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I come from a place called Tipperary, Southern Ireland. I was in London during the Blitz and the following may be of interest to people of the present time.

I remember quite clearly the 3rd of September 1939 when war was declared. I was amazed to see how frightened people were but it didn’t seem to register with me — that is how it was for me all through the blitz and in the following years in the services (RAF). Today I jump at my own shadow, sadly this is the time we live in.

I can still see the faces of the mothers down the tube preparing for the night, with their children and bits and pieces all around them, there was indeed an air of greatness upon them which would be difficult to match today. Equally when one was travelling through the tube, armed with kit bag, back pack and hand grip, a gentleman, in most cases with hard hat, would catch the kit bag and carry it to where he would change direction or you would go on. No word was spoken but my, it was marvellous. The general feeling of belonging surrounded me.

Initially, I trained for first aid and home nursing at St George’s Hospital and the Royal College of Nursing and did my exams in the ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel. I used to walk around the London streets at night and on one occasion during a bombing raid, I was close-by in the West End when John Lewis was hit, as well as the back of Selfridges and Sussex Gardens. I was bleeding profusely at the top of my ear I think from a small piece of shrapnel but it turned out to be nothing much. The following day we had no gas, electricity or water for a while. I went to see my friends in Sussex Gardens; I wanted to know that they were alright after the bomb hit. On the way there was a house half fallen down. The screaming was terrible and the fire brigade were trying to pull down the wall, but at the same time not to injure whoever was inside. I watched and waited for hours it seemed, eventually I moved on to see my friend. It was getting dusk and there was a smoke screen around London, and lorries cruising along with guns and searchlights. I’m trotting along the street as if it was nothing. Moving back along Edgware Road, I arrived at the cinema at Marble Arch, suddenly there was a very loud vibration, presumably from another bomb, it felt as though I was carried around into Oxford Street. I had to try to get to the air raid shelter in as quick a time as I could, no more roaming for me that night. Each night we got a blanket and pillow if we were back in time. That particular night I saw a chap in uniform; I gave him my blanket and pillow.

One afternoon I was in my flat which was up three flights of stairs, I saw a crowd of people watching the sky, this was a day time raid, very heavy big planes in lovely formation and all of a sudden from various directions came these little planes (spitfires and hurricanes) which broke up the formation. To this day, I could weep about it when I think, this then was the RAF, that’s the day I fell in love with them.

I was determined then to do something about it and having checked around, took myself off Kingsway to volunteer for service, and that was the start of my days in the RAF. I was sent to Harrogate Grand Hotel for training, and then I was posted to Bently Priory Fighter Command. There I helped to check medical forms, sterilise instruments and take patients into the doctor, I thought I was running the RAF! Alas I myself became ill and was in hospital nearby for some weeks, then when I showed signs of recovery, I was given some leave to go home to Ireland to my Mother, who I loved dearly and after all I wasn’t all that far away from my childhood.

When I returned to England, I was sent to medical school in Holton, Bucks and then back to Harrogate. Then to South Wales, where we were attacked one night with incendiaries. We put the fires out bit by bit with whatever we could lay our hands on.

It was decided that I should be trained for the servicing of spitfires and I was sent to Ballykelly, Northern Ireland. I was delighted because of my memory of the raid in London and this is what I really wanted to do.

I was in Lasham in Hampshire for the final time. We were on day flights for a couple of weeks and then night flights for a couple of weeks. Nights were the worst because it was so cold but we had our battle dress and dungarees and newspapers packing our trousers. We would check the petrol and oil and water, we would get a leg up the one side and then promptly slide down the other side as the wings were very icy. Sometimes the spitfires would come in with a hole in the wing caused by a bird. The speed of a bird and plane could cause an extraordinary impact. We checked the machines at night to make sure that they were fit to return to the air and just to fill them with petrol, oil and water as we couldn’t do anything else because it was so dark.

We had to guide the pilots in according to the wind and put chocks under the wheels temporarily until we had checked to see that it was OK. We would put our shoulders under the wing and spin the planes around like a top as they were so light. When we were checking, we would listen to the engines until we picked up particular tones indicating something might be wrong. It usually took about 20 minutes. Once the problem was located we could check and work until the plane was fixed and in working order. If any major things were wrong, we would send the planes into the hangar.

To get around the airfield, we used bikes, it was wonderful to see the night sky. To this day I will never forget; it was a wonderful sight to behold, it was like another world at times, masses of stars twinkling.

I shall never forget the pilots, they would walk and talk with a loveable careless disposition. They shook hands with death every time they went up and yet laughter and gladness was in their eyes. I have been greatly honoured to have served with them.

In passing I was not the only girl there, there were thousands of us, all equally qualified and lovely to be with. We enjoyed wonderful relationships. We’ll tell you more, who wants to know…..

Margaret Slattery-Quinn (Slatts)

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