Czytaj książkę: «Sand In My Shoes: Coming of Age in the Second World War: A WAAF’s Diary»

FOREWORD

When Mother asked if we thought it would be a good thing to type out her war diary for the family to read, we politely said yes. We assumed there would be no real heroics in there, but we did not really know what Mother had done in the war (apart from get married in Cairo – oops! I've given away the ending) so we did not quite know what to expect. And even though we knew that Mother was a good writer, we did not expect anything like this.

For those of us lucky enough to be born after the end of what proved to be the last World War of the twentieth century, 1939 is beyond our imagination. L.P. Hartley's description of the past as ‘a foreign country’ is not powerful enough: for those of us who have been civilians all our lives, those war years are a different world. We grew up in the shadow of war, maybe, but it never became a reality. We never had it so good, as Harold Macmillan never said.

My parents were among those unlucky ones who were of a generation who had to fight. But, to read their diaries, we might feel that in many ways they were the lucky ones. As my mother's diary makes very clear, she enjoyed the war most of the time, ‘Never in my life have my days been so round and so snug,’ she writes in 1940, ‘and this is a war, a clash of civilization. It is odd.’ For my brothers and me, my parents' war experiences were crucial, because without the upheaval that Hitler caused, my father and mother would never have met, and we – my brothers, our children and our grandchildren – would not be here. We are not unique, of course: there are millions of us all over Europe, America and elsewhere who owe their existence to Hitler's decision to invade Poland in September 1939. No wonder Europe was entirely reshaped by the war, and not just in terms of national borders traced on maps. Hitler's pursuit of his belief in the ideal of a Master Race proved to be an Orwellian reality, probably resulting in a greater mongrelization of Europe than any other single event in history. I am proud to be one of those mongrels.

It is a very strange sensation to read the diary of your mother, especially when it deals with the time before you existed. In many ways, the person revealed in this diary is a stranger, a woman who happens to have the same name as my mother. If I didn't know it was Mother who had written it, I would never have guessed. When we were growing up, I never noticed the determination and ambition that are revealed in the diary, never thought of Mother as a person who had ever scored three goals in a hockey match, or who actually enjoyed gardening, or who ever smoked. Yet here it is, a true picture of the young woman who, within seven years of finishing her diary, would be mistress of a vast crumbling farmhouse with three sons rushing around her feet. I never remember her remarking, as she does in the diary, ‘Housework is nothing like as soul-destroying as typing.’ But I am still worried about the entry for 31 March 1941. She was in hospital, sharing a ward with ‘thirty bawling brats’, an experience which, she writes, ‘has soured me as a confirmed child hater.’ Not the person I know.

Mother's ambition to be a writer was the one thing that never flagged. I remember throughout our childhood hearing the clatter of the typewriter as Mother somehow found time between school runs, dog walking and keeping Popefield Farm in some sort of order, to write another short story, or a piece for Woman's Hour or Punch. It seemed to us quite natural that a person could earn money from writing and broadcasting, because Mother did. She never had time to write that epic novel, for which the three of us must be largely to blame, but she was a good and regularly published writer. We all, to a greater or lesser extent, have followed her example.

Neither of my parents were ever remotely military people. They never spoke about their war experiences, except to tell us of their wedding day or self-deprecatory anecdotes about why Father never won the M.C. or about his German measles in the invasion of Sicily. We found it odd (as did Father) that his tailor persisted in addressing him as Major Rice over a decade after the war had ended and he had been demobbed, and it has only really occurred to me now, on re-reading the diaries, that none of my parents' wartime colleagues became friends after the war. I do not think I ever met any of the people mentioned in the diary, apart from those that Mother knew from before the war and with whom she remained friends for years, in one case to this day. The war was a break in existence, and it was clearly one they were both eager to put behind them as soon as it was all over.

I also have to keep reminding myself how young Mother was when the war began. It was only a fortnight or so after her 20^th birthday. I was at university on my 20^th birthday, the extent of my worries being which pub to celebrate in. When she went to view the Blitz damage in Kilburn, she noted one shop, ‘where I used to buy my school hats’, which hadn't a window left. She would have been buying her school hats there only three or four years earlier. It must have been terrifying to be part of ‘a generation without a tomorrow, alive and beautiful in our lovely today.’

On board a ship to Egypt, aged 22 and a half, she gets into a deep discussion about the state of the world, and notes, ‘it's a dreadful and depressing thing if the men with ideals and intelligence are already so disillusioned that they will not even fight for the future. And then Diana came over, and Roger, and we played a game of deck quoits.’ The answer to everything when you are 22, a game of deck quoits.

Jonathan Rice January 2006

INTRODUCTION

In 1939 I was nineteen years old, living with my parents in the small Surrey village of Claygate. We had a detached house, a largish garden, a car in the garage. Our comparative prosperity was a recent event; my parents, whose financial highs and lows had punctuated my childhood, had found themselves three years earlier on a high. I was now a typical middle-class unmarried daughter. I had left school at just seventeen with matriculation. No thoughts of higher education were considered. Universities were not an option for girls except for the brilliant few or those with wealthy parents who did not consider a university education a waste of time for their daughters.

