Mary Cornelius’ autobiography 1914-1918 through 1948
WWI
August 4th 1914
We live in a quiet, country village near the coast. We can see the coast of France on a clear day when we climb our favorite hill and the friendly lighthouse after dark.
I was seven years old last December. Today is a great day for me. There is to be the annual village flower and vegetable show. It’s held in our meadows and I am allowed to stay up long past my usual bedtime and see the fairy lights in the apple orchard, little paper lanterns with candles. It will be so pretty and the band from the neighboring village will play and there will be dancing. The two big tents are full of the exhibits. It is still early in the morning, soon the tents will be closed and the judges will be making their awards.
My sister and I peeked into one of the tents. There was a lovely, warm smell of fruits and flowers. The village children were bringing big bunches of wildflowers. There are some enormous dahlias. My mother does not care for the very large blooms. She says that they are vulgar. We have some plums and figs from our garden; it’s lucky that the wasps have not got to them. The men are putting up the coconut shells -I would like to win a coconut but cannot throw hard enough to knock one down. I hope that my brother will get one for me. I have some money to spend and there will be chocolate cream buns and lemonade to buy.
My sister and I will wear our best dresses and our new shoes. Nanny is excited too because she will be able to join in the dancing, Mother will stay in the house tonight. The time is going by so slowly today. How I wish that it would be two o’clock and the show will be declared open. My father will make the welcoming speech and declare the show open. There will be a little platform for him to stand on under the big tree. Mother will wear her pretty dress and big hat and we will stand with Nanny and my three little brothers. The smallest one will be in his pram.
Hooray! It’s nearly time; everyone is gathering for the opening. My father has just mounted the platform when I see the village postman coming with a telelgram. My father opens the envelope and reads the contents. He looks very grave; not smiling as he was before. He says something in an undertone to Mother and then announced that he has some very sad and serious news.
“The German Army has invaded Belgium and England is in a state of war with Germany”
He goes on to say that there will be no fairy lights tonight ad no band and dancing and he calls for everyone to be silent for a few moments and pray for peace. Nanny and some of the other women are crying and the afternoon has clouded over. Everything has changed.
What is a ‘state of war, I ask Nanny. She says that I am too young to understand. “The horrible Germans want to take everything.” We go with Nanny to look inside the tents. I buy my chocolate cream bun. The afternoon has become hot and stuffy and there might be a thunderstorm. I eat my chocolate cream bun too quickly and feel rather sick; also my news shoes are not quite comfortable. I ask Nanny, “When will the Germans come and take everything from us? Will they hurt us?” and she tells me to be good and not to ask ‘worrisome questions.”
Some of the village men are throwing balls at the coconuts which are perched up on short stumps. “That’s the last coconut you’ll get in a long time, sonny,” says on of the men, handing it over to his small son. “these nuts come from abroad and we won’t have time to get any for a while. Our shops will be needed for food and supplies.” Are the Germans going to eat our food? I wonder. What will we do?
The day drags on and we go to bed at our usual time. All the grown-ups look sad and worried. My uncle, who is a doctor, came over this afternoon and I overheard him saying to Father that they had better make the inner part of our cellar ready to go into as the German zeppelins will raid us. Our home is very near the cost and he feels it is not safe. Fancy going into the cellar’ I have never been there!Fragement
I ask Nanny why we would go down to the cellar and she says “those horrible Germans may drop bombs on us” What if the house comes down on us? I begin to feel very scared; what about my rabbit and pet lame chicken? How can I keep them safe? I wish that the grownups did not look so worried all the time. When the sirens go off for an air raid warning at night, we are bundled up and taken to the cellar. It is strange down there, no windows and candlelight. There are beds made up on the floor and even a commode as we always need to go to the bathroom when we are woken up in the night. There are thermos jugs of tea for the grownups and biscuits for us; we nibble and try to go to sleep. The ‘all clear’ sounds and we are taken back to our own beds. It is nice to be out of the cellar and we fall asleep once more.
I wonder if the war will last forever. It is a lovely, warm summer evening and my uncle has come over to see us. The grownups are all out on the lawn and my sister and I run to greet them. Suddenly, the sirens sound-air raid-before we are hurried into the thick shrubbery and made to lie down. I see the Zeppelins like tiny, silver sausages up in the sky. My uncle says to my father “They are bombing the town on the coast.”
Next day I overhear Nanny talking to some of the maids, saying “Those horrible creatures bombed the shopping street where the working folk were doing their weekend buying.” There were many killed or wounded.
The war goes on. My father and the other men in the village are special constables. They have tin hats, arm bands and have to report for duty when the sirens go off. I feel unsafe when our father has to leave us. I ask Mother what he has to do and she tell me that he has to stand on the railway bridge and report if any bombs are dropped on the main line to London.
Big Army camps are being built within walking distance of our house. The Canadian soldiers arrive. They all look so tall to me. I am glad that they have come to help England. MY eldest brother is in the army now. He is in a big camp on the Salisbury Plain and my mother has gone to see him. He has had his photo taken in his uniform and sent it to us. He looks so very thin in a uniform that is far too big for him. I do hope he will be safe. Several of the young men from the village are in the army also. The women are taking over the work in the fields. Our governess comes by the local train from the small town in the west. She is very nervous in case there is a daylight Zeppelin raid that takes place while she is on the way. My brother pretends that she is a spy and that the large bag she carries is full of important papers.
We go out in the fields near us and gather the stinging nettles because they have lots of iron. The best ones grow by the hedges and because the sheep like to rub themselves there, the nettles tend to be full of sheep’s wool that we have to pick off. We don’t enjoy doing that! Mother is teaching the village women how to make good soups. She is also running a tea and buns counter in our village hall for the soldiers.
Our local pub is called Drum Inn; it’s just down the village street , quite near to the village shop kept by two old ladies, where we spend out pocket money. But sweets are getting scarce & now we cannot go down there alone. The soldiers are sometimes drunk when they leave the pub. There is a foot path through the fields right outside our property that leads to the village from the local railway station near to the big army camps. Sometimes at night the soldiers get into our grounds on their way back to the camps and cannot find their way out. They crash about in the flower beds and my father has to get up and escort them onto the path . I don’t like the confusing noise under my window at night; drunks scare me. Nanny has a soldier friend, she goes out with him on her day out. He is a sergeant and has a swagger cane with a silver top. He is from Canada and Nanny thinks that she will go there after the war. We look at Canada on the maps, it does look far away. She wonders if there are many bears there and how she will stand the cold winters.
