Farming, Fighting and Family

by Miranda McCormick

  We have come over here for the day and had a lovely picnic … I wish you were here as you would love it. Have you ever been to the Gorge? There is a wonderful mill pool at the bottom surrounded by spring flowers & the gorge behind looks more like the Khyber than England & makes one sigh like high trees do. I am sending you one of the flowers full of meaning.*

  Do you have cuffs with your uniform? I am also sending you my links to wear for me till I get back.

  I wonder if you are back at work! I do hope they are all being nice to you, & are looking after you. I am not quite sure but I rather think that this is the last letter I can write before disappearing. It is very sad & I say to myself Oh to be in England now that April’s here.

  I have fastened my horseshoe onto a silver chain I have bought for my identity disc & there is also a St Christopher given to me by Marjorie [a fellow officer’s sister] on it. So I should be alright! …

  The little horseshoe in question was given to Pamela in her early nursing days by a grateful patient, a survivor of ‘Dunkirk’. In her diary for 13 July 1940, she wrote: ‘Another man has given me a lucky horse-shoe which he brought back from France which is rather nice and very kind of him.’ Whatever her superiors may have thought of her, Pamela was clearly popular with her patients from the word go.

  On 22 April David wrote Pamela a final, brief, touching note:

  This is to say au revoir. I am afraid I can’t say a great deal as there is an awful rush going on & I have much to do.

  You should get a letter saying that I have arrived safely in about 6 weeks time & a letter from me in about 3 months. What old news it will be!

  Everyone down here thought you were very sweet & much too good for me!

  Goodbye Darling & thank you for coming into my life

  David

  P.S. Please stay in it!

  David also wrote two final letters to his parents prior to embarkation; in the first he included some photographs of himself that Pamela had taken: ‘I enclose some photos Pamela took of me & have asked her to send you a good one of us both which we got a bar woman to take of us.’ Then in his letter dated 21 April, David wrote:

  This is definitely the letter. There is not much to say except good-bye. Expect a letter forwarded by the Colonel’s wife in about 6 weeks & a letter from me about 3 months from now …

  I think I shall be sending my love to Aunt Alice* but of course one can’t tell …

  The letter to be forwarded by the colonel’s wife did indeed eventually reach David’s parents, and read as follows:

  This is the letter which I am handing in to the Colonel’s wife & if you get it at all it will mean that the question of death by drowning will be out.

  So hurray we are at the other end on terra firma once more having had a perfectly ghastly trip I am sure. Cramped & bored I should think. I wonder where I am anyway not swimming.

  On receipt of David’s letter of 21 April, his father Edward McCormick wrote a very moving farewell letter in reply, which must have summed up the feelings of so many parents whose sons were leaving for active duty overseas:

  23 April 1941

  My dear David,

  I write in the hope that this letter may reach you before you actually embark; if not, it may take many weeks to reach you. Mummy and I have been very much affected by your leaving us and by your last two letters from Weston.

  To Mummy, in particular, the whole war centres round you and Anthony.** The chief motivating force in her life, ever since you were born, has been your health, happiness and safety. These are still her instinctive thoughts, and you don’t need me to tell you therefore how devastating this parting with you both has been to her. I feel it too, and it appals me to think of the hardship, danger and filth which will probably be your experience. There is no doubt whatever, in my mind, that this war had to come. A nazi victory can only mean the enjoyment of life by a very small number of chosen Germans and the souls of all people under them will be engulfed. You and Anthony are helping to rid the world of this plague, and, while personal feelings make me wish you were far away from it all, I am filled with pride at what you have already done and what I know you will achieve …

  We have received your several little parcels, your watch, which Mummy likes to wear at times, your receipts etc …

  It was nice of Pamela to give you a little camera. We thought the snaps were excellent …

  Mum and I send you our fondest love and blessing and pray for your well-being and safe return to us.

  Dad

  As his father feared, this letter failed to reach David before his departure, but when it did eventually catch up with him in Egypt it clearly touched him greatly. His letter of reply dated 15 July 1941 shows his appreciation, albeit expressed in similarly restrained emotional terms:

  Darling Mummy and Dad,

  I have had two more letters from you, Mummy, & one from you, Dad. They were the first ones you wrote & one was sent on the 24 of April, the day we sailed. They have taken a long time but that doesn’t seem to matter; it is lovely to get letters & all the news seems new. Dad’s letter is one that I shall keep with me …

  The fact that this original hand-written letter exists today shows that David was true to his word. Edward McCormick’s later letters to David were typed, and only the carbon copies still survive.

  Notes

  * The refrain from Rudyard Kipling’s poem, ‘Recessional’. Kipling was A.G. Street’s favourite author, whose works he would have encouraged Pamela to read.

  * On 23 March 1941 a National Day of Prayer for victory was held at the request of the king.

  * A forget-me-not, now a little shrivelled dried sprig, still in the original envelope.

  * This would have been code for one of the calling points en route.