Like many of my contemporaries I went to a secretarial college and from there to a job as a shorthand typist. I was considered to be one of the lucky ones. I was taken on by the Asiatic Petroleum Company (Shell) which – according to the principal of my college – chose only the cream of the cream. As the cream we were paid top salaries, £2 10s (old money) a week as opposed to the £2 paid by the next most desirable firm – ICI.¹ My fellow typists in Bitumen, the department to which I was assigned, were a pleasant lot; the work, if boring as far as I was concerned, was far from arduous and the attitude of Shell towards its female staff was positively paternal. We might have to wear a uniform provided free by the firm – navy-blue serge in winter, beige shantung in summer – until we reached the rank of senior secretary, but unlike the men and almost everyone else in those days, we did not have to work on Saturday mornings.

There was a staff canteen where we were provided free with morning coffee and afternoon tea, and an excellent lunch at bargain prices. On Fridays, just before pay day, a satisfying dish of chips and peas and lashings of gravy could be bought for five (old) pence. Our leisure hours were equally well catered for. On the river at Teddington near where I lived was Lensbury, the firm's palatial sports club where just about every sport was provided for and where there were weekly dances. In Claygate itself there was a tennis club and an amateur dramatic society. Nearby Richmond had an ice-skating rink. The cinema was a walk across the common to Esher. I had a bicycle; I was learning to drive. It was the sort of life most girls of my class were contented with until they were married.

I wanted to get married, of course, since the alternative was to end up a despised spinster like the head of our typing pool, an old woman of forty, pitied and mocked by us younger girls. In my depressed moments I saw that as being my fate. I was not a success with my male contemporaries. However hard I tried to conform to the then social climate where men called all the shots, they seemed to sense that I was different in an undesirable way. My ambitions were not the ambitions of my contemporaries. I wanted to write; I wanted to travel; I wanted to be famous. But all I got were rejection slips from editors, and how could I save up for a world trip on £2 10s a week?

Then, in September 1939, war was declared. This was my opportunity, I seized it immediately. I joined the Women's Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF).

This diary covers the years from September 1939 to December 1942, by which time I was engaged. Thereafter until the end of the war if I wanted to write up any goings on, I did so in letters to my fiancé, later my husband.

For the first eighteen months of the war I was posted to the RAF Station, Hendon as a secretary, progressing from ACW2² to corporal, and where the so-called ‘phoney war’ eventually gave way to the Battle of Britain and the bombing of London. RAF Station Hendon also had its share of air raids during this period.

In May 1941 I was commissioned and posted to RAF Medmenham as a photographic interpreter.³ This, for me, was the least enjoyable period of my WAAF career, but it led in January 1942 to an overseas posting to Egypt. There I remained for two years, except for an interlude when the WAAF members of our unit were evacuated to what was then Palestine. (We owed this abrupt departure to General Rommel and his army who had come dangerously near to occupying Cairo.) In this, final section I have included excerpts from my husband's own diary.

In January 1944 I was given a compassionate posting back to England. My husband, after service with the Eighth Army through the desert, Sicily and Italy, had also returned home to join the preparations for the Second Front. As a result I became pregnant and left the WAAF in the summer of 1944. In November that year the first of our three sons⁴ was born.

Joan Rice

¹ Imperial Chemical Industries plc.

² Aircraft Woman 2nd Class.

³ Photographs of enemy territory were taken, brought back and examined for any relevant information.

⁴

 1944 Tim. Lyricist, author and broadcaster

 1947 Jonathan. Author, broadcaster and lecturer

 1950 Andrew. Advertising guru (South Africa) and broadcaster

PART I Hendon, The Phoney War

1939

20 September 1939

I'm a member now of the WAAF but I must begin from the beginning. On Tuesday afternoon I went along to Ariel House, Strand, to see if I could be enrolled. A few of my particulars were taken and I was told to wait until the recruiting officer could see me. I sat on a bench with a lot of other women and the hours went by. After long ages she did see me, looking very snappy with red hair and the Air Force uniform which, barring the awful shoes and stockings, is quite good. She talked a lot about did I know what I was doing and service discipline, and saying they wanted people badly at Hendon with good shorthand and typing, then sent me to another woman to fill in a form. That done I was told to return for the medical exam this morning. I have passed and am now in the RAF. I begin with 2s 3d a day in contrast to those not on special duties who only get 1s 4d, and I may (I hope) have to go abroad. I am now waiting to be called up to Hendon.

I'll explain my reasons for joining. Firstly, doing one's bit. I suppose that's there, though it doesn't seem particularly in evidence at the moment. Secondly, this life will get me away from home, make me adult and independent. Thirdly, it's a change and adventure. Fourthly and at the present most strongly, I want to swank around in a uniform.