Some of the soldiers are going ‘overseas’ and Nanny’s sergeant is among them. He gave her a photo and his swagger stick. Nanny asks Mother if she can go to the station and see him off.. For some unknown reason, she takes me along with her and we set off in the evening across the fields to the station. The fields are golden with buttercups and the old cows are lying down. We get to the station and it is crowded with troops and people. I feel rather cold and Nanny is crying. I need to go the the bathroom but it is not possible to get through to the waiting room. The band strikes up up “Colonel Bogey’ I start to cry and I have wet my undies. I feel ashamed standing there with a large pool at my feet but no one notices. The train moves off with everyone waving and crying. I wish that I was home in my cozy bed. The walk home seems long and I am very tired. Next day, I make a nice house for my lame chicken further back under the big fir tree. He cannot be seen from the air so he should be safe. His name is Dr. Johnson.
Something rather scary happened just recently. My mother was going out to visit a friend. She was all dressed up and almost down the lower field path which led to her friend’s house when something told her she should return to the house. She tried to reason with herself that all was well at home but the feeling persisted. S, she started back home.
We were playing on our side lawn which was well shielded by shrubberies .when there was a loud gunshot and sounds of someone calling for help outside our grounds. Mother got to the scene to see that a rather drunk soldier, playing with a revolver, had shot his buddy though the thigh. She took in the situation, got her first aid bag applied a tourniquet and sent another soldier down to the Military Police on duty in the village. We were strictly cautioned to stay on our lawn but we peeked out a saw an ambulance with a Red Cross on it, coming up our driveway. Mother came to reassure us that the soldier would be alright. Her pretty summer dress has bloodstains on it. Nanny was very white in the face and Mother told her to go and get our tea right away. I heard her telling Nanny that she was worried about the pathway to the pub being so near and would speak to the army colonel about closing
it.
The grown ups have decided that we are too near the coast and the big Army camps. We can hear the guns in France all day long. My brother is over there now; I wonder what he is doing. It’s decided-we are going to move further away from the coast. My father has found a house to rent. It is in the same town where two of my older brothers are in boarding school. They will be able to spend their half-holidays with us, which will be fun. I hate to leave Dr. Johnson, my lame chicken, behind. He willme me so much, I know I do hope that the man who takes care of the firewood and the garden will remember to feed him. He is not very nice about Dr. Johnson and thinks that he is rather a nuisance, which is not true. He does nothing bad, just stays in his own territory.
I must get all my treasures together, my marbles, snail shells and other small thing, my favorite little flower case. I must take it with me, my pencils. My bird’s eggs I will have to leave; they are too fragile to move. I’ll put them in a safe place. I’ll tie up my treasures in a large, red handkerchief and always keep them with me. Then I won’t feel so lonely. I wonder what the new house will be like. My father has to say behind (note: vicar of Postlings) but he will visit us sometimes. I wish that he could be with us.
Well, we are all packed and we’ll be on the train tomorrow. We have to go via London where we change trains. It is quite a long journey for us. Trains in war time are rather crowed with soldiers on leave and people moving.
We make quite a crowd, Mother, Nanny, three older sisters, my twin and myself and three younger brothers. The soldiers all make a fuss of us and give us sweets and cigarette cards. Mother says, “Be polite but do not eat the sweets.” We have sandwiches and lemonade for the journey. It’s hot on the train and I fall asleep clutching my bundle of treasures. I am woken when we change trains. The London stations is huge and crowded; we seem a long ways from home. The station is called London Bridge which seems a funny name to give a station. I say this sleepily to myself. ‘London Bridges falling down, falling down.” Soon we are a t the new house. It’s rather dark and cold. We are given some soup and put to bed. It’s all very strange and the rooms are quite small. Mother says “It’s wartime and everyone has to put up with something different. At least we no longer hear the guns in France or the air raid sirens. And we don’t have to go down into the cellar.” My older brothers will come for their half-holiday tomorrow. I will be fun to see them again
Next day the grownups unpack the things that were sent ahead of us. My sister and I explore outside, It’s a small garden and we are quite near the street. My brothers arrive and Mother says that she will take us to the Swan Inn for lunch as a treat. The little ones stay with Nanny.
The Swan Inn is very nice. It’s on the river and we feed the swans and run along the tow path. There was a real waiter at lunchtime and we felt quite grown up when he waited on our table. Mother told him that we would be living in the little town for a while until the war ends. “When will it end? When can we go home?”, I wonder.
Our governess did not come with us and Mother and our older sisters will give us lessons. Our governess wanted to do ‘war work.’ When we take walks in the town we see groups of Belgians refuges. We are told that the ‘horrid Germans’ have occupied their homes and they have had to take shelter in England. Poor things, they look so sad. It must b so awful to have your home invaded and all messed up. I hope nothing like that will happen to our home. We get used to the strange house and do our lessons with mother or my older sisters every morning. The we usually take a walk after lunch. Our favorite walk is to the river by the Swan Inn. There are bulrushes growing there and water is a lovely forget-me-not blue. We write letters to my brother in France and try to be cheerful. My father came up for two nights and told us that everything was alright at home. He brought some vegetables from the garden and they are very good.
I wish we could have some animals here but it is not possible. We’re saving our pocket money to buy War Bonds. We’re told that it is the patriotic thing to do. Sometimes I wish I were grown up so that I could do real “War work”. We saw some wounded soldiers today from the Convalescent Camp nearby. They wear blue uniforms. I wish that I was old enough to take care of one of them.
We have been here for more than a year. It seems like a long time. We’ re all very sad today because Nanny received news that her soldier friend is ‘missing’. Mother tried to cheer her up and we all sent prayers for him, ‘wherever he may be.” He was so nice to us.
My brother writes cheerful letters. He does not want us to worry about him. Before we moved to Surrey, my eldest sister was going to Red Cross meetings in the nearby town. (note: Hythe) They rolled bandages and packed up scarves and socks to be sent to the troops. The war seems so far away from here. I wonder how old I will be before it ends and we can go home again. We’re making our Christmas presents. I have learned to embroider and have made my own design on a cushion cover for my mothers, It has leaves and little apples. I drew the design with a blue pencil. I will probably make a bookmark for my father. There is not much to buy in the little town.
Between the wars
The war has ended at last; we are home once more. Everything is rather changed. My dear lame chicken is no longer around-I do miss him. We do not have much help in the house and have to help out with the housework. My little fared looks sad and neglected. I will have to get to work on it.
My brother is home and he is very ill. It’s a new ‘flu called Spanish ‘flu. He has to be isolated and we cannot even go into his room. Mother is taking care of him. She looks very worried and has no time for anything else. My brother gets better but it has taken a long time. He will go to an agricultural college and learn about farming. He is rather deaf now, the result of the gunfire in France.
