´óÏó´«Ã½

Introductory note

This account is taken from the memories of Doreen Blake, née Bishop, nicknamed Bish. It tells particularly of her time at the Royal Engineers Records and Pay Office, Brighton, between 7 September 1939 and 14 April 1943.

The day that changed my life

Although I didn’t realise this at the time, Friday, 1 September 1939, was the day that changed my whole life. It marked the closing of one door with another opening on to an uncertain future.

This was the day I left my home town of Gillingham in Kent, having lived there for 16 years. My married sister, her little boy aged two and I were heading for Brighton, responding to a telegram from my parents to ‘come at once’.

Evacuation of the Medway towns

The Medway towns were being evacuated in case of war breaking out. Brighton was a receiving centre for evacuees. It was a traumatic time for everyone.

We arrived on the Friday, I was 17 on the Saturday, and war broke out on the Sunday (3 September), a date most of us will never forget.

Moving to Brighton

Brighton was completely different from Gillingham, and I hated it. I had left all my friends behind, including a boyfriend whom I missed very much.

My father and mother had moved to Brighton in the June, when the Royal Engineers (RE) Records Office had moved from Chatham, where they had been for many years.

A bored and miserable teenager

During World War One, my father had been a regular serving soldier with the REs, fighting in France. After the battle of Mons he had developed rheumatic fever and returned to Blighty with a heart defect that left him unfit for active service.

His rank was CSM (company sergeant major), so he was transferred to RE Records Office, where he carried out clerical duties until his discharge in 1918.

Between the wars, he continued to work as a clerical officer, and after the move to Brighton he seemed to settle into his new town very well. Not so his daughter. I was a bored teenager, out of work and miserable!

Big recruitment drive

However, as a huge recruitment drive was taking place at RE Records, my father suggested I take an aptitude test for a clerical position. I took the test, on 7 September, passed and started work the same day.

It seemed very strange at first. Being so young, I felt a bit isolated. Most of the new staff were older than me, though, thankfully not for long, as soon other girls, around my age group, started work. New friendships were made, which lasted throughout the war and after.

Starting a new job

We started work at 8.30am, and woe betide anyone who was late. The caretaker-cum-general-factotum was Mr Friedguard, a real stickler for punctuality.

At 8.30am, on the dot, the door would be locked. Any late comers had to ring the bell to get in, and sign the late book. It was the same at 1.30pm too. Three signings in one week meant an interview with the colonel, to which no one looked forward, although he was a pleasant man, inclined to be rather aloof, and certainly did not suffer fools gladly.

Luckily, I always managed to scrape in by the skin of my teeth and avoided the dreaded interview.

‘Darken the ship, please’

Mr Friedguard was also in charge of the blackout. I think he was a retired naval man as his stentorian tones, announcing, ‘Darken the ship, please’, echoed all round the building at blackout times, and one obeyed with alacrity.

The main office was situated in a very imposing building, known locally as the College. At one time it had been an ecclesiastical college, and the name had stuck.

Quite a landmark

It was quite a landmark, standing on the corner of Viaduct and Ditchling roads. It is now a business centre and, outwardly, has hardly changed from when the War Office occupied it, during and after the war.

Other buildings in the area were also taken over, including Sylvan Hall, Hill Lodge, parts of Hanover Crescent and Terrace, and several others. Hill Lodge was situated in Ditchling Road, almost opposite the College. It was a fine old Regency house, standing in its own grounds well back from the road.

Fire-watching

It was here that I did my fire-watching duties. Rosters were printed and circulated, and when your name appeared you did your duty, which lasted all night. There were several of us, male and female, which made no difference. We had all been trained to deal with incendiary bombs and the subsequent fires.

When the air-raid warning sounded, the men watched outside, while we women watched from the upstairs windows, reporting anything we saw that might cause alarm. It was rather eerie, especially if it was a wild and windy night, with the trees in the grounds making a noise through the swaying branches.

Curved balusters for crinolines

Some people said the building was haunted, and it must have had quite a history. In its time it was once a private girls’ school, the names of past pupils could still be seen in a downstairs cloakroom. Then we were told it had once belonged to a Kate Merrick, a famous, or infamous, night-club queen, back in Victorian or Edwardian times.

It had a certain atmosphere about it. One thing I remember most vividly was the beautiful staircase that rose from the entrance hall to the floor above. It had graceful proportions, and under the wooden handrail the wrought-iron balusters curved outwards. I was told that this was to allow ladies wearing crinolines to move up and down the stairs without damaging their voluminous skirts.

Sadly, after the war, this lovely house was pulled down to make way for the flats that occupy that site today. But, I digress…

Working in the post room

Back at the College, I found myself in the post room, where the redirection of mail took place. There several girls and I traced letters, packages and parcels, posted to soldiers who had been moved to other units, that needed forwarding.

It was interesting work, dealing with units at home and overseas. We worked from Part 2 Orders, which held the records of all serving soldiers, wherever they happened to be, and their various postings.