I had lunch with Mother at the Bolivar today. There were girls, smart and sophisticated, drinking with men at the bar. I felt about fifteen. I want to be able to be at any time at ease, with poise and sophistication. I hope this new life will help me. It will be experience. Sitting in Claygate isn't going to teach me about life. The WAAF should. When the war is over I want to be fully equipped to go back immediately to my goal of successful writer. If I'm alive and there's any civilisation alive, I'll do it. Meantime this diary goes with me to Hendon.

8 October 1939

I am sitting on Betty's¹ bed (a Shell colleague, now living with my parents). Opposite on my own is a pile of belongings and a far too small suitcase. Herewith the events leading up to my last day at home (excuse legal phrasing but I have just returned from making my will). I look at my packing and have the same sick and ‘wish I hadn't done it’ feeling in my tummy that was there on going back to the convent (boarding school) evenings. Only tonight have I realised that I'm going into this new unknown living. Even at Bunty's² (a school friend with whom I had been staying), when she and her mother made up absurd adventures about me in the Air Force which ended with me dropping from the air onto a submarine, and much laughter in which I joined, it was impossibly far away. Even when Mother phoned and said I was to go on Monday it was still impossible to happen. Now it is my last night at home and no one but you must know how I feel or I's probably cry. Because of that it's going to be good for me. I've got to be adult. I've got to be self-assured. I've got to be able to go anywhere and not be shy. At least I'll have you with me.

9 October 1939

First Day in the life of a WAAF. It began with rain and nearly missing the train at Claygate; more rain, heavy bags and misery in the Strand; more rain, going the wrong way and arriving late at Hendon. Soaked and surly I filled in a ‘history sheet’ and went in the rain to my billet which is, or rather are, the old married quarters of the RAF. After that we went up to get our equipment which at the moment consists of one oversized raincoat and a service gas mask. Then we had to walk in the rain to the aerodrome to be vaccinated by a very large, very silent, very alluring doctor. Next the lunch, a dubious stew and a paper piece of tart eaten on one plate and a tin-topped table. After that a gas lecture and a mask demonstration. Next tea, a fish cake and bread and jam, and then à la liberté.

I have managed to cultivate a friendship with a girl called Joyce³ who has a car and we went out on a voyage of shopping and discovery. We discovered little except that the car wouldn't go and spent most of the time pushing it. Coming home I put on slacks and the rest of our house mates came in – the NCO⁴ (a nice girl called Mike) and a girl called Scotty with a squashed-in face – and we drank tea and listened to them talking. I must go to bed now. It's heroic writing this.

15 October 1939

It's unbelievable that to go from Hendon to home all that needs to be done is a short train journey. The two worlds are so much further apart than a journey through a wasteland; howling wind and outer darkness seems fitting to bridge the gap. Even now at home this evening I belong here no longer. I should have had my leave from Sunday night to Monday night, but on Saturday evening I learnt that I'm to be transferred to Ruislip tomorrow and so was allowed home before the change. I'm lucky to get a permanent job so quickly. Hendon is a training centre for the WAAF and most people are there longer than I've been. The thing I've hated most about Hendon is having no definite work but hanging around a crowded orderly room all day with nothing to do and everybody looking at you as if you should be busy. In fact, had I written this up last Tuesday (can I possibly have been in the Air Force only six days?), I would have reflected on the deepest depths of despair to which the human soul can reach. I was so miserable I could no longer think nor reason, just move in a fog of despondence. Fortunately misery cannot go on being misery eternally (that's why hell's such a dumb idea), and my emotions rose until now, when I'm glad that while the war is on I'm in the WAAF.

After this war I might be quite well off. Shell are saving one pound a week for me for the duration in addition to my Provident fund (staff who volunteered for war work were still considered as employed by Shell), and I've heard that we may get gratuities at the end of the war. I'll have to go back to Shell for a bit for decency's sake and then Heigh Ho for the world and adventure. I haven't told you yet all about life in the WAAF but I'm going to have a bath and will maybe write more later.

(Much later in the afternoon. Raining and raining and raining outside and us all warm before the fire.) We light a fire in the downstairs room and sit around it, singing sometimes with a girl called Renee,⁵ just back from Germany, playing the accordion, and sometimes talking and going one by one to the bath if we have managed to coax the boiler into a blaze. I like all the girls in our house except the one called Scotty who unfortunately is in the same bedroom as me. I think there's something wrong about her. I've heard Mickey⁶ and Joyce talking about it but they won't tell me. I must look innocent. It's very annoying.

The working part of the day is, as I've said, foul (I am a trained secretary) but you can get out of most of it by going to games and drill. The food is really quite good if the way of eating it very primitive. I shudder to think of my table manners when this war is over, but I shall be tough what with marching, early rises and hard beds. They have some very good cheap cinema shows in the aeroplane hangars, concerts for the troops and games in the evening like fencing and badminton.