Some of the men from the village will never return. Their names are to be inscribed in the church and also on a big granite cross in the village. People have been contributing money for the cost. It is very sad for their families. We are going to have a boy to live with us this summer. He is seventeen years old and his parents are abroad. We wonder what he will be like.
Summer has come and the visitor is here. He is tall and a very good cricketeer. We play cricket every day on the big lawn. When my brother gets tired I have to bowl for him. One day he hits the ball and it goes off at an angle right through the window of my father’s study. We stop the game and wait nervously to be called for an explanation. He has to pay up for the new glass and the incident is closed but we can no longer play with a hard ball on that lawn.
I bicycle with my brothers and the visitor to the county cricket matches. Its great fun as we are able to stop on the way home for supper at a place called Slippery Sam’s. Slippery Sam was reputed to have been a smuggler of brandy and tobacco in the old days. I feel quite grown up. My eldest brother has a farm now and my sisters are keeping house for him. They will probably never marry as there are so few men of their age group left. The war has wiped out nearly a generation of young men. I stay at the farm and learn how to take care of the hens and ducks and cows and the new born lambs if they need to be bottle-fed. It is a quiet and peaceful existence but I am restless and want to see more of the world. I think I am falling in love with a farmer’s son. Mother is upset with me as she does not consider it a suitable friendship.
Well, I am being sent to Paris to live with a French family, friends of my parents. I am to stay a year and not speak any English. I am excited and nervous. I have only been away from home for short periods of time.
Paris is, at first, very confusing to me. I am very afraid of not being able to find my way back to the apartment if I go out alone. It’s springtime and the horse chestnut trees are in full bloom in the park. We always go ther eon Sundays, after the family returns from Roman Catholic mass. I have to go o the British Embassy chapel as my parents want me to continue in the Anglican faith. Sometimes I go to both services. The Mass has something that attracts me, what I don’t know.
The family has a nephew about my age who comes to lunch on Sundays. He is quite handsome but he is very religious. He is thinking of becoming a priest or a doctor. He is studying at the Sorbonne. Sometimes after Mass, we talk for the longest time. My French is getting better. I hope he becomes a doctor.
I am very homesick and miss England even though the food is much nicer over here. It’s Christmas time and none of my packages have arrived. I cannot help crying even though everyone is nice to me. I wish I could go home and see the family.
It’s summer once more and we are all going to the south of France. Everyone who is able to, leaves Paris in the summer; it’s too hot and stuffy. We go on the train to a little town called Bandot. The family has a villa there. The Ville (unintelligible)-we go every day & it is very beautiful. There are other families. I love the warm sun and the scent of carnations and rosemary. We eat lots of fruit and cheese. The days pass very quickly. It is a very different from England but I feel very happy. I’m not homesick now. I make friends with a Japanese family; the children can swim like sea otters and even the baby is taken into the water by the father.
I have had my hair cut into ‘ce bob’ with a fringe and I really begin to feel that I am French. I’ll be returning to England next summer just for a short time and then I’m coming back to Paris and then the south of France. Maybe I’ll live in France instead of England.
Back to England and the family; I’m happy to see them but can no longer seem to fit into the quiet life of a country village. Everything seems to have changed. I’m no longer interested in the farmer’s son and I want to go back to France. Why do I feel that I belong there? Why do I wonder that there is a part of me that will always love England in the springtime? The bluebell woods; the cuckoo’s calling; early morning walks in the woods in autumn, the crisp, dry leaves underfoot, and the feeling that everything is winding down for the winter sleep.
Marriage
Life Is going too quickly for me. I want to do so many things and my old desire to become a doctor haunts me but father says , “No, you’ll just marry and all that money will be wasted on your education. Besides your younger brothers must go to University. They will be the breadwinners,”
I really don’t want to marry and ‘settle down’; it all sound so dull. I’m back in Paris with the French family. We are going to the south of France, warms sun. I can’t wait
An Englishman, a friend of the French family comes for a visit. He takes me out to dinner and asks when I am coming back to England.
The French family will be in England next summer and I will visit my family again. It is a strange ‘coincidence’ to fine that the English man lives quite near to my home and even ‘knows my parents.’ Before too long, I realize that he has asked my parents permission to as me to marry him. My parents are all in favor of the idea. I am overwhelmed; I want to please them but I am not ready to ‘settle down’. My parents think it is a good match. I have a year to think about it and return to Paris once more. He comes over with a ring and before I come to my senses, I am engaged to be married.
The formal wedding takes place. (1930?) I feel trapped but cannot get out of it. So I find myself living in a beautiful old house in the country. I am very lonely and spend a good deal of time with my dogs (insert writing if found) The marriage is not working out, After a few years, a friend (Sybille Olivier Day) comes to stay with us, and being far more world-wise than me, sums up the situation. She helps me obtain a divorce. My family is shattered; I cannot go home.
For a while, I go to stay with my friend. She, her husband and children live in an old mill house on the river. The first night I slip on a throw rug in the bedroom and break and dislocate my ankle and some bones in my foot. So I am grounded for a while. I stay on with them. The summer is beautiful; I lie on a cot under an apple tree and the pink petals fall softly into the river.
I have to get my foot well. I need to be strong and active. I browse through my friend’s library and come across a book which holds my attention. It is called A New Model of the Universe by P. D. Ouspensky. I cannot put it down. I question my friends about the author but they can tell me nothing. I am left unsatisfied but determined to find the author.
My old Peter Pan dream returns, I can see my family through the window but cannot get it to them.
1937-A Strange time –
I am living in the country with my dogs and my garden. Life stands still in some ways. As the years roll on, we realize that a war is inevitable. My youngest brother is now at the University. He and his friends come down and talk about the worthlessness of continuing to get a degree. ‘We’ll just be cannon fodder,” they say.
There are endless tennis parties, scavenger hunts and ‘murder’ games played in large, old houses; anything to take one’s mind off the future
German bomb Guernica-A strange time
The Spanish war is taking place. Ehen I am in Paris, I go to see Picasso’s large mural, ‘Guernica.” It is very horrifying and brings to mind the desolation and destruction of war. How can one live through it? A friend and I take a banana boast to Madeira Island. She injured her knee skiing in Switzerland and can only swim for exercise and lie in the sun. I make friends with some people who like to walk and we take long hikes up in the surrounding mountains. The island is an extinct volcano and everything grows profusely’ great masses of bougainvillea, trumpet vine and arum lilies.
German cruise ships are coming to the island. They are full of German tourists wearing little red hats with the slogan ‘Strength Through Joy” printed on them. We are told that the cruise is a rewards to the workers for their work efforts
Back in England, rumors of war, a general feeling of unease, Hitler’s voice over the BBC, really hypnotic, rallying the people. A very close friend of mine died in a bizarre way. An Army group training Territorial Troops camped in tents near a railway line and a spark from a passing train set the dry grass on fired and unknown to the occupants of the large tent, it creeps along and reaches the tent with the sleeping men. The fumes from the ground covering suffocate them. One awakes and tries to drag the others out; only my friend left when the tent was enveloped in flames and he does not escape.
