大象传媒

Books on the 19th century Peninsular War, and TV series such as Sharpe's Rifles, are full of the tribulations of the wormen who trudged after their menfolk in that campaign. But there were 20th century camp followers too, such as my wife.

After she married me in 1941 she became a modern camp follower, an existence designed to tax women to breaking point. On marriage, a memory bank seemed to be triggered at the Air Ministry, doubling the rate at which married men were posted from unit to unit. If, for example, it was suspected that life at a Lincolnshire airfield was proving too easy, a posting to Cornwall could be arranged, followed by one to the North of Scotland when it was discovered that the wife was pregnant. And they didn't want a healthy young woman to do the 500-mile journey with its three changes of train: they wanted one suffering from morning sickness.

When we were first posted to Lincolnshire we had to hunt for accommodation, and just before nightfall found a fairly primitive farmhouse with no running water, etc. My wife asked if she could have a bath, "Certainly, dear", said the farmer's wife, "Follow me".

She led the way across the farmyard to a chill and draughty outhouse, where stood a bath full of onions.

"Take the onions out of the bath and put them over there. Now here's the bucket; fill it from the tap on the wall, and empty it into the boiler in the corner. You only need about ten bucketfuls as what with the war and all that, we're not allowed more than three inches of water in the bath, as you will know. Light the fire under the boiler - the sticks and logs are over there - and the water should be hot within the hour. But do take care you don't scald your legs when you carry the water over to the bath. When you've finished, pull the plug as usual and the water will drain away through that hole in the wall". A hole that rats could easily get in by shuddered my wife.
"And please replace the onions".
My wife decided she'd forgo it for the moment.
I'm used to coming out of a bath smelling of roses", she said, "But I'm blowed if I'll come out stinking of onions."

Next day, she bought one for a shilling at a house in the village.

From there we moved to a lovely old farm hall, sharing the guest accommodation with an air gunner and his wife Joan. Our hostess Kathleen had a pedigree Labrador bitch, who soon came into season.

"Now don't forget, girls", said Kathleen as she went off to market, "Keep Betsy locked up in the courtyard, and don't let any of the local dogs in; we're breeding pedigree stock from her."

Alas, just before Kathleen was due home, Betsy and a distinctly lower-class lover were found in flagrante delicto. Working the hand pump in the yard, the girls flung bucket after bucket of cold water over the love birds until they separated, chased the dog away, and dried Betsy off with their bath towels. Fortunately, they were never detected, and after we left we learned that Betsy had produced a multi-coloured litter of very second-rate puppies.

My wife well remembers a cross-country journey after she had produced our son Guy, and I couldn't get leave from my unit to see her home. I put her on the train with all the paraphernalia of a wife and mother, after which she had to fend for herself. Guy's mid-day meal was due, but it was unthinkable in those genteel (though barbaric) days for a woman to breast-feed in public, and as he was getting restless she decided to feed him in the lavatory. But, as was then commonplace she found the corridor jam-packed with soldiers, sailors and airmen, each with his haversack, kitbag and rifle, completely blocking the approach to the lavatory. She gave up and sat down again. Upon which the hungry Guy started to whimper, then cry, then bawl. But when, in the hideously noisy compartment, he started to claw at her blouse she became quite desperate. Then a Naval officer caught on and came to her rescue.

"Right chaps", he announced. "Sounds like feeding time. Up with your newspapers". Christine fished in her blouse, and peace descended on the compartment.

When she became pregnant for the second time she suffered greatly from morning sickness and a loss of appetite, for which neither the local doctor nor the station Medical Officer had offered any cure.

"It's a change of sex, Mrs. Edwards, you mark my words", said Mrs. McDonald, who gave us two half-days a week. (As it subsequently turned out, she was right). But she also produced the cure!

"My Angus took his gun down to Tentsmuir last night and shot a mallard", she announced one morning. "He's already plucked it, so I'll cook it for you tonight and bring it over for your supper. It's proper food ye need, Mrs. Edwards, not this wartime stuff".

At 7 pm she re-appeared with a magnificent take-away - hot roast duck, vegetables and gravy, which Christine not only wolfed, but managed to keep down,and from then on all was well. But it became obvious to the Air Ministry that, with this second pregnancy, we'd pushed things too far, and I was posted to Burma. On our journey south our local train was late in arriving at Carlisle, so we missed our onward connection. My wife still remembers our frustration as we hurriedly unloaded our luggage, bicycles, the bulky 4 - wheeled pram, cot, carry-cot, bundles of nappies and food for the journey, etc, only to watch the West Coast train draw out two platforms away.

But that journey was the last
of her days as a camp follower, and it was another eithteen months before we met again, when the atom bombs ended the war and brought me, and thousands of others, home from Burma much sooner than we had expected.