Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys Read online

  ‘They don’t look in step, do they?’ Ruby whispered.

  ‘Ee-eyes right!’ came the barked command, and the girls generally turned their heads in the correct direction.

  ‘It’s probably harder than it looks,’ May said, thinking of her own attempts to learn country dancing at the Labour Institute.

  ‘They’re useless,’ came a grating voice. ‘My father’s in the army and he’d have them out here all day till they got it right.’ May ignored Pat’s damning comment, but a few others in the lorry sniggered.

  Half a dozen other lorry loads of freshly arrived recruits were congregating outside the main building. They were told to form a line and were quick-marched to a long, low canteen hut, where after a ten minute stop for sandwiches and tea, served from a huge urn, they were ordered to follow the sergeant to the stores. The smell struck May as soon as she entered: wool and leather and polish. In another life she might have protested at having to parade past a male corporal, who eyed them up and without even asking their sizes, pushed skirts, tunics and shirts across the counter. May felt sure the skirts she’d been given must be two sizes too big; she was damn sure her hips weren’t that wide. But she sensed it would be pointless to argue: it might be the ATS, but it was still a man’s army. She noticed that even the shirts and tunics fastened left over right. Shoes were the only thing they were allowed to try on and thankfully her brown tie-ups, though unflattering, did seem to fit. Poor Ruby was having no luck, as her stocky frame extended to unusually wide feet.

  ‘Take these for now.’ The corporal slid a pair across the stores bench. ‘We’ll put in for an extra wide later on! VIP treatment for Private Cobb!’ he said, licking a pencil and making a note on his order pad.

  They passed on to the next storesman who, to May’s deep embarrassment, handed her two pairs of salmon-pink brassieres and the largest pair of knickers she’d ever seen. These must be the famous khaki passion killers, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer hideousness of the garments, which would certainly reach to her knees. They came with another pair of white woollen under-bloomers. May thought it was just as well she’d have all that room in the skirt after all, what with the double knickers they seemed expected to wear.

  The kit for keeping themselves smart was impressive and obviously an army priority, for there was not only a brush for their hair, but one for their teeth, another for shoes, and another one for buttons. With uniform and kit balanced on their arms, they were marched at the double to rows of Nissen huts by the parade ground and then peeled off in eights to each hut.

  She was glad to be allocated the same hut as Ruby and Bee, but not so keen on Pat’s joining them. Still, any familiar face was better than a camp full of strangers. The others in their hut included a large, freckle-faced woman called Jean who spoke with a strong Scottish accent. When the door closed behind them, the curving interior of the hut felt a welcome refuge from the shouting of the drill sergeant, the tramp of boots on tarmac, the high-pitched chatter of a thousand women and the continual roar of army lorries coming and going. At least, May thought, there would be peace for tonight. She pushed a flat hand on the mattress. It was hard as a plank of wood and ludicrously designed in three separate sections.

  ‘How are you meant to get a night’s sleep on this?’ She held up the three pieces for Ruby’s inspection.

  ‘They’re called biscuits!’ Pat said knowledgeably. ‘The trick is to wrap them up tight in the sheet like this, so they don’t move.’

  Pat’s voice reminded May of one of her old schoolteachers, and it would certainly have carried to the back of any classroom.

  ‘Thanks,’ May said: the girl might be a busybody, but it did seem like the only way to keep the bed together.

  ‘Army brat,’ Pat explained, and May wondered how proud her army dad would have been of her behavior at the train crash. They’d talked little about Eileen on the rest of their journey, but it seemed doubtful she’d be joining them now. Her leg had been shattered and she’d lost so much blood, the nurse had said it was touch and go during the night.

  ‘Rube, look at the size of this skirt, will you?’ she said, turning to the girl, who was already trying on her new uniform.

  ‘It’s too big, sweetheart. Your’n would fit me better than the one they give me. Look.’

  They decided to swap skirts and then spent the rest of the evening making alterations to the rest of their uniforms, putting tucks into baggy shirts, and moving tunic buttons. The one thing May really couldn’t bear was the soft peaked cap.

  ‘This looks like one of me mum’s meat puddings!’ she said, perching it on her head and making Ruby laugh with the accuracy of her description. It took May half an hour of pulling, pushing and folding till the cap sat at a jaunty angle and she was pleased with it. The cap badge had to be polished till it gleamed and then all the buttons buffed with polish and a small stick till they shone. May stayed up till the last minute before lights out, making sure every smear was eradicated and every crease ironed to a knife-like edge. She was a naturally smart and tidy person – the girls at Garner’s had teased her for coming into the leather factory every day looking like Ginger Rogers, with her golden hair carefully rolled under at the back. But there was something other than pride in her appearance behind her efforts. She dreaded the coming of lights-out and the long night ahead.