I am devastated. I cannot forget his smiling face as he said ‘goodbye, see you when I get back.” And drive off, waving from his open car as he reaches the corner of the street. I go to the south of France with some friends but I cannot enjoy the warm sun and their gaiety. Nothing touches me. I am frozen.
MY dream-
It is on a hot August night; I cannot sleep comfortable. I dream of a fire and see a large circle of silvery dry grass. There is a pair of field boots in the grass-no people. I wake and the dream is so vivid that I think I smell fire. I get up and search the house and outside but find nothing/I cannot shake off the dream. I feel cold and alone. Ten days later, the phone rings. Something tells me the my (unreadable) is dead. The call is from his mother who tells me the sad news and details of his death.
1939, September 1st.
It is a beautiful autumn day. The beech leaves are golden and the ground under them smells so fragrant. My summer flowers are holding their own and the Michaelmas daisies have Red Admiral butterflies sitting peacefully on them. The village streets seem to be sleeping. Everything has an unreal feeling like the lull before a great storm.
I feel restless so I decide to drive over to my parent’s house a few miles away. The country roads seem to be deserted also; a few people out in the corn fields are pulling up the oat shoots. It is very still everywhere. I drive down the familiar drive where we played as children and each year celebrated the Oxford-Cambridge boat race with paper boats made of dark and light blue paper. What fun it was and how we cheered when Cambridge won as that was my grandfathers and my father’s university. Pictures of those days are going through my mind as I enter our driveway and turn into the back courtyard. I look at the kitchen windows and see the wooded shutters inside being folded back and forth. I hurry hurry to the back door, almost reading on my father’s favorite cat and there is my mother, trying out the shutters. ‘What are you doing” I ask her. “Mary, Hitler has invaded Poland. We shall need these once more.”
She goes on to say that ‘your three younger brothers will be in active service this time.” Poor Mother; it is hard for her to go through all this once again. I make us some tea in the old kitchen. Floods of memories come back to me; five years old and standing on a stool and rolling out pastry with old Ruth, our cook; stirring a great bowl of raisins for the Christmas pudding and being allowed to drop in the little three-penny pieces into the dough to be found and wished upon on Christmas Day.
Mother says, “We shall be hearing the sirens again as soon as the air raids start.” A chill goes down my spine. I have never forgotten them. I return to my own home and realize that I must say goodbye to it soon and find homes for my dogs. I will join a mobile unit of the British Red Cross. Nothing will keep me out of the active scene. Maybe I can get sent overseas. I have already had a First Aid training and the next day I get a medical check-up and join the local mobile unity in the nearby town. Before too long, I am called to active duty and am assigned to a Military hospital a few miles from home. So much for my dreams of overseas duty. We are known as VADs, Voluntary Aid Detachment and our main job is take over from hospital orderlies who can be sent overseas. We are billeted in a large building on the grounds.
The small roads to the coast are full of the army on the move. My house is right on the village street and I hear the steady tread of men and rumbling equipment all night long. The sirens sound; it is a false alarm, a try-out to make sure that all is ready. Strange rumors coming an about car engines mysteriously cutting out when approaching a strategic part of the coast.
In the interim before I am called up for duty, I rent a room in town with a nice woman who once worked for me. It’s a funny little room on the ground floor, really her sitting room. There is a large picture of her sailor son; its frame is covered with seashells. The little house always smells of cabbage cooking. We shall have bangers and mashed potatoes and talk of ‘days before the war.’ Food is rationed and getting expensive. The little house was rebuilt after World War I and has a tiny garden in the front, If I can see flowers I have feel reassured that all will be well eventually.
While we are waiting to be called up, the Commandant of the Red Cross Unit decides that we should have Air Raid Training. We are taken out to the gardens on top of the cliffs and are divided into groups, wounded and First Aid people. Labels are attached to the wounded, broken leg, head injury, etc. The rescuers have flashlights and at a given signal, with first aid equipment are to proceed to look for victims. Someone has tipped off the local Small Arms School (Officers in Training) and they arrive in force and capture all of us and take us to the officer’s mess, complete collapse of the scheme. A highly indignant Commandant, no more air raid drills but great fun for us.
The sea front, it’s very cold. Each morning we are taken up to the hospital in military vehicles. It’s winter now and snowing. The spray from the ocean is freezing as it falls in the sea front. All night long, the search lights crisscross the sky. A ‘before the war’ friend of mine turns up. He looks good in his uniform and we sit on a bench on the sea front and watch the search lights. We last had met on the island of Madeira in the warm sunshine. We hold hands and try to cheer each other up. The deserted sea front and the empty benches and the great sea pounding on the breakwater make us feel as if we are all alone in a strange place. Neither of us can bear to walk into town to eat and be exposed to other human beings. The wild sea comforts us, we tell each other. The elements are impervious to human behavior. They will remain when all else crumbles.
Work up at the hospital is hard, great big garbage cans to handle, long wards to see to, many beds to make and very little equipment. A ‘flu epidemic takes over. Men are being brought in from the overcrowded camps with pneumonia and other complications. There are not enough beds now and it is difficult to wash someone on the floor. All we have are huge, china basins, army issue, that are heavy when full of water-hot.! The V.A.D.s are coming down with the flu I find myself alone on the afternoon shift. I don’t feel quite well.
One of the men I was looking after died last night. We all thought it would be quite glamorous to nurse wounded soldiers; in fact, we could hardly wait. A flu epidemic does not seem very exciting. The war is very strange, a timeof waiting.
I walk into the ward with my large bowl of water and suddenly am overcome with dizziness and nausea. I drop the bowl and water spreads all over. The Army nurse hears the crash and comes in in. She makes me sit down in the nearest chair. My legs will scarcely move. “Another case of the flu” she says and sends me back to the cold billets. A raging headache, high fever, shivering under all I could muster for blankets. Tea came whenever anyone can remember the ‘flu’ people. No work for a week; it would have bliss if I didn’t feel so ill
Back to work; the necessary supplies are getting shorter, not enough thermometers. We hide our cleaning cleaning rags from one another when we go off-duty. The tin mugs for gargling are never enough to go around the men. We try to buy some in the little town when we go shopping. Colonel’s inspection day, what a farce! All the bed pans, mugs, buckets, etc have to be lined in the hall, accounted for. We have to stand at attention when he makes his rounds. Small wooden tables besides each bed have to be wiped with the uniforms folded & tied to the front –giving a uniform effect down each side of the ward. The Army nurse hisses at me that we are short a bed pan. “Sorry, “ I reply, “It’s in use” She looks annoyed and says , “it’s an inconvenient moment; the Colonel is here.” Oh well, there is nothing I can do about it. How odd it is that importance is attached to things like this.
