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I was born and brought up in Hartlepool. There were 8 of us altogether, myself, 5 sisters and 3 brothers.

At first in 1941, I joined the WRENS because my elder brother, George, served in the navy and my childhood was full of talk, letters and presents from far and wide. After a week Mam got her doctor to write to the commander to request my presence at home. I did not know of this until 1995. All this time I had thought that I was not good enough for the WRENS.

I volunteered to join the ATS. I had heard about G.L. (gun location), which turned out to be radar and I wanted to know all about it. I felt that if I joined early, I might get on that work and learn a lot. I was sent up to Edinburgh and we were issued with a pair of towels, two pairs of shoes, an overcoat, tunic, two skirts, three shirts and collars, a pair of high lace up boots and three pairs of thick socks (men’s)

For days afterwards I had lectures, interviews and tests and all seemed to be going as I hoped until I had to stand at one end of an army hut, and look at a circle drawn on a sheet of paper. The circle had a break in it, a barely visible break, and I had to say 7 o’clock if it was in 7 o’clock position for example, as it was moved about. I didn’t think anyone could see that well, only perhaps eagles or high flying mountain birds.

I was eventually told that they couldn’t bring my vision to six over six. When I reported to the company office the day after, I was told that my eyes could not be made up to the required standard and I would not be able to be trained on Radar Predictors. So what else would I like to do? So I said ‘telephonist’ and that stopped him.

I was transferred to several different locations in Scotland. 129(M)HAA Regt RA moved further into the country. I don’t know how long I was there — not long — I was called in to the Senior Commander’s office, the female colonel who commanded all the ATS in the attached regiment. She let me sit down, at ease, and told me that Mother’s doctor had written to them, and said that I was needed at home. What did I want to do? This was 1941 all over again! I had been away from home 6-7 months. This was familiar — I’d done it before — no not quite the same. I was coming to my 21st birthday and I was to lose my freedom again. The Senior Commander gave me lots of time to think. ‘No, no, no.’ but I didn’t want to seem so hard-hearted. She then suggested a compassionate posting, where I could go home for odd days and do a few things for Mother, and still could go out and do my own thing. I would still be making my own decisions. So I told her’ Yes’ that would be just fine.

I’m not sure how long it took for my posting to come through, I don’t suppose it happened overnight, but to be honest it was a bit too quick for me.

I do not remember leaving (Scotland) nor my journey south to Newcastle. I had to find my way to an address in Jesmond. It was a house in a terrace of comfortable family houses. This was Regimental Headquarters of 153 (Mixed) Heavy Aircraft Regiment. Life in the ATS went on.

We had to go away to firing camp because we hadn’t been in action enough to keep our skills up. An aircraft would fly about with a wind sleeve trailing behind, and we, or rather the operational personnel would shoot, - hoping to tear the sleeve into bits. We went three of four times. One time we had to have our smallpox vaccination renewed, as some infected cases had come into Glasgow hospitals.

Finding myself looking at the notice board, I saw they were appealing for volunteers to take the place of who didn’t want, or couldn’t, go overseas. Another girl was looking at the notice too. We decided to go in and ask about it. I told her I would say ‘No hot climate please’ She was amused and said through a peal of laughter ‘any place would do for me, Poona, Timbuktu, North Pole will do’. I knew I couldn’t take any really hot places, I suffered enough with our own insects’ bites. She told me.. she was going to India. I let her know I was going to N W Europe.

The time came for the Regiment to be moved. We were assembled and boarded the transport to get us to the railway station in Sunderland. Towards the end of the journey we found ourselves passing through the flat, green muddy fields of Essex; we were approaching Tilbury.

After two days of discomfort we were relieved to find the train had stopped alongside some docks. We were not warned abut the journey beforehand and although it was not impossible to bear, it did take a bit of enduring.

It is now Tenth of February 1945.

Instructions were issued to carry our own kitbags off the train, and lift another off the pile we would be walking past before reaching the boat, play follow-my-leader up the gangplank, with one kitbag in each hand, on to the pile on the deck, then play follow-my-leader again until instructed.

Well ‘walking the plank’ was near enough correct, only two planks wide, and no hand rail. The drop down the side of the boat, between boat and dockside was at least three feet deep. Surprisingly no one fell off onto the water, nor did anyone that I know of break a leg or sprain one. I was directed into a cabin (for four) We had been told not to shed any item of our uniform, not even our tin hat.

When all were aboard we were informed by the ship’s captain, over the tannoy, that we would be sailing from Tilbury, up into the estuary of the Thames, to near Sheerness, to await our escort, and we would then be sailing across to Ostend.

