大象传媒

I had a feeling all along that as I was an artist in civilian life I was not expected to succeed 鈥� indeed, the Matron at Stonehouse Naval Hospital, Plymouth, after measuring the length of my skirt from the ground and pointing out that my butterfly cap was supposed to have a crown as well as wings, asked me why I had joined.

From Plymouth I was drafted to Milford Haven. It had a small sick-bay with a friendly atmosphere and it served a minesweeper base that was well aware of its big future. Here I was lucky to get operating theatre experience and real active service when the U-boats lurked outside the harbour, waiting for the ships from the Atlantic run to arrive.

From thence I went to Dale Fleet Air Arm station on V.E. Day, where in all the gaiety I was sad as I knew no-one. As soon as I had rectified this I was moved to a combined operation station at Inveraray, Argyll; beautifully situated on the shores of Loch Fyne. My nursing career ended in Scapa Flow, where for three months I was the only V.A.D.

The war was over when I boarded the heaving deck of the St Ninian and braved the mountainous seas of the Pentland Firth to go to Hoy. We anchored alongside the quay at H.M.S. Lyness, which was laden with coal, scrap metal and all rusting paraphernalia that is generally termed Boom Defence. Nothing remained of the past glory of the base except the slightly-scuttled battleships in the Flow. The base itself was being run down. It had no hospital, just a small sick-bay staffed by a few S.B.A.s and a doctor. Everything was done in rather a hall-hearted way as if the vital elastic of wartime days had snapped.

My life was an odd one. There was little work to do other than aspirin-giving and blanket bathing. Apart from a visit to the camp cinema, a game of tombola in the mess or a meal with a naval family, there was no entertainment. I took great pleasure in sketching and cycling on expeditions into the comparative unknown. The land was treeless and windswept, with one main mountain beautiful in its bleakness. The air was always very fresh and crisp and sea and sky rivalled each other with their blue brilliance. In summer there was an endless lease to life since sunrise nearly met sunset with just an hour or two between them. In winter, evening came soon after lunch, and with the darkness a feeling of depression.

The inhabitants of Hoy, who were literally few and far between, lived with a gypsy nonchalance that made them a joy to meet. They were Norwegian in looks and spoke with a soft lilting brogue. Theirs were simple lives and yet were shrewder in their simplicity than most naval authorities imagined! They lived in scattered crofts situated in song-sounding places like Melsetter, Riza, Renegal and Rackwick.

As a result of living so far apart the inhabitants of Hoy, when they met for gatherings, were gay to the point of exhaustion, for me at least! I was once invited to a wedding 鈥� a local girl was to
marry one of the sailors at the camp. The reception was to be held at one of many wooden huts lifted above the marshes and cotton grass by little stilts. I had no difficulty finding the hut, since the dancing to a solitary violin made the whole structure rise and fall in rhythm to the music. Inside the air was thick with blue smoke from the clay pipes of the men, and I could clearly see the grannies and children of all ages lining the walls and clapping their hands in time with the reels. These were played by an ancient violinist with an expressionless face, a cap on his head, and a bottle of whisky on a chair at his side. Well into the small hours, he disappeared (I flippantly concluded he had died) and an accordionist look his place. The couples danced vigorously and almost continuously, as it was traditional to dance all night. At 2am a liquid fire called 'The Bride's Cup' was served piping hot for all to drink. Then the dancers grabbed new partners, mopped their brows while the MC called: "Now come along, lads and lasses, don鈥檛 waste time.鈥� This, I must emphasise, after five hours of continuous dancing! At dawn it ended and the bride and groom went aboard the famed St Ninian which took them to Scotland for their honeymoon.

Between the dullness and monotony of the work there were many dramatic happenings like the towing of the Derflinger upside down to be broken up. She had been scuttled in the war and had lain upside down for years. And so comfortable was she in that position that a pumping station and huts were built on top of her and she was successfully towed that way to the Clyde.

I suppose the one experience I will never forget was the exhumation of the American sailors from the cemetery at Lyness so that their bodies could be returned home. It was dusk when the MO, PO and I joined a US officer and a number of American gravediggers who had been doing this gruesome job all over Europe The cemetery was set at the top of a hill: a patch of neglected pampas grass, and the wind鈥檚 permanent playground. With hurricane lamps swinging we watched the macabre scene while British oak coffins were prised open, identity discs found, the corpse transferred to another coffin, a crisp new uniform laid on it and the lid sealed. After the signing of the formal papers, we came away in silence broken only by the rush of the wind.

This story was added to the site by Melita Dennett on behalf of Edwina Vardey, who understands the site's terms and conditions.

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