The days pass in almost monotonous succession. I am getting more used to the hard work and routine duties. But still have difficulty shaking down thermometers. Matron calls me in one morning and informs me that I am being transferred to the Isle of Wight. There is a shortage of V.A.D.s over there I m delighted to be on the move; anywhere, away from the neighborhood that I know so well. The hospital that I am assigned to is a small barracks hospital, very old-fashioned. . The Matron in charge has a forbidding face that looks like it has been carved out of stone. She never smiles She has been in the service for years and has some lived in places too with tropical climates. The other V.A.D.s are from the local Detachment and seem to rather resent a newcomer. I am billeted in a house near the hospital I don’t think that the owner really appreciate having a stranger in their house. The area around the hospital and the barracks is surround by barbed wire “off limits’ to us. But there is a tempting stretch of wooded area beyond the wire.
The island seems very quiet and far away from the war zone. We have no wounded men in the hospital. There is great excitement one day when a lone raider come over and machine-guns the building. No one is hurt. I take my exam for a higher grade and receive a little gold pin which reads G-1. The soldiers make crack about it.
One day in early summer, I feel that I cannot stand my uniform any longer. I am off duty in the afternoon and I, armed with my green plaid rug, manage to crawl under the wire and escape into the messy woods. I find a secluded spot, Taking off my shoes and stockings, horrid, thick, grey ones and my uniform, I stretch out in my slip and soak up the sunshine filtering through the trees. The scent of the first wild roses is heavenly. It feels so good to have bare arms and legs once more. I am almost asleep when the sound of brush crackling makes me that a large animal must be near. I raise my head to look and to my horror, se khaki forms crawling on their stomachs about fifty yards from me. What to do?
Fortunately we have been well-briefed about the human face being very visible from the air and taught to lie on our stomachs if necessary. I roll myself up in the rug and lie motionless. The army crawls on, bent on reaching their objective. I am saved from embarrassment and explanations. Waiting, rather uneasily for a decent interval to pass, I get dressed and make it back to the hospital grounds. No one will ever guess where I have spent my time off!
WAR
It’s strange to think that these ‘inventions’ are housed on the French coast that we so often visited and enjoyed before the war. Everything in one’s mind seems to date events now with the words, ‘before the war’ I suppose one day we shall also say ‘after the war’—one of these days.
I am assigned to take a ‘crash’ course in typing and shorthand, in order to sill a place as a secretary in London with the Red Cross. Our course is held in a large old mansion a short way away from London. All day we sit in what once a beautiful ball room and type to the tune of ‘Run, rabbit, run’. It gets on my nerves. I want to be active. Pitman’s Shorthand is demanding, so much to memorize. I am billeted with another female in the little village, so far untouched by air raids or guided missiles.
We share a room and one night she wakes me up from a nightmare. I dream that I sliding down a shorthand symbol. As she wakes me, I say “It’s alright, Ginnie, it’s hooked at the end for a B” Ginnie is concerned about me, wondering if I have lost my marbles. I wonder, too, sometimes. The course finishes and I have made a passing grade. Now Where am I going to land, I wonder.
It turns out to be London. At first I am assigned to a hospital to keep records of the patients; of medications. Bombs have destroyed the nearby buildings. There are piles of dusty rubble everywhere but the brave fireweed is blooming wherever it can find a foothold. It is so cheering to see it.
London is the target for the guided missiles (buzz bombs) The are a strange invention, one can hear them coming, put, put ,put, followed by a large thump where they come down. One is safe all the time one can hear them but watch out for the silence and the loud “crump”. When one hears if, one knows that another area has been demolished and probably lives have been lost.
After a short while. I am moved to Clarence House to work in the Dutch-Belgian Department . I find the work rather depressing- The news is terrible. So many people trying to trace relative who have disappeared into concentration camps.
Head Hospital.
A year has passed and I like the work here very much. It is challenging but my foot is giving me trouble. It is not really strong enough to stand the long hours. I try to hide the fact that it is swollen and I am limping. I take soft shoes to wear on night duty but the last attracts the attention of one of the doctors. It is swollen up like a balloon. So I am to be transferred somewhere else for a sedentary job. I feel very sad.
St. James Park is near and I go to watch the ducks and find some peace and sanity in the world, which appears mostly to be insane. Dame Myra Hess is giving lunch-time concerts for workers. (note-she organized over 2000 concerts during the war and played over 150 herself). She is a wonderful pianist and plays a lot fo Bach’s music. We take out lunches in brown bags, carefully opening them and taking out one’s sandwich outside (the sound of 50 paper bags being opened would be disturbing ) We sit on the lawn close to one another.
The doctor is a remarkable man and I am sure that he ahs the gift of healing. He has only to lay his hands on a restless patient and calmness will return. Sometimes he even stands in silence at the end of the hall and the patients can feel his presence. The recovery from head injuries is very low. Infections et in and become rampant. There are not many antibiotics available yet. and for the first time, I really see his eyes, blue and clear. He is very special. We all vie for the job of making his Ovaltine at night.
One of one fellow V.A.D.s (Voluntary Aid Detachment.) comes to the meal we eat before going on night duty and she scarcely eats a thing; says she is not hungry. Before too long it dawns on me that she is pregnant. Oh dear! What to do? We all envied her a while ago when she had compassionate leave to see her fiancé before he was sent overseas. (We always joke and call it ‘Passionate heave) She returned proudly showing us her diamond engagement ring which now ear as a charm around her neck under her uniform. She asks me to help fix her apron. It will no longer go quite around her waist. Soon the doctor realizes her condition and she has to go to the Matron. She will leave us. Before she does leave, news comes that her finance has been killed in action. The child she carries will never know his or her father. One thing the war teaches us is to live in the present. One can no longer dream of the future.
Netley Hospital fragment
Word has gotten around that there is an Indian patient who can tell the fortunes from one’s hand. He has to speak through an interpreter. Of course, we are all anxious to know the future and take a chance to see him. He looks at my palm and the interpreter tells me that he sees me leave my own country, marry a man from another country, and have no children. Then he makes a strange remark that he sees me ‘surrounded by little bad heads”. This makes no sense to me; I ignore it. I do not swallow the little rolled up paper which is supposed to be put under one’s pillow for a night.
Little did I know that in two week’s time, I would be transferred tot a head injury hospital—with many bad heads to take care of.
