

Everyone has heard of the magnificent jobs the womens鈥� services did in WW2 鈥� The Wrens, ATS, WAAFS, Land Army, ambulance services, VADs and a multitude of others.
But few have heard of the Camp Followers.
While the camp followers of WW2 did not suffer as much as those of the 19th. century Peninsular war did, don鈥檛 kid yourself that life was easy for them. (And to be accurate, my wife was not a camp follower. Christine was an honest married woman who had had the misfortune to marry a regular servicemen.)
Having joined the RAF as a pilot in 1936 the RAF was my 鈥榟ome鈥�, to the extent that whenever I was posted from one unit to another all my worldly possessions had to go with me. As well as my civilian outfits, I had a steel uniform case to take two working uniforms, mess kit, the bulky flying kit we needed in those days to keep out the cold, and an equally bulky bedroll that contained every conceivable item that one would need when living under canvas 鈥� camp bed, wash basin-cum-bath, camp chair and so on, which were to prove so useful during my time in Burma in 1944/45. I also collected antique firearms, all heavy.
So when we married in 1941 my wife 鈥� unknowingly - had to take on all the above as well as me, and it wasn鈥檛 until we had our first move that we realised just how wearing the life of a modern camp follower was going to be. On marriage, a memory bank seemed to have been triggered at Air Ministry, doubling the rate at which married men were posted from unit to unit. If, for example, it was suspected that life at a Lincolnshire airfield was proving too easy, a posting to Cornwall could be arranged, followed by one to the North of Scotland when it was discovered that the wife was pregnant. And they didn鈥檛 want a healthy young woman to do the 500-mile journey with its three changes of train: they wanted one suffering from morning sickness.
Travel on London underground is a doddle compared with the long-distance steam trains of
those days. Every compartment was crowded, and the corridors were crammed with troops,
each with his rifle, kit bag and haversack, so a trip to the lavatory involved a fight against mighty
odds.
..Having been posted to Lincolnshire, just before nightfall we managed to find a farmhouse that would take us in. It was fairly primitive, with no electricity and no running water. Christine asked if she could have a bath.
鈥淐ertainly, dear,鈥� said the farmer鈥檚 wife, 鈥淔ollow me.鈥�
Picking up an oil lamp, she led the way across a cobbled farmyard liberally sprinkled with cowpats, and opened the door of a cold and draughty outhouse, where stood a bath full of onions.
鈥淭ake the onions out of the bath and put them on that shelf, fill this bucket from the tap outside, and empty it into the boiler in the corner. You only need about ten bucketfuls, as what with the war and all that we鈥檙e not allowed more than three inches of water in the bath, as you will know. Light the fire under the boiler 鈥� newspapers, sticks and logs are over there 鈥� and the water should be hot within the hour. But do take care you don鈥檛 scald your legs when you carry the water over to the bath. When you鈥檝e finished, pull the plug as usual and the water will drain away through that hole in the wall.鈥�
My wife shuddered as she looked at that sinister-looking hole, expecting to see a rat appear any time.
鈥淎nd please replace the onions when you鈥檝e finished.鈥�
My wife decided she鈥檇 stay unwashed.
2.
鈥淚鈥檓 used to coming out a bath smelling of roses,鈥� she said, 鈥淏ut I鈥檓 blowed if I鈥檓 coming out stinking of onions.鈥�
Next day, she bought a bath for a shilling at a house in the village.
From the farmhouse we moved to a lovely old hall, also with no electricity, but slightly less primitive, and we shared the guest accommodation with an air gunner and his wife Joan. Our hostess, Kathleen, had a pedigree Labrador bitch, who soon came into season.
鈥淣ow don鈥檛 forget, girls,鈥� said Kathleen as she went off to market, 鈥淜eep Betsy locked up in the courtyard, and don鈥檛 let any of the local dogs in. We鈥檙e going to breed pedigree stock from her.鈥�
Alas, shortly before Kathleen was due home, Betsy and a distinctly lower-class lover were found in flagrante delicto. Working the hand pump in the yard, the girls flung bucket after bucket of cold water over the love birds until they separated, chased the dog away, and dried Betsy off with their bath towels. Fortunately, they were never detected, and I imagine that after we left Betsy would have produced a multi-coloured litter of distinctly second-rate puppies.

My wife well remembers a cross-country journey after our son Guy was born and I couldn鈥檛 get leave from my unit to see her home. I put her on the train with the pram, carry cot, and all the other paraphernalia of a wife and mother, after which she had to fend for herself 鈥� only about three changes of train.
Guy鈥檚 mid-day meal became due, but it was unthinkable in those genteel (though barbaric) days for a woman to breast-feed in public, and as Guy was getting restless she decided to feed him in the lavatory. But, as usual, the corridor was jam-packed with soldiers, sailors and airmen. She gave up and sat down again. Upon which the hungry Guy started to whimper, then cry, then bawl. But when, in the hideously noisy compartment, he started to claw at her blouse she became quite desperate. Then a Naval officer caught on, and came to her rescue.
鈥淩ight chaps,鈥� he announced. 鈥淪ounds like feeding time. Up with your newspapers.鈥�
Christine fished in her blouse, and peace descended on the compartment.
And at her destination a few hours later, yet another sailor came to her help. A Sub-Lieutenant, probably all of 20 years of age, gave her a hand with the off-loading, and accompanied her to the ticket barrier, where the man clipping their tickets took a look at Guy in the carry cot, and then at the Sub.Lt.
鈥淛ust the image of his father, isn鈥檛 he,鈥� he opined.
To Christine鈥檚 amusement, the poor bachelor blushed to the roots of his hair.