  ** David’s elder brother, at that time stationed in Ghana.

  Six

  Heartache, Hospital and High Seas (May–August 1941)

  After the emotionally super-charged weeks leading up to David’s departure, Pamela’s initial reaction, as recorded in her diary entry for 4 May, is understandable; however this quickly transmuted into a continuous state of longing: ‘Write to David every day. After the first shock of almost relief am beginning to miss him terribly and hopelessly …’

  David’s last two letters to Pamela arrived after he had set sail, and were eagerly received:

  April 22nd David sent me another letter, a forget-me-not, and his links from Cheddar – oh & a wonderful letter too. Oh this awful war. When will it be over – when next people be able to love and get married in peace …

  April 24th The last letter from David – so wonderful, and the slip.* Destination A wherever in the world that is … Wrote immediately but oh when will it reach him. He said I’d hear when he arrived but no letter from him till 3 months …

  Pamela’s conscience was bothering her once again about her current long spell of sick leave which, according to her diary, was largely due to the emotional upset prior to David’s departure:

  April 23rd I can’t go back to the hosp ’cos Matron’s away. I hope they’ll still have me after all this time …

  April 27th Hope I can start work again soon. Do hope Matron will be nice about it. Did I ought to tell her it was heartitis [sic] really?

  During this period of waiting, Pamela had evidently recovered sufficiently to undertake a certain amount of farm work:

  April 23rd Harrowed Wishford Arch. All day. Terribly cold but nice work …

  April 24th Rolled Wishford Arch.

  April 26th Rolled The Park …

  April 28th Rolled again from 9 – 4. Top Down and Bottom Field …

  In the late spring of 1941 the war news was becoming ever more serious, and Pamela’s diary shows her following the unfolding events with a sinking heart:

  April 22nd There is an awful situation in the Med. Germans pressing in on Greece – nearly over.

  April 26th There is the most awful crisis. Greece war nearly over. They’re
trying for the whole Mediterranean and oh my goodness if they get Gib etc. Scare over Greenland. Nearly the whole world …

  April 27th Listened to Churchill. He did a difficult job very well but oh my goodness the war …

  April 28th On the news tonight we are evacuating Greece …

  May 1st The war is perfectly awful. Evacuation of Greece nearly complete …

  May 5th The situation in the east is almost as bad as it can be – and oh the war is a terrible thing … If only there was David …

  May 8th The War just goes on hammer to teeth. Iraq. Egypt. The Atlantic. Have full support of the American Navy now …

  May 22nd The Crete invasion …

  May 24th Situation in Crete still continuing. Pop says it’s a full dress rehearsal for us …

  May 28th President Roosevelt declared a state of emergency in America. Crete is awfully serious – expect we shall lose it …

  June 1st We took Pop fishing and came back to the news that we have evacuated Crete and Clothes Rationing has begun. When will it end – how can it and where is David?

  The realities of war were by now being brought home, even to those living in the comparative safety of deepest Wiltshire, in the form of news of the disappearance or death of family friends and relatives. Pamela’s diary entry for 23 May records a meeting in Salisbury with the father of a friend who had married her fiancé, Bob, shortly before the latter was posted abroad: ‘Went down to the town and met Captain Richardson. Bobs is believed killed. Poor Barbara. It’s terrible. Shall we get hardened to this I wonder …’

  Even closer to home were the reactions of Pamela’s prospective parents-in-law to their son’s departure. In her entry for 28 April, only a few days after David had left, Pamela wrote: ‘Mr. McCormick wrote a nice letter to Pop but I haven’t heard from her. We gathered p’raps she’s still too upset. Poor thing. It must be awful with 2 [sons].’

  Meanwhile the Street household was coping as best it could with the wartime privations. Vera was kept busy tending her newly planted vegetable garden. To supplement meat rationing, civilians with appropriate facilities were allowed to rear one pig per family; on 29 April Pamela’s diary records: ‘Mummy & Daddy went to Motcombe to fetch the pig.’

  Pamela’s period of sick leave finally ended. On 29 April she reported to the matron at the emergency hospital with considerable trepidation: ‘Went to see Matron – am going back tomorrow! Daddy said that I wasn’t and couldn’t say anything about David as it was ridiculous so I didn’t.’ Almost inevitably, Pamela’s subsequent diary entries show her once again locked in the miserable existence that had already caused her such anguish. This time her conscience was to plague her still further; not only was she constantly agonising about her perceived professional failings, but she was also hideously embarrassed about receiving her nursing salary whilst on sick leave, and she went over and over again in her mind whether or not to confide to the matron, Miss Best, the cause of her most recent period off duty:

  May 1st Came back and of course the bottom dropped out of everything …

  May 2nd D. Hut. Sister Higgins … I hope I do everything right & and it’s all all right. I’m an awful girl really. Trouble. They were good to bear with me. Should I have stayed on the land …

  May 7th Feel so awful. I do wish I told Matron everything about David. It would have made it so much easier. I think I should have, as it is my conscience is getting heavier & heavier and if I don’t look out I shall break down over that …