Transferred again
I have received news that two of my brothers were reported ,‘missing, believed killed’. I sit on my bed recalling scenes from our childhood. It’s the fifteen minutes break in the morning to change our aprons, and, if lucky, snatch a cup of tea. A fellow V.A.D. comes into the dorm, ‘You look down Miller,” she says, “had bad news?” I cannot reply. She walks over to her bed and comes back with an open Bible. “Here, read this,” she says in a cheery tone of voice. It is the last straw for me; I am strung too tight. I take the Bible from her and throw it violently to the side of the room.
In silence, we go to our respective duties. She is transferred to another hospital the next day and I never get a chance to apologize. Our dorm is over the NAF canteen and the favorite tune, played over and over, is “south of the Border.” I cannot get it out of my head. I wish it would stop. At night I dream that I see one of my brothers running down a long road lined with poplar trees. I do not think he is dead.
The most severely wounded are being transferred to other hospitals further from the coast. An invasion is threatened at any time. We are confined to the hospital buildings. Churchill is one the air; his famous speech, ‘Blood, Sweat and Tears.” It is heartening to hear his voice; we will never surrender. There are German prisoners on the top floor. They are pilots that have been shot down and are very arrogant. When the air raid siren sounds, they “Heil Hitler”. I volunteer to work up there “Inter Arma, Caritas” is our Red Cross motto on our badges (In War, Charity)It’s hard but I reason that maybe my brothers ned care.
Canadian patient
My Canadian patient writes me a note one day saying that he will get around the doctors and get permission to take me out to dinner as soon as his jaw is unwired and he can eat real food. The great day arrives. He is to be transferred to a convalescent center this week; permission is granted and off we go. He is in his hospital blue uniform. His back is still in a cast. We hail a taxi and head for a nice restaurant; champagne, of course and the waiters giving us their full attention. A memorable evening then back to the hospital-and next day, good-bye. Fare well-whatever is in store for you. So many goodbyes, so long-good luck.
Many months later, I received a letter from Canada. It was from his mother, thanking me for I had done for her only son. He had written to her about the dinner. He was killed in another crash. I visualize his face, smiling and happy. He died young but he did what was important to him. How many of use can say that?
Head Hospital
I am on night duty. I have never got used to the black-out. Can hardly wait until dawn. When it comes, it is so beautiful. I have never appreciated light before. My job is to sit with a patient who has undergone intensive head surgery. We are given a sheet to write any indication of movement and also to watch the head bandages for any signs of bleeding. There is a small patch of blood in the bandage and as the night wears on, one’s imagination is inclined to see it enlarge.
The ‘chief’ sleeps at the end of the wards when he has a seriously ill patient. One day he stops by and asks ‘What do you do when you sit with my patient?” I reply “I try to be attentive and note down the patient’s condition and movements.” He looks at me kindly, “I know you do that but do you do for yourself?” I don’t know what to reply and he says ‘you could at least (lost)’
The days pass almost unnoticed and the hospital has fewer and fewer patients. It is too near the coast and a possible invasion. Suddenly I hear that I am to be transferred to work in a special head injuries hospital. A famous neurosurgeon and his first assistant are in charge of it. They have converted a women’s cottage into a hospital. It’s ideal for the head injuries as it is very quiet, no air raids or bombs. How strange it will seem.
I leave on a Sunday and arrive and report to the Red Cross Commandant who takes me to my billet. She tells me that I will share a room with another girl who also will be working at the hospital. We go upstairs and she knocks at a door. A tired voice says ‘come in’ to the Commandant. “here is your new roommate” I am left to confront a rather glamorous looking female who is reading and sipping on something from a mug, stretched out in her undies on her bed. She looks in my direction and indicates my corner of the room, murmurs something about the bathroom down the hall and goes on reading. Oh, well! Better that the barracks, at least only one person to contend with!
I unpack my suitcase and decide to rest until supper time. My roommate puts her book down on the table between the beds and to my surprise, it is a bible. In a tired, bored voice that (?)
Later I learn to be part of her, she says “Would you like a drink? There is some gin in the cupboard under the table. The gin is labeled ‘hairspray’ as we cannot have alcohol in our billets. “There’s another mug in there or you can use your tooth glass.” Well, now I know she is human and I take her up on her offer.
We talk a little and she tell me that the work in the Head Injuries Hospital is very hard. Many deaths and long, long treatments. She cannot stand it and cannot eat or sleep properly and is being transferred to the kitchen. However, she says, “You’ll love the Chief Neurologist, every does, he is wonderful. The Army nurses are just the same as you will find anywhere Stuck in their routines but the Chief likes the Red Cross aides as he feels that they can bring something fresh to the patients.”
from my present billet. We are more or less assigned to special cases. Mine is a young Canadian who gave a false age and came over to join the Royal air Force. His plane crashed and he has a broken back and facial injuries, which require his jaw to be wired shut. I feed him slops through a tube and he communicates as well as possible with only eye contact. I cannot resist wearing the Red Cross cap on the back of my head and picking a flower to put in my pin, at the corner of my apron, when I go through the garden on my way to duty in the ward. The army sister is very ‘stuck’ in her ways and, one day, as I was feeding my patient, she tells me in a loud voice, “Be professional. Put that cap on properly and take that flower off.” She has not noticed that the ‘chief’ is in earshot “he interrupts, “No, sister, leave her alone, she shall a flower every day. She brings fresh life to my patients.” He smiles kindly at me.
.
The Battle of Britain is in full force. The enemy planes are coming nightly right over our old home. The RAF is responding gallantly. So few of them. The pilots barely have time to refuel before they are airborne again. London is tking a beating. People are spending nights in the underground. A very strange existence: it looks like an underground city, little places cornered off for privacy with blankets and gunny sacks. People are amazingly cheerful. There is nothing like a (?) for endurance and spirit.
We hear that the British Expeditionary forces, the Dutch and Belgium armies and the bulk of two French armies are trapped as they are forced back to the Channel coast. The Belgians surrender and the British have ordered evacuation. At a moment’s notice, all spare VADs from our hospital are to be transferred to the big Military hospital at Netley near Southhampton to help cope with the wounded coming in from the evacuation. I have scarcely time to collect my things and eat something before I am on my way.
A heroic operation is taking place involving boats of all types. Setting off across the channel to rescue the trapped armies on the beaches at Dunkirk and nearby beaches
Netley Military Hospital-Memories of a V.A.D. Dunkirk Evacuation-May-June 1940
ON the air
350,000 Allied troops surrounded by German armies.
“Blood, Sweat and Tears
Strawberries and carnations
The duchess “We must do something for these fine boys’
On duty on Ward 2
‘I’ll be very careful with your leg”
Oh why is khaki cloth so hard to cut?
Clos your eyes and dream of a warm hay field, you and your girl will be so jolly.