I didn’t know the other 3 ATS in the cabin, which had basic washing and toilet facilities. We soon had our heads down and went off to sleep. I don’t know how many times I turned and I was too employed turning and turning to notice that I had slept without a break.. It was morning. Still dark. We were being ordered into line and ready to leave the ship. We were there - in the wharves at Ostend. Safe.

No breakfast, no cup of tea; just time to do no more than comb my hair, wipe my face with a wet face cloth, and push them into the small kit bag. Out we came, stifling yawns, waving little farewells, climbing up the gangplank, down the other side, dropping the stranger’s kitbags where indicated by the bombardier and sergeant. Eventually we were in order, and marched up to a row of ‘Bed and Breakfast’ like houses, where we could get washed, and where a great breakfast was ready for us.

After the meal we were dismissed and told to relax for a given time, even go for a stroll. By now I had got to know a few of the others, and a group of us went out together. We came upon a street market and looked at a fruit and vegetable stall, and surprise — surprise, ‘Strawberries’ — in early February. The lady on the stall easily coped with the exchange rate, and we all (nearly all) enjoyed a real treat.

We re-assembled back at the Bed and Breakfast as instructed, had tea and rock cakes sitting at the tables, collected our kit, and paraded outside on the dockside. We were formed up into batteries. Our battery, 508, had two sites, plus BHQ people, and were to be housed in an ancient fort.

Soon we were on our journey, getting waves from the people we saw, and returned them — we sang the ATS marching songs, and time soon passed.

At Ghent we stopped at a building like a town hall. Tables were already laid; we formed several queues, took a seat, and ate most of the meal provided. It was now dark, and after a short journey, our lorries bumped up a lane, or drive, to the doorway into a building. It didn’t take long to realise that it was an empty convent. Here, I was shown to an unfurnished room, which didn’t have a normal door — it was just half a door. The single bed was very hard, so it was fortunate that the stay here was for only one night.

Next day, we boarded out lorry again, and were transported to an ancient fort, complete with a moat, known as Fort Croybee, this was near Antwerp. We stayed here for a few weeks. It seems the fort had probably been used for activity in the German V1 or V2 rocket field, judging by the debris left there.

During my time at the fort, in February 1945, a group of us were at a nearby tram stop, chatting to some RAF lads. They made a note of our address, which resulted in them sending a lorry, a few weeks later, to take us to their dance in a private hall. There were civilians as well as service people there, an abundance of food, and among the helpers, was a Belgian lady called Valerie, who invited us to visit her and her family, at their home. She was happy to entertain service people there, and was very welcoming. Most of us service girls spent our spare time going by tram or our lorry transport to Valeries’.

The war in Europe ended during my stay at Fort Croybee, May 8 1945. To help us prepare for civilian life, we were sent to a camp in a vineyard, not far from Brussels, for a course in clerical work.

Our accommodation here, was in Nissan huts. During my time off for VE Day I went to Brussels, where I was told that lists of released P.O.W.s could be seen. My brother’s name might be on that list! It was not. I returned to the camp, by which time it was dark. It was late now, but one of the girls heard me. She called quietly — ‘Olga, Olga there’s a letter for you’. Since it was ‘Lights Out’ time, and the other girls were asleep, the girl struck a match and crossed the room with the letter. I was delighted to recognise the handwriting, it was from my brother, George, he had been released, and was now at home. The girl seeing my excitement, then used her cigarette lighter to enable me to read the letter. Her name was Stella.

In the letter, George told me that he had been flown home from Germany, with other P.O.W.s in a bomber, and had taken turns with the others, to get an outside view from an airgunner’s seat, a real treat fro those who had endured years in the confines of a prison camp. They landed on an airfield in the south of England and he had then travelled home to Hartlepool.

The course in the vineyard lasted for three or four weeks. After the course we didn’t return to the fort, but were taken to accommodation near Antwerp, which turned out to be an attraractive part furnished town house on a main road, and it was here that we were to see Winston Churchill in his open topped car, daughter in rear seat, during his visit to Antwerp.

While at the town house I was given compassionate leave to go home to see my brother George. Reporting to HQ for instructions, I found that I was to travel to UK by air. A Dakota brought me home and took me back at the end of my leave.

There were about twenty of us in the house. We were working for ‘Movement Control’ with the Royal Engineers, in offices on the dockside. It was during this time that some of us were told that we were to be demobilised as our numbers had come up. Among them was Stella, and another friend, Peggy. The three of us travelled back to the UK together as far as Hyde Park, where Stella and Peggy were processed — I had to go on to York.

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