  When the bugle sounded and the lights went off, she finally lay down on the hard ‘biscuits’ with a scratchy blanket up around her ears. For the first time in three days she allowed herself to think of home. It was a mistake. She’d heard of this sickness, of course she had, but never had cause to feel it. Why had no one ever told her that it was a pain, not a sickness. The pain was centred around her heart. An iron fist seized it and squeezed, till she choked, and the more she told herself not to be a baby, the tighter it gripped and twisted, forcing silent shudders up through her shoulders, till there was no help for it, and she began to sob, as silently as she could. Soon her cheeks were wet with tears and the pillow that she clutched was soaked. She wanted to go home.

  But hers were not the only tears being shed that night. Other stifled sobs joined her own and before long there was an unashamed chorus of sorrow filling the hut. The only privacy was the darkness, yet at least in the morning they could each pretend it had been someone else crying themselves to sleep.

  At kit inspection the next day the captain made a special visit to their hut. After checking the beds had been ‘barracked’ to her satisfaction and that all their buttons were gleaming, she asked for their attention.

  ‘Now, girls, you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve had a report from the hospital and Private Eileen Turner is making a splendid recovery. And I understand it is all due to your prompt action, teamwork and steadiness under fire that she was removed from the wreck in good time. You’re to be congratulated!’

  The captain beamed, and Bee said, ‘It wasn’t us, it was—’ but she was cut off mid-sentence and all eyes turned on Pat as she replied, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  *

  The next few days passed in a blur of square-bashing, spud-bashing and ear-bashing. But apart from the blisters caused by the too-hard leather of her army shoes, May found she didn’t mind the drill too much. It wasn’t long before she could mark time and change step on the march, she certainly never ended up, like poor Ruby, the lone soldier in one corner of the parade ground, having turned right when she should have turned left. When it came time, at the end of the day, to soak their feet in bowls of warm salt water, May’s services were sought out. Her job in the tannery had taught her how to work at unforgiving leather and now, with nothing but the back of a spoon or a knife handle, she patiently worked the rigid heel backs of her hut-mates’ shoes, easing them out till they were soft and malleable.

  Jean, the copper-haired Scottish girl who now went by the name of Mac, even though her surname was in fact Brown, held up her size tens admiringly. ‘Soft as the finest kid! Thanks, hen, you’re a loss to the l
eather trade!’

  May laughed and raised her eyes. ‘Tell that to my foreman – I never got much praise off him!’

  And May realized with a shock that she hadn’t once thought of Garner’s since arriving at Pontefract. Of course she’d been busy physically – there was never a day without some pay parade, church parade or route march. But she knew that what had banished the factory entirely was the experience of having her mind fully occupied for the first time since school. She found that she loved the lectures, even those the other girls labelled dull. But still, every night brought a return to misery. It was then, as she tossed and turned on the hard ‘biscuits’, that the faces of her family came to her, and then another face, that of Bill Gilbie.

  They’d both promised to keep in touch and meet for a drink when they had leave, but the only letter she’d managed to send was one of the pre-printed cards they’d been issued with, to notify their families of their safe arrival. Paper shortages were so bad she’d had to wait almost until the end of their basic training before the NAAFI received a stock of writing paper. Their third week had largely been taken up with aptitude tests designed to determine which trade they’d all end up in, so it wasn’t until the end of those that she had a spare hour to write her letter to Bill. But what could she say? They had left so much unsaid and she wasn’t even sure he would want to carry on their friendship. Bill had certainly seemed disappointed she was going away, but there had been no promises made and he’d had to leave for basic training in the RAF before she did. She had no idea where he’d ended up. She could write care of his mother’s, but she’d rather have heard from Bill first. She sat with her pen hovering over the paper, a glob of ink collecting in the nib. She put it down, unwilling to spoil her precious paper, yet why else had she bought it? There was no telling if they’d even see each other again – perhaps she should just leave it. He might be posted abroad and never come home. He might have forgotten her in the six weeks he’d been away. Yet the brief friendship they’d shared had been such a sweet connection, that however tenuous the tie, she knew she did not want to sever it, and when it came to bridges, she found it was the one between her and Bill Gilbie that she least wanted to break.

  It was the country dancing which helped her out. She simply thought it was something he’d like to hear about, remembering how he’d been roped into country-dancing lessons at the Labour Institute when he was a boy. She decided to tell him all about the Princess Royal coming and how she’d been expected to show off the ATS girls’ more gentle side in the presence of royalty.

  She’d found out about it from the drill sergeant, who, that day, seemed a little disappointed that they’d finally got to the stage when they could all end up at the right end of the square roughly in step. He had them marking time on the spot, then quick-marched them from one end of the square to the other and back. May wished he’d just let them go, the soles of her feet were burning, sweat soaked the back of her tunic and the hatband seemed like an iron vice round her forehead.

  ‘Quiet, you lot!’ he screamed, though none of them had squeaked.

  ‘Anyone done country dancing? Take one step forward.’

  May stepped forward and heard a warning hiss, too late, from Bee at her side. She looked nervously along the line. It seemed she was the only one who’d confessed to being a country dancer.