  May 12th My stupid old conscience is again pricking me. I keep going over and over again the leave and David and wondering whether it wouldn’t have been better to tell Matron or not – it is difficult. He was really at the bottom of all the trouble …

  May 18th Sunday in [the hospital]. The awful depressed feeling & so worried about a little boy who got a wet pair of pyjamas on which was mostly my fault & I hope sister will change them. Oh dear he might get anything …

  May 29th Night duty tonight. Sitting in bed in nn [night-nurses’ accommodation] just thinking about all that’s happened and everything that may. Oh will it, can it ever end. It’s like one long dark tunnel with no one to switch the light on either. Feel so depressed I don’t know what to do. Terribly home-sick & oh so missing David. I hope it’s all going terribly well with him and I hope I manage to do what’s right here but oh the waiting. Sometimes I think it’s unbearable but so much worse for him.

  May 30th I’m so silly oh why am I like this – I just feel so upset I don’t know what to do. I must get better – I can’t go on like this – it’s like a nightmare & I still don’t know what it’s really about – David mostly & going sick & worrying about Matron. Oh it’s all awful …

  Whether or not her father would have approved, Pamela clearly realised that she was on the edge of a breakdown and there was only one possible course of action open to her. On 3 June her diary states:

  Went to Matron this morning with all my troubles – all the whole jolly lot of them. She was terribly nice and I’m glad I’ve done it – I’m an awful fool but she was glad I came I think. Hope everything will be all right now – oh do make me a better girl or something. Mummy & Daddy have been so good & her really. It’s me whose [sic] wrong …

  Although her conscience had been eased temporarily, Pamela’s diary entries for the rest of the summer of 1941 show just how much she continued to miss David, and how she longed to hear from him. The day of 9 May was a rare, red-letter one with good news, as her diary reveals: ‘Had a letter from David from some secret destination – wasn’t it wonderful! He hasn’t gone yet or at any rate not then. Oh David David what an unsettling person you are but being David you can’t mind.’

  The letter to which Pamela referred was the first of several David wrote both to her and his parents during the course of his voyage, and which illustrate the conditions under which the servicemen travelled. The letters to Pamela are for the most part deliberately upbeat and frequently romantic in tone; those to his parents describe the practicalities of his new life in greater detail. It seems that before David and his regiment were properly under way, one more chance arose for the men to send letters home:

  Pamela Darling,

  This is the last letter I can write for some time and this is a quite unexpected opportunity as I thought I had gone.

  I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about what I am up to except that it is all above board!

  I am sharing an awful little room with Ian & Jim & 3 others. Fortunately we have also a bathroom which is the only place for our clothes. The bath is full of boots which is lamentable!

  The food here is too good to be true. A grateful country is treating its sons nobly in advance. I hope its gratitude will be rewarded a hundredfold. The weather is lovely & sunbathing is in progress …

  At the ship’s first port of call David was able to post another letter to Pamela and his parents:

  4 May 41

  Pamela Darling,

  We are halting on our way so I can send you a letter – specially arranged for the purpose! We are having a quite nice voyage & I have not been ill yet.

  The weather is lovely & everyone is complaining of the heat except me – I love it …

  I am not on very good form this evening because I was inoculated this morning and also I was officer of the watch last night which meant spending from 12 to 4 roaming about the ship … I sat underneath the funnel part of the time & was the only man in the strangest world. The moon was sitting on top of the mast & never moved, and looking up I thought I was lost on a stage set as we didn’t seem to be moving and the funnel & ventilators were so large; then looking down I saw the still sea going by & felt like a Lilliputian on a toy ship. It was a magic moment & I wished you were there with me to share it … but there is much pain in the contemplation of such beauty.

  Later in this letter David reminisces about his and Pamela’s time together, and finishes with the admonishment: ‘Please promise not to write to me if you don’t wa
nt to. If you feel “I ought to write to David, I haven’t written for ages”, don’t write as it will mean that I am a thing of the past for you.’ Despite such noble sentiments, a postscript to this letter reveals David’s true feelings: ‘P.S. Longing to hear from you!’

  In his letter to his parents written a day later, David repeats much of what he wrote to Pamela, but goes into greater detail about the conditions:

  The food is almost like a peace time cruise with all the usual choice, 10 minutes to wait for things from the grill & so on; the only things which are bad are water, tea, coffee & milk, which are never too good anyhow on a ship & of course there is no cream. On the other hand I am in a tiny cabin with 5 others, with no room to put or hang anything & of course the window is locked up all night so you can imagine the fug. Also one or other of us is always on some duty or other involving getting up early or going to bed late or getting up in the night & waking everyone else up. I shall probably get my camp bed out of the hold and sleep out on deck soon …

  Oddly enough I am being kept very busy what with lectures & lecturing, being a P.T. instructor every morning & censoring hundreds of letters. I can’t say I am enjoying life much or looking forward to the immediate future. It is almost impossible to enjoy new experiences & places when they are all covered in khaki.