Every card represented a soldier, with their name, rank and number written clearly at the top, which was then filed in order of rank, then in alphabetical order. This was crucial as misfiling wasted so much time.

These cards made up units or companies (coys for short). They enabled personnel to be traced and their mail sent on. Every unit and coy had its own wooden box, in which the cards were placed carefully inside. It was from these boxes that the men we were looking for were found.

Sacks full of mail after Dunkirk

All went very smoothly, and the mail was soon dispatched. But then came Dunkirk, and we soon realised that the war was a terrible reality. It affected us all pretty badly.

Sack upon sack soon filled the post room. Most mail had been damaged in transit, with the contents spilling out of some, and the addresses difficult to read.

Locks of hair and photographs

It was the contents that had us in tears — locks of hair, tied with ribbon, rosary beads, photographs of babies and pretty girls, letters, birthday cards, prayer books and poems, all such intimate items for strangers to see.

But we carried on re-packing with stouter paper and stronger string. We did our best to decipher names, ranks and numbers, so the precious parcels, packages and letters could be sent on their way — with a prayer that they would arrive safely.

The worst part was when the Part 2 Orders listed the men who’d been ‘Killed in Action’ or ‘Missing in Action’ or ‘Missing presumed Dead’. This was really harrowing for young girls. But, it was wartime, and we just had to get on with it.

Jiving at the Dome

Out of working hours, however, we had a great social life, going dancing at the Dome or the Regent Ballroom. A good time was had, dancing the night away with so many partners to choose from. There were servicemen from all over the world — Canadians, Poles, Free French, Australians, New Zealanders and our own ‘boys’ in the army, navy, merchant navy, royal marines and air force.

Syd Dean and his Band played at the Regent, and Alan Green and his Band played at the Dome, with Douglas Reeve at the organ, when the band had a break. There was non-stop dancing to tunes like ‘Tangerine’, ‘Room 504’, ‘Every Night about This Time’, ‘Amapola’ and, of course, ‘In the Mood’ — great for jiving!

There was always a lovely happy atmosphere, with not too many fights, as often happened at Sherry’s, which had quite a reputation.

Essential torch and gas mask

As well as dancing, there were loads of cinemas to choose from. In spite of the blackout we all found our way around in the dark, with our torch and gas mask always at the ready.

Gas masks were an essential item in the early days of the war. We often had gas-mask drill, and, at a special signal, we all had to don our masks as quickly as possible and work in them for 15 minutes. It was quite hilarious, as the trapped air inside the mask often made a rude noise as it was forced out, usually by a sneeze.

The mask smelt of rubber and was held by straps at the back of the head that had to be adjusted correctly. Once comfortable it hopefully stayed in that position until the drill was over, though the Perspex window often misted up, which made it difficult to see through.

‘Tip and run’ raiders

We had our share of scares, too, when the ‘tip and run’ raiders would fly in low over the sea, drop their bombs, then off. These raids seemed to happen during daylight hours, and they did a terrific amount of damage, sometimes without any warning.

On such a day, I was walking along a corridor when I heard what I thought was coke being delivered, out in the yard, to stoke up the boilers. Suddenly someone shouted, ‘Get down, get down’, and I immediately dropped to the floor. It was then that I learnt we were being machine gunned, our building peppered with bullets.

What a blessing our walls were so thick, as very little damage was done. It was all over in a minute. I believe it was a lone raider either just proving something to himself or showing off.

A miraculous escape

The College was targeted again in 1941 or 1942 — I am not quite sure which. This latter incident happened about lunchtime, and we all had a miraculous escape.

Our lunch hour was from 12.30pm to 1.30pm. As soon as the doors opened, at 12.30, we streamed out of the building, racing to catch buses, go shopping, or grab a snack, as an hour soon went.

On this particular day, so we were told afterwards, a raider flew in low and dropped a bomb that ricocheted off our roof, straight on to a row of little houses in Rose Hill Terrace opposite. It destroyed the lot and killed a number of people.

If this raid had happened 10 or 15 minutes later, the casualties would have been a lot more, with many killed by the blast.

Surviving with bruised heads and limbs

As it was, we did have people injured by flying glass and falling masonry with dirt and dust swirling everywhere, getting in our hair and eyes, so we couldn’t see properly, and bruised heads and limbs as we dived for cover under our work tables.

It was utter chaos, and there were no mobile phones in those days, no ordinary phones either in our homes unless one was rich or important. My poor mother suffered the tortures of the damned, as rumours flew around that the College had received a direct hit with many killed.

Later that day, when Dad and I managed to get home, the look of relief on Mum’s face said it all, and we all thanked God we had been spared.

All change again

During all this time, I had found myself a new boyfriend, Alan, who delivered our newspapers every day. His parents owned the local newsagents. They also had a splendid lending library, and I think I must have been their best customer, as I always had my head stuck in a book.

Alan and I became friends, going to the cinema or for walks, with me getting to know his parents and he mine. To cut a long story short, we eventually married on 6 May 1943, and my time at RE records was over, as I became an assistant in the family business instead.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.