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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!

My posting to Bückeburg had not lasted long. Demobilisation had begun, and we all had our ‘demob group number’. It depended on length of service and age. My demob came up on 1st October 1945. The arrival and clearance chits beloved by the R.A.F. still had to be done, and I had to do my final ‘clearance’. It was time to say ‘Goodbye’ to everyone. We had come a long way since we had met as strangers at Brussels. We had got on so well together. Several of us had met the one who was to be our lifetime partners. Brussels and Bückeburg had been a very happy posting.

Next day I left Bückeburg by train at 13.27, but what a journey! The theory was train to Bruges, then road to Blankenberge. Packed rations were given for the next day’s breakfast. After about twenty minutes the train stopped at Celle. Off the train there, across the station to a room that had been made a Sergeants’ Mess. Here we had lunch and got a second pack of rations. Our coach on the train was reserved for women. There was an officer in charge of the train. He was not pleased as we had more room than the officers – two women to a compartment, but six officers to one. He ‘threatened’ to commandeer some of our places, but, in the event, he didn’t, so we could stretch out in luxury. After nightfall we arrived near the River Weser, where the train stopped. It was now pitch dark with only a few lights across a field to the right. We had to get out of the train on to the trackside and pick our way across the track into the field. We were then pointed to a tent, which comprised another Sergents’ Mess. We were given another meal and a third pack of rations. Back across the rails and clamber up on to the train. We set off very slowly, crossing the river on a low-slung Bailey bridge. You could just see the water lapping on to the bridge. After that it was my respirator for a pillow and greatcoat over for a blanket and ‘out for the count’. Next I knew was being wakened up at Brussels and asked if I wanted a cup of tea. The Red Cross were there with urns of the stuff and did it taste good! On the other side of the train were children holding out their hands for whatever we had. We gave them our packets of spare rations.

From Brussels it was not far to Bruges, where coaches waited to take us to Blankenberge. On arrival we were taken to a transit camp for a meal. It was terrible! The women were billeted in pre-war boarding houses. Two of us shared a room, very dated, with a large double feather bed. The only water was a jug and bowl. After cleaning ourselves up and getting instructions for next day, we walked around the town to see if we could get anything to eat. We eventually found a little café getting two eggs and chips. Next morning it was back to the transit camp for something described as ‘breakfast’.

On along the coast by truck to Ostend to join a ship. I met another colleague from Brussels and the former Pay Officer from Kirton Lindsey. Off we went from Ostend, six of us in a cabin on the top deck. It was a lovely day with blue skies and a calm sea. Lunchtime came and we began to feel peckish. Asking the purser where we could get something to eat, he asked where were our rations? ‘We haven’t been given any.’ His comment – ‘Oh, Gawd!’ A bit later he arrived with a 3lb tin of sweet biscuits. Things didn’t improve. As we entered the Thames Estuary, the fog came down like a blanket. These were days before ‘smokeless zones’. This was about 4pm. The ship crept up the Thames, fog horns sounding; you couldn’t see a thing. Prior to that we had been wandering round the deck, but now we had to go back to the cabin. The only way to sit down was to drop the beds and sit on the springs – there were no mattresses – otherwise sit on the floor. Not only that, the cabin had no door, so it was very cold in the October fog. It was just after 11pm when we docked at Tilbury. It wasn’t a case of getting off a cross-channel ferry. There was an order of disembarkation. As with the flights, first came ex-POWs and those on compassionate leave; then people coming over to help the labour shortage on British farms; then last of all, us.

There was transport to take us to a camp at Stapleford Tawney, away in the general direction of Epping. We asked for something to eat, but the Mess was shut. Somebody found some chocolate bars and we made do with them. It was after midnight on a long, cold and uncomfortable day when I got to bed, with the prospect of an early rise next morning. At least, then, I got a large breakfast. At that camp, having been fed, I was able to get railway warrants and movement orders. In case the reader wonders why all the fuss, one left Ostend in the knowledge that you were heading to England. Where you might go after that was in the lap of the proverbial gods. Hence the warrants and movement orders. While I was waiting for these papers, somebody came up and said, ‘Cpl.Pettit?’ ‘Yes’. ‘There’s somebody outside wants to see you!’ Who should be outside but Harry. How he got from Southend Transit Camp to Stapleford Tawney I will never know. By public transport it would not have been possible in that hour. We had a few minutes together, when I had to get on a truck to go to the nearby station. Harry made his way there too. We went together to London, had lunch, and boarded a train for Birmingham. Apart from a desire to see him again, he came in useful to carry some of my kit – it was very heavy! At Birmingham, Harry went over to Snow Hill to catch a train back to Southend, while I clambered on a lorry and went off to Wythall Demob. Centre, just south of the city.

After a meal and a bed – they were never comfortable at those places – it was a case of sorting out what kit we could keep and what had to be handed in. Friday 6th October was my demob day. I had to be up early for breakfast. The staff at the centre had to handle a lot of service personnel and wanted to get rid of us by lunchtime, otherwise we would have to stay until Monday and they wouldn’t get the weekend off. My kit was handed in; I got my railway warrants to get home, my demob book – very important – and clothing coupons. Clothing was still on ration then. The women got coupons to choose their own things, unlike the men who got ‘demob suits, hats, etc. We went through the demob process at a rate of knots; it took longer to get in than to get out.

I was soon on the train to Lincoln and home by 4pm. I was, in theory, a civilian but officially on leave until 10th December and could be recalled if needed. I had come a long way in 5½ years and my life had changed completely in that period.

Harry was still in the Army until 31st July the next year (1946). He was posted variously to Cardiff, Bedford and the War Office in London. Weekends we would try to meet either at Stockport, Lincoln or even at my aunt’s at Grantham.

In the time between October and Christmas 1945, we were able to sort out a date for our wedding and, thanks to family and friends, we were able to have a ‘white’ wedding. Times were different in 1945 from 2004 and what had to be done is another – long – story! Harry got leave for Christmas 1945 and we were married at Portland Place Methodist Chapel, Lincoln, on 21st December 1945. The day was cold but bright. We even had a wedding cake, thanks to my friend Nellie’s Mum, with whom I had worked before the War. She lived on a farm and sent the eggs. It wasn’t unknown to have cardboard cake in those days! Dad managed to get a chicken for Christmas dinner, which we had with Harry’s parents at Stockport. What a start for a very happy marriage, which would last almost fifty-four years!

Houses were now in short supply and difficult to get, so that was the next problem. So many houses had been destroyed on damaged in air raids, and no new building had been done during the war. We put our name on the Council List, without much hope of anything there. Harry’s Dad heard of a house in Stockport, a small one, 2 up, 2½ down. He said ‘Yes’ to it before we’d even seen it. A house, fine, but what about furniture? It was on dockets. Scrounging bits all round, and using our dockets, and going to the sales, we got fitted up reasonably, even if not to 2004 standards. The house needed decorating. Materials were also in short supply, so we used the money Harry’s Dad had given us for a wedding present to pay a decorator. We got what he had; we had two choices, take it or leave it. So, when Harry was demobbed the following July, and I came from Lincoln, we were able to come straight into our own home. Yes, we had been lucky.

He had sixteen weeks leave due but could only take eight of them before going back to his job on the railway. Those eight weeks were our delayed honeymoon.

What had I learnt? I learnt that, Heaven forbid there should ever be another war. I had been through the war in my own way and, if there had to be a war, then I wouldn’t have missed my part in it. You saw the best and the worst of people. I learnt, too, that, in life it is vital to have a sense of humour, tolerance, and appreciate the value of true friends. I have been blessed with many.

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