Doctor, I’m being as quick as I can
Pain needle do your work.
Will she still love me with one leg?
Dear God, I’ll never complain again If I can cease to be tired.
It is a warm summer day. The hospital is large with long, concrete corridors. I’m on duty in Ward 2. There is an almost sickening scent of strawberries and carnations. They were sent in this morning from someone’s estate. We have no time to deal with them I am very tired. I am told to fetch something for one of the doctors from another ward. I go unhesitatingly and return. How did I know where to go? Everything seems so familiar to me. Have I lived through this scene in another life?
Special patient
My turn for night duty comes and I am told by the ‘gargoyle as we now have named her, that a very special patient has been admitted. In a hushed tone, she informs me that his father is a colonel at the War Office. He is ill with a kidney condition and must be kept warm and his intake and output carefully recorded. I inwardly resent the implication that the unknown patient is special, just because his father is at the War Office. I’m not going to treat him any different than any other patient.
The ‘special’ patient is in a small, private room. It has a tiny fireplace which has been stoked through the night with coal. One of my duties, I introduce myself as the night nurse and tactfully mention intake and output. With a disarming smile he produced a full urinal from under the bed clothes and requests new one as soon as possible, Obeying his request, I dutifully return and note on the chart the contents of the full urinal. I fill up his water glass, put in a new straw, suggest that he drink it before I leave him to sleep. I notice that he has very blue eyes and obviously a sense of humor. The coal fire is smoky and needs constant attention. I creep into the room from time to time.
The drinking and emptying occurring at intervals; the ‘special’ patient has a restless night. He is quite ill. Towards the end of his stay in hospital, when he is on his way to recovery and a return to duty, I am handed a note the reads “Dear Bottles, I am awarding you a medal of devotion to duty. I would consider it an honor if I could take you out to dinner when I get out of this place.” Pip Needless to say, we became great friends and saw quite a lot of one another until I was transferred once more.
WWII Transport incident
It was a cold, wet night and I turned my coast collar up as high as possible as I followed my patient up the gangplank and onto the boat. It was during World War II and the boat is crowded with troops returning from leave. The M.P. on duty scarcely glances up as he took our passes by the light of a flashlight. I felt a tingle of excitement. I was attached to a Mobile Red Cross unit and it was my first time on coveted Convoy duty. I was in charge of a wounded man being repatriated to Northern Ireland.
In the intense blackout, the outline of the boast scarcely showed but we were almost certain to be chase by a submarine on the way as the enemy were making quite a nuisance of themselves in these waters.
Down in the cabin, I helped my patient to bed and then tidied my hair and put on a crisp, clean apron and cap. Time passed, my patient slept, and still we did not move. Putting my head out the door, I enquired of the first man that I saw, “What is the matter? Are we stuck here for the night? Is there an air raid alert or something?” “Hell,” he replied wearily, “they’ve lost a man, can’t make the number of passes check the muster call.”
Deciding to read for a while, I had scarcely opened my book when, with a loud knock, the door burst open and the M.P.’s face came round the corner. “Are you travelling on a Military Pass?, he enquired, somewhat fiercely. “whey, of course,” I replied, “you checked me in at the barrier. I am on active duty.” He clapped his hand to his brow. “Gor blimey! Come with me immediately to the OD, now there will be trouble!”. I flowed him, wondering what grave misdeed I had committed. “’Er ‘e is, sir,” the sergeant shouted excitedly. “’Er ‘e is, got past me on the gangplank without me noticing the difference. Corporal just ‘appened to mention seeing ‘im in the cabin doorway just now.”
The face of the lieutenant on duty betrayed scarcely a smile as he looked at me. “Very good, Sergeant,” he said, “We will discuss this later. Meanwhile, as your eyesight appears to be defective, I feel it is my duty to accompany,”—He hesitated, “Mr. Florence Nightingale back to his quarters.”
Full circle (Turkey)
My husband and I had been living in Ankara, Turkey for nearly a year and looking forward to our first Christmas. The months spent there had passed happily and we felt that we were beginning to know the people, who possessed many endearing and childlike qualities.
During the summer two of the local policemen had become great friends over the exchange of prickly cacti for American flower seeds. Their police station, a bare concrete building, was located at the top of the road and we had many animated conversations, making up with signs when words failed, over the size of the American marigolds and the colors of the nasturtiums in their window boxes. The night watchman always blew a piercing blast on his whistle as he made his rounds past out house, a special thank-you for the flowers.
Christmas Day came, and as we walked home in the crisp, cold air from the morning services at the Embassy, I remarked to my husband, You know, dear, Christmas is what you make it; surroundings don’t matter. I feel full of peace and goodwill. O know we are going to have a wonderful day.” He smiled fondly at me, and as we entered the house, I reminded him, “George, we’re due at Robert’s for cocktails and lunch in half an hour, then, open house at the Captain’s and a late snack with Fran and Joe. I am really looking forward to the turkey which Robert had promised to produce and the Christmas pudding, especially for me” (My husband, being an American, does not share my enthusiasm for the pudding which my English background demands as part of the celebrations.)
As I changed my clothes, I was mentally writing letters to everyone, telling them about the lovely Christmas Day we had spent. How good the turkey tasted, and how pretty the table had looked with the red candles Robert had ordered from home and the pine cones we had brought down from the mountains in summer and saved for Christmas decorations.
Out in the kitchen I could hear our maid, a stoat peasant woman, and the old man who tended our garden in the summer and our smelly coke stove in winter, having a lively conversation. I could understand most of what they were saying and I realized that they were discussing eh ‘America Feast’ and the presents we had given them.
I finished dressing and mechanically changed the contents of my old pocketbook into my gay, new, red one; a Christmas gift from my husband. Indentification, card, passport, money, yes, even a few piece of good jewelry. We were going out for the whole day and the house would be empty as Gulsen and Mustapha were to be given a holiday. I glanced into the living room; George was deep in a book. I’m just going to ask Gulsen to call a cab for us. We should be leaving new.” “Okay,” he murmured, still lost in his book. Gulsen went next door to call a cab as we had no telephone. I put on my coast and warm boots. Once more I tried to rouse George but he had reached an exciting part of his story and was not to be moved. “Oh well,” I thought to myself, “if I go and sit in the cab, he will soon come and join me.”
As I sat and waited, it occurred to me that it would be very cold after sundown and the scarf that I was wearing on my head would be too light. Already it was beginning to snow. I got out of the cab and walked back into the house to fetch my warm hood. George returned with me and as we both sat down, I realized that I had not got my pocketbook. No sign of it anywhere. Grumbling somewhat, we went back once again to the house and explained to Gulsen and Mustapha what we were looking for.