When she became pregnant for the second time she suffered greatly from morning sickness and loss of appetite, for which neither the local doctor nor the station Medical Officer had offered any cure.
鈥淚t鈥檚 a change of sex, Mrs. Edwards, you mark my words,鈥� said Mrs. McDonald, who gave us two half-days a week. (As it subsequently turned out, she was right.) But she also produced the cure!
鈥淎ngus shot a mallard last night,鈥� she announced one morning. 鈥淗e鈥檚 already plucked it, so I鈥檒l cook it for you tonight and bring it over for your supper. It鈥檚 proper food ye need, Mrs. Edwards, not this wartime stuff.鈥�
At 7 pm she re-appeared with a magnificent take-away 鈥� hot roast duck, vegetables and gravy, which Christine not only wolfed, but managed to keep down, and from then on all was well,

But it became obvious to the Air Ministry that, with this second pregnancy, Christine and I had over-stepped the mark.
I was posted to Burma.
On our journey south our local train was late in arriving at Carlisle, so we missed our onward connection. My wife still remembers our frustration as we frantically unloaded luggage, camp kit, 3 bicycles, 4-wheeled pram, cot, carry-cot, bundles nappies and food for the journey, etc, only to watch the West Coast train draw out two platforms away.
But that journey was the last of her days as a camp follower, though it was another eighteen months before we met again, when those wonderful atoms bombs ended the war and brought thousands of us home from Burma. Astonishingly, I got home on Xmas Eve 1945, to greet my wife and son again, and to meet my daughter for the first time.

In Burma I met another kind of 鈥榃oman In Warfare鈥�. I was a staff wallah with a fighter/bomber group attached to Bill Slim鈥檚 4th. Army, and wherever the army went, we went too, moving frequently as we were, at last, driving the Japs back. Whenever we moved I always did mine by air, but just for a change, I put my name down to go with the advance party, to find myself in charge of it. (All sensible fellows flew.)
With a forty-vehicle convoy to organise on the three-day trip I was getting the real frontier spirit 鈥� I was up there with John Wayne, strutting around with the belt from which dangled the revolver, water bottle and machete that we always carried when flying, in case our engine conked over the jungle, and we had to walk our way out.
I was about to do the modern equivalent of standing up in my stirrups and calling 鈥淲agons roll,鈥� when the transport officer dashed up.
鈥淭wo trucks with wazzbees are joining the convoy.鈥�
鈥淲hat鈥檚 wazzbees?鈥�
鈥淭he Womens鈥� Auxiliary Service, Burma.鈥�
鈥淲OMEN! There鈥檚 a bloody war on. What about Jap jitter parties?鈥�
(Both sides used jitter parties 鈥� smallish penetration groups who would appear out of the jungle, shoot up any transport, and fade away again - quite efficient, as they forced the other side to employ disproportionately large counter-measures.)
鈥淲hat do they do, these Wasbees?鈥�
鈥淏it like the Naafi, serve tea and buns, etc. Leathery old colonels鈥� wives, I鈥檓 told.鈥�
I told him to put them in the middle of the convoy, and we set off.
A few hours later a 3-ton truck broke a mainspring, and as I waited for its cargo to be off-loaded on to other trucks I was approached by one of the leathery old colonels鈥� wives 鈥� a 19-year-old Australian stunner with a husky voice and an English rose complexion.
In her hand she held a mug of tea which she and her party had brewed up for us as soon as the convoy came to a halt. Talk about the tough frontier life we men led!

We laagered for the night near a battery of our 25-pound artillery guns, and I put the Wasbees in the middle of the circle, just to be sure
At about midnight the 25 pounders opened up with an unholy crash, and the howl of shells as they sped overhead. We awoke to repel the Jap jitter party.
In the RAF we were fairly good on the flying side but, apart from the RAF Regiment, knew nothing whatever of land warfare. And warfare at night for god鈥檚 sake!
We weren鈥檛 unarmed, of course, every man had his revolver, rifle or Sten gun 鈥� and all were prepared to sell their lives dearly against the invading horde.
As the Duke of Wellington said of his men as he reviewed them before the battle of Waterloo, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if they frighten the enemy, but by God they frighten me.鈥�
He had an easy ride compared with what I had on my hands. Men with loaded guns, some on full automatic, bumped into each other in the darkness. Guns went off. Cries of 鈥淲here are the bastards?鈥� rang through the night. The 25-pounders continued their mind-numbing crashing.
It was pretty pointless, in that melee, shouting for order. I took my torch and swept it round the perimeter without seeing a single slitty-eyed face, so shoved my way into the centre of the laager,
where the Wasbees, justifiably, were huddled under the tarpaulin which they鈥檇 stretched between their trucks.
鈥淚s it a jitter party?鈥� their leader queried?
I tried to jolly her out of it.
鈥淲orse, I鈥檓 afraid. It鈥檚 the RAF. But keep down on the deck until it鈥檚 all over.鈥�
Eventually, the 25-pounders stopped firing; things quietened down, and I went across to the

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