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This story was added to the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People's War website by Helen Jubb, ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Leeds on behalf of the contributor, with her permission.

In Joan Gordon’s book, ‘What I Never Told Mother,’ she describes her wartime memories of her life at the Torre Road Ambulance Depot:

…Mr. Ward was an officer in the regular Ambulance Service. A tall, fine looking man with thick dark hair and a rich Yorkshire accent, he attempted to drill us in First Aid. We had to simulate air raid conditions in the canteen and work in our tin helmets, which weighed a ton. All went well during one practice and we splinted, bandaged and trussed up our cas-you-alities, as Mr. Ward called them. Then I leaned too far over my patient and my helmet fell off, missing his face by inches before clonking onto the floor. Mr. Ward was aghast.

‘Nay, lass, whatever tha does, doan’t drop tin ‘at!’

‘Or kill t’patient!’ muttered my victim. After that ‘Doan’t drop tin ‘at!’ followed me wherever I went.

Then one night when we were all fast asleep, the sirens and our klaxon went and it was for real. The sky was clear and lit by searchlights. Planes were overhead.

I raced out to my ambulance with tin ‘at on and was joined by a part-timer. I’d have felt safer with a regular but had no choice. My teeth were clenched to stop them chattering as our museum vehicle moved slowly out of the yard. ‘Will you work the gear lever please,’ the driver said. ‘My left arm is paralysed.’ I grabbed the gear and moved it as he dictated. We were soon at our destination, Quarry Hill flats, where the entrance was as wide as the road.

‘Will you guide me through? my driver said. ‘I’m blind in my left eye.’

All hell was loose overhead: planes, searchlights, ack-ack guns, and I was with a half blind, handicapped driver. Heaven help the cas-you-alities. Fortunately there was only one. He was unconscious, wrapped in a blanket on a stretcher. His wounds had been dressed, which was a mercy, as I was in such a state I needed first aid myself. We were at the infirmary within minutes. The driver must have changed gear with his teeth, as I was in the back with the patient. My brain was so addled I could not remember whether I was supposed to retrieve the blanket or not.

We drove back to the depot in silence. I was mortified that panic had made me utterly useless, apart from changing gear. I’d never make a heroine.

Whether the supervisor heard about my disabled driver, I don’t know. I certainly hadn’t complained, I was too ashamed of my own performance. However, the next night a notice appeared on the board:

Any attendants wishing to learn how to drive, sign below.

I signed. I might be petrified, but at least I was blessed with two good eyes and a pair of sound arms.

Mr. Dobson took Pam, Marjorie and me out in a card every day to a field in Seacroft where we spent an eternity bouncing along a cart track, grinding the gears. We had to master double de-clutching, as some of the ambulances were not synchromeshed, whatever this meant.

It was months before Mr. Dobson decided we were ready to take a driving test. All he asked me to do was stop and start at the bottom of a hill, where I double de-clutched like a concert pianist. A couple of questions on the sequence of traffic lights and I was deemed roadworthy.

Two days later, at six o’ clock in the morning after a night shift, I was called to the office window. The wind was howling outside and it had been snowing all night. The supervisor was scowling down at me. ‘Take a car to Sheepscar and pick up three nurses. Take them to St. James’. Then return here.’

Mrs. Parker was horrified when she saw me collecting the keys.

‘It’s not right, sending you out for the first time in the pitch black, in a blizzard!’ I shrugged my shoulders, summoned up a smile and stepped out into the icy blast. Fortunately the car started up sweetly and I inched my way up the drive and on to the main road. There was no street lighting and windows were all blacked out. Headlamps were restricted to a beam about as strong as a pencil torch. Within minutes the windscreen wipers were jammed by snow so visibility was nil. I leaned out of the window and concentrated on the kerb. ‘Dear Lord, help me out of this!’

It seemed hours before I reached Sheepscar. The nurses were huddled in a doorway, frozen in their snow laden capes. They climbed into the car and acted as lookouts as I ploughed along to the hospital. Then I was on my own again with the snowed up windscreen. I did not dare stop to clear it in case the car stalled. I drove blind, one eye on the kerb, and as dawn was breaking finally arrived back at the depot. It had taken me over an hour to do a ten-minute run. I’d made it but with divine help. Of that I was sure.

Bedraggled and frozen, I stamped my feet clear, and handed in the keys. A waft of bacon and the usual buzz was coming from the canteen. I walked in. a great cheer went up and everyone stood up and applauded, even the men. I was flabbergasted.

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