  ‘Important announcement! Lloyd here is going to instruct you ’orrible, uncoordinated clodhoppers in country dancing. You will put on a display for the Princess Royal, who is paying us a visit. One week to prepare. Carry on, Lloyd! Dismissed!’

  May wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but she knew it was bad when she saw a smirking Pat strolling towards her. ‘You clot, May. Don’t you know the first rule of the army? Never volunteer for anything!’ she said, grinning. ‘Well, you can count me out. I’ll sit in the audience!’

  Bee and Ruby were at her side in an instant.

  ‘Surely he didn’t mean I’ve got to organize it?’

  ‘I think he did, darling,’ said Bee, putting her arm round May’s shoulders. ‘But we’ll lend a hand, won’t we, Ruby?’

  Looking at Ruby’s unathletic figure, May doubted she’d be an asset.

  ‘I’ll have to talk to the captain. I’m not up to it. I’ve got to get out of it!’ May felt true panic grip her and she thought she was going to be sick.

  At dinner May picked at her food and gave her bread-and-butter pudding to Ruby. The other girls from her hut were keen to offer suggestions.

  ‘I can do the Gay Gordons,’ Mac offered, raising her arms above her head in demonstration.

  ‘That should look good – with your size tens, you’ll be tripping everyone up!’ Pat said and Mac’s freckled face turned red. May knew she was conscious of her large frame.

  ‘Thanks, Mac, that’s really nice of you,’ May said, turning away from Pat. The girl was beginning to get under her skin, but May hated conflict and besides, she was determined to get through basic training without trouble.

  ‘I only know a few, Knole Park and Strip the Willow. How many country dances does a princess want to see?’ May put her head in her hands and groaned.

  What on earth had possessed her to step forward? She knew the answer to that. It was a memory. A sweet memory of a sunny day in the school holidays, when she was about thirteen. It had been such a hot summer and the little playground at the side of the Labour Institute was a rare and inviting open space. All summer long they had been learning country dances there, the boys leaping over wooden staves, then interlacing them to make a great star, held aloft with a triumphant shout at the end of the dance; the girls weaving and dipping beneath arms, linked to form a low tunnel. The golden light playing on her friends’ faces, their laughter and energy, the teacher’s shouts and the music from the gramophone bouncing around the little yard. It captured a moment in time; the end of her childhood. For after the class she’d gone home to find her mother holding a letter in her hand.

  ‘You’ve passed the scholarship exam,’ she’d said and May’s heart had lurched. College! Her future flashed before her. Something other than a factory girl – she could work in an office, perhaps even be a teacher.

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ May had rarely felt such excitement; she could barely breathe. ‘Can I go? Will Dad let me go?’

  Her mother had paused and looked down at the letter. ‘I’m sorry, May, we just can’t afford it. Even with the scholarship, there’s your tram fare and books – the fact is, love, you can get seven and six a week at Garner’s.’ She put the letter back in its envelope. ‘It’s been such a struggle, you know, with your dad in and out of work.’

  Then May realized she wouldn’t be going back to school at all, and it was a moment she preferred to forget. Instead, she remembered the country dancing, the carefree day, when she was still a child and the future lay bright and untrammelled before her.

  And that was why, when she should have stayed firmly put, she took one step forward and landed herself in this pickle. She didn’t know why she’d lied to Bill about taking the exam, why she’d downplayed her own dreams. But now, as she picked up her pen, she decided to tell him about the country-dancing debacle and the truth about her dreams.

  Dear Bill, she began, I have a confession to make…

  11

  Gunner Girls

  Spring 1941

  After a miserable, sleepless night, spent wracking her brain trying to remember the convoluted dance moves learned so long ago, the last thing May was ready for was PT parade. Out into the chilly grey morning, they tumbled, breath pluming, shivering in gymslips. They spent half an hour jumping up and down, swinging their arms and touching their toes till May felt sick. But it was only after they were dismissed that she had cause to bless the PT instructor, who had up till now not been May’s favourite person. She was eagerly hurrying towards the cookhouse and a hot breakfast when she heard her name being called.

  ‘Private Lloyd? A word?’

  She did an about face, worried that s
he’d committed some PT misdemeanour. The army was so crammed full of rules that even May’s retentive memory struggled to remember them all.

  ‘At ease, Lloyd. It’s about the country dancing. I’ve been put in charge.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ May could have kissed the woman’s feet.

  ‘Don’t be too quick to thank me, Lloyd. I haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that the sergeant told me I was in charge.’

  The woman let out a sharp laugh. ‘No wonder you were looking green all through exercises. I think Sarge was having a bit of fun with you, Lloyd. No, you and a couple of other privates are detailed to work with me. Here’s a list of dances we’ll be performing. It’s your job to get huts one to six in shape and then we’ll have a rehearsal all together. Can you manage that?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, of course.’ She smiled with relief and the PT instructor gave her a puzzled look. ‘You really like country dancing then? Can’t stand it myself.’

  And the woman strode off across the parade ground, leaving May to make her way to the cookhouse with a skip and a flick of her toe, taking a turn with an imaginary partner. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.