On occasions like this my usually quiet husband becomes very excited. He immediately started looking in impossible and unlikely places, under the mattress, in the cupboards and behind the books. Soon the house became a shambles, with Mustapha and Gulsen joining in the search rather as if it were a game. I became confused and couldn’t remember whether I had brought it back to the house when I’d fetched my hood or not. I sent Gulsen out to speak to the driver. He kept a perfect poker face and disclaimed any knowledge of a red pocketbook.
My feeling s of ‘peace and goodwill’ were rapidly disappearing. By this time I felt almost sure that the cab driver must know something about it. In my best Turkish I said to Gulsen “Tell him unless my pocketbook is found in five minutes, the police will be called. We will return to the house while he searches.” However, he preferred to stick to his story and Mustapha was dispatched to the police station. I felt quite frantic. Time was flying and already we were late for the luncheon party.
The policemen arrived on the scene, complete with notebooks, and, having heard both sides of the story, proceeded, almost literally, to tear the cab apart. Old dusty cushions were flung into the road, the glove compartments ransacked but still no pocketbook. The one of the policemen almost disappeared underneath the cab and when he emerged, red in the face, he prodded the floorboards in a businesslike manner. Suddenly, with a triumphant shout, he inserted a rusty nail between two boards in the front part of the cab and lifted on to reveal my beautiful new, red pocketbook. Holding it high, he harangued everyone including our Turkish neighbors, and their children who had come over to join in the excitement, adding their opinions to the matter. The whole affair looked like a scene from a comic opera with one of he flower-loving policemen booming, ‘He is a thief! He is a thief!’ at appropriate intervals.
“Now,” they explained to us, “after we have listed the contents of your pocketbook at the police stations, we must take all of you to the jail.” “Oh, not,” we protested, “not US, It’s our big Feast Day; we are already late for our party! Give us back the pocketbook and deal with the matter as you see fit.” “No, no,” said the police, “It cannot be. You must come with us and charge the man., then to the jail and the law court where his case will be heard today.” “Oh, please,” we protested. But there was no way out; to the police station and the jail we had to go. We called our friends and explained to them that we had run into some trouble, and would, in all probability, be spending the afternoon at the jail. We could tell by the laughter that greeted us over the phone that they thought we were playing a joke on them.
Up in the gloomy old stone jail we waited in the corridor, feeling like criminals ourselves by this time. The voice of the Mussulman calling the faithful to prayer rang eerily out from the tall minaret on the nearby mosque. Was it only this morning that I had been thinking about roast turkey? It seemed like a lifetime ago. An interpreter and a lawyer had to be found for me and the miserable day wore on.
Finally we got to the law courts. The case was heard and the man, a previously convicted thief, was condemned to thirty days in jail and his cab license taken way for one month after. He cried and protested and wrung our hearts with tales of his wife and family but the judge was adamant. Off he went to jail.
We emerged fro the ordeal tired and hungry, just in time to be greeted with loud cheers by our friends who had obviously though it was a hilarious way to spend a Christmas Day. It took a lot of living down.
The sequel came three months later. My husband was ill with viral pneumonia and had to be admitted to the American Mission Hospital that was located up the hillside beyond the old city. One night I was visiting him and it was quite late by the time I was ready to leave. I asked the Turkish orderly to call a cab for me. I descended the steps lost in thought and, as I approached the waiting cab, something struck a familiar note. Yes, it was the driver I had sent to jail. What a dilemma; the prospect of a long drive across the old city, alone, with maybe a desperate character. What should I do? Why, I don’t know, but suddenly I felt very dignified. I hoped I looked like my grandmother, as we gazed at each other without exchanging a word. Then I motioned to him to open the door and I stepped in. As we drove off, it occurred to
me that I had not given an address of my destination, neither had he asked for one.
We arrived at the house without incident and, as I reached for my same red pocketbook I realized that the only money I had was my husband’s paycheck. Gulsen opened the door and I called to her, “Please pay the fare out of the market money. I have no change.” “Madame” she replied, “neither have I. I spent it all this morning.” The, in a playful tone to the driver, as she took in the comic situation, she said, “So, Madame’s [pocketbook is not worth stealing tonight, too bad!”
Trying to keep a straight face, I said, “Take me to the police station. They will pay you.” Fortunately the flower lover was on duty, tending his prickly cacti. The only change that came over his face when I asked him to pay my fare was a slight life of his eyebrows as he politely failed to recognize the man.
Later page: (in Alaska?)
I was visiting a friend’s house when I received the telegram telling me of the sudden death of my father. The little three-year-old asked me “What happened to your daddy?” I told her “He was very old and very tired and while he was asleep God called him and told him he could come to Heaven?” “Oh,” she said, “did he get there in time for lunch?” and then she added “or maybe a cookie?”
Memories of a VAD (Voluntary Aid Detachment)
Dunkirk Evacuation, May/June 1940
350,000 Allied troops surrounded by German enemies
‘Blood, sweat and tears.”
Strawberries and carnations from the Duchess
“we must do something for these fine boys”
On duty ward II “I’ll be very careful with your leg”
(Oh why is khaki cloth so hard to cut?)
Close your eyes and dream of a warm hayfield, you and your girl will be so (?)
Doctor I’m being as quick as I can
Pain-killing needle, so your work.
Will she still love me with one leg?
Dear God, I’ll never complain again if I can cease to be tired
Not enough catheters, Men cannot urinate-so many fractured backs . The rifle slings were not long enough to jump down cliffs
Scan the new arrivals quickly-so many stretchers
Is my brother or my lover among them?
Why do you want to cry?; save your tears for later
No time now
So much sand gritting under my feet, stink of old socks
Wonder if I will throw up-no time for that either.
Was it only two days ago that I was enjoying warm sun and the scent of wild roses/
They say that the evacuation was a miracle-so many little boats took part
The walking wounded look like tired horses
They fall asleep still standing up
Night staff is coming on
Some addenda
War History list
Black Market
Brother’s return
Russian lessons
Mme. Kiriloff
Mr. B
End of War
Anatolia
VJ Day
Gandhi assassination
Foot problems
London Dutch Belgium section International Red Cross
Recollection of War
Day staff to be on duty in the deep shelters—
Take turns catching some sleep on the hard cement
The night is mercifully still and beautiful—
I see the stars; they are untroubled and everlasting—
Only human beings are insane—-
A cup of sweet tea, quick wash, clean apron—
Collect tin hat & gas mask
Enter the bowels of the earth, walking wounded—
Sleeping, dreaming of home—
Taking your hand, calling you Mable or Joan—–
Tenuous comfort-a warm hand
Another day of war over
Will I ever enjoy strawberries again?
Or smell carnations without feeling ill?