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This story has been added by CSV Volunteer Linda Clark on behalf of The Revd. Canon Ivy Frith. They both understand the site’s terms and conditions.

By 1942 the country had settled into what was proving to be anything but a short war. Men and women over the age of eighteen were being ‘called up’ for military service or some other form of national service. I did not wait for that call to arms. I was alerted to the fact that the Regimental Paymaster, St. Marylebone, was advertising for female recruits who would enlist in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, but be billeted at home. It seemed to be an ideal situation for me. By this time, only one of my brothers was still at home and he was not anxious to remain.

Ernie, as a qualified Post Office Engineer was in a ‘reserved occupation’ and could not be called up for military service. He was in fact engaged in installing and maintaining the telephone system in Winston Churchill’s underground headquarters. Ted had moved in with a kind neighbour and her three children. Bill had joined the special Police Force and then the Army and Arthur had volunteered as an Air Raid Warden until he joined the R.A.F. He was promoted to the rank of Flight Sergeant and was one of the first Flight Engineers that flew on the Lancaster Bombers. They carried an extra crewmember, taking a total of seven airmen on each bomber. He was lost in an R.A.F. Air raid on Berlin on September 3rd 1943, having been married to Evelyn for only eight months.

It was just a year previously on September 9th 1942 that I had enlisted in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, the A.T.S. We were ‘D’ Company, No 1 London District Group. It was suggested on more than one occasion, that like most Service units, the A.T.S. should be given a royal title. But, not surprisingly, there was also a distinct lack of enthusiasm to be called R.A.T.S. It was not until well after the war that the service title was changed and it became the Women’s Royal Army Corps.

World War2 had raged for three years by the time I enlisted and it was another four years before I would be demobilised. During those four years I was stationed at R.P.Marylebone for six months, at Reading for three months and then at R.P.Knightsbridge for the next three years. There were those who envied our residence in London throughout those years but it had a downside. For London was a permanent target for the German Air Force by day and night.

A sense of humour is a necessity of life, most certainly for life in the Forces. The three short months I spent stationed in Reading convinced me of that. We were billeted in the large houses on the outskirts of the town. Buses transported us to the Offices in Caversham in the morning and back again in the evening. On one such evening the bus arrived back at our billet and much to my surprise the Orderly Officer called me into the office. In her hand she held an unsealed envelope which obviously contained a Post Office Telegram. ‘You have had a telegram from your mother’, she said. Apparently your Canadian cousin has arrived and she wonders if you could get home to meet him’. It would have been quite possible for me to catch the next train to London and the milk train back in the morning. ‘However’, the Orderly Officer continued, ‘according to King’s Regulations, if it was an uncle it would be permissible for you to go, but as it’s only a cousin you cannot go’.

Eddie, my cousin, was the son of Millie, one of my father’s sisters. He was serving in the Canadian Navy on a Royal Canadian warship, which was escorting Russian Convoys across the Atlantic Ocean. It was a hazardous task in the most dangerous of times. The Canadian warship was docked in this country and many of the crew had been given leave to visit London to give them a break from the dangerous mission on which they were engaged. As it happened, the Canadian Sailors returned to their ship sooner than was necessary. They said that they felt in more danger in London, than they did on the high seas! Eddie’s mother Millie, like my father, when their schooling days were over had been shipped off to Canada, by the Monks and Nuns who had taken them in as orphans. Whereas my father, when he was sent, was put to work logging, Millie was put into Service, as it was called. Consequently I had not had the opportunity to meet either of them. Legend has it that one day my father’s work as a Logger took him to Nova Scotia. There happened to be a band on one of the ships and it just happened to be playing ‘Home Sweet Home’. Apparently, he promptly deserted the logging fraternity and worked his passage back home to England. But Millie stayed on, married and settled in Canada.

But to return to my meeting with the Orderly Officer and the oddities of the King’s Regulations. It was just the sort of situation that is guaranteed to bring out the worst in some of us. As it happened, it was the week before the Bank-holiday, I had quite settled myself to stay in Reading for the week-end. My reaction, however, to King’s Regulations was little short of rebellion. We were allowed to apply for a 24hr. pass that would enable us to travel less than 20 miles. In a militant state of mind I applied for and was granted one of those passes. My apparent destination was Marlow on Thames and my room-mates offered to cover for me. That meant they would have to make up my bed one night and make sure that it was barracked during each of the three days of the holiday.

Another A.T.S. girl, who lived in Reading, offered to lend me a dress and some shoes and the facility to change at her house. And I was not the only one to whom she was so generous. I suppose that such behaviour is what we mean by 'esprit de corps'. I knew full well that if I was caught I could be charged with breaking King’s Regulations and being absent without leave. I must admit, I doubt if I would ever have done it again. The train journey both ways was a nightmare. Military Police regularly walked the trains looking for law-breakers like me and without the proper paper work, I would have been doomed.

Ironically, having set out in good time on Monday, I had managed to get back to Reading on the train, change back into uniform and get back to the billets before most of the other girls. It was a great relief to me. But it was most unfortunate that one of the sisters, who had covered for me, was a few minutes late reporting back from fire-watching duty that evening. For her crime she was put on a charge and sentenced to clean the huge windows in one of the billets. Obviously crime doesn’t pay. Well, not always!.

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