Mrs Miles's Diary

by S. V. Partington

  Last night it was Norwich. I hope they did not get the cathedral.

  Thursday, 30 April

  During these brilliant spring days we are experiencing big nightly raids. These are all reprisals. We have done so much damage at Rostock that it is a closed town. Firemen and troops are still pouring water on it. The casualties at Lübeck are officially stated to be 500.188

  Falling asleep, one wonders where the terror will next begin. Who will die, who will be wounded, who will feel their hearts beat madly?

  Friday, 1 May

  Washed up sixty plates at the children’s kichen. Later walked with Robin among fresh green hawthorns in the Park. But much time was occupied by my soldier waving his hand to show just where the Hun invading could bring his tanks, here and there, quite easily avoiding the road and using the pastoral slopes all round us.

  Part of the GHQ Stop Line which roughly followed the base of the North Downs in Surrey, this anti-tank ditch dug in July 1940 was near Farnham.

  Photograph © IWM H2473

  It is exciting to hear that the French have got a message through to us at last. It is from their Trade Unions to the world on May Day.

  ‘We do not ask for pity,’ it says, ‘we ask you only to keep your confidence in us. We have had no part in the betrayal. It is by force, and by the threat of starvation, that our people are driven to work for Germany. Think a little of us: a great deal if you can, and remember you are working for comrades in danger of their lives.’

  Sunday, 3 May

  We are slowly and surely losing Burma.

  The Japs are still refusing to give lists of the prisoners in Hong Kong and Singapore, so Muriel still waits in agony of mind, as do a thousand other mothers.

  Monday, 4 May

  Today, the question of carrying dinner from the communal kitchen across the street to the bank manager, who must not leave his bank, came up, and I offered to take it, and had quite a thrill of pleasure at the idea. The New Order, of course, is a world in which we will all do more, infinitely more, for each other.

  Sara writes telling me of a terrible accident at Pembroke Dock. One Garrett, a great friend of hers, was lecturing on bombs. One exploded, and the nineteen troops listening were all killed, as was Garrett. Terrible.

  Our troops in Burma seem to be very hard pressed.

  Tuesday, 5 May

  The eight o’clock news gave the information that we had occupied Madagascar. This is good.

  ‘The Burma campaign was a long, grim, delaying battle, to exact from the Japs the highest possible price in casualties for each mile yielded.’

  ‘Ernest von Kugel, claiming to be one of the German pilots who bombed Exeter on Sunday, broadcast to the German people yesterday in these terms: “It was a night of horror for the people of Exeter. When I approached this town, the bright reflection of fires on the horizon guided me. Over the town itself I saw whole streets of houses on fire, flames bursting out of windows and doors, devouring the roofs. People were running everywhere . . .

  “We thought of the thousands of men, women and children, victims of our deadly visit. But we thought, too, of the Führer, and the word of command he gave. He had said, ‘Revenge!’ With cool calcuation, we carried out our orders.”’

  Thirty-four people lunched at the Communal Kitchen today. Helen begged me not to write to the local paper about this enterprise, in case people all over the place should leap into buses and come to Shere.

  Wednesday, 6 May

  This afternoon, hearing a big explosion and numerous explosions overhead, I went into the garden shelter, which was full of dead leaves. I felt very safe. The noise of the planes, and the firebells ringing, was not very good for our invalid below, who had recourse to brandy.

  Friday, 8 May

  I hear from Muriel that a letter – a kind of farewell – written 14 January by Eudo in Singapore has come. He sends me his greetings, among others. I have felt like tears all day.

  Alice writes that her son-in-law is, after eight months, still flying over Germany, somewhat nerve-wracked, but unable to get relief, ‘for lack of trained pilots’.

  Sunday, 10 May

  I have just been sitting, Robin opposite me, listening to Churchill’s long talk. To my great disappointment, there was no special message to women.

  Churchill spoke with much vim, and did not sound tired. His account of the future bombing of German cities was terrible. (Robin interrupts and says Adolf will have no appetite for his breakfast.)

  Monday, 11 May

  Sad news this morning. Dulcie has got a telegram saying her young husband is missing.

  We must hope he is a prisoner. I’m so sorry for the pretty fair-haired girl, crying her heart out in an Edinburgh flat, ‘and thinking of him,’ writes her mother, ‘as coming down in flames.’

  I cannot forget this: will her life be shadowed for always, or but for a time?

  Tuesday, 12 May

  Came to tea today Charlotte R. – an officer in the ATS. She was in charge of a religious weekly newspaper, and now she is in a new world, in an Ack-Ack189 battery where the girls work and eat with men. Charlotte is ten times brighter than she was, uses lipstick, and looks nice in her khaki kit. ’Tis a big adventure indeed.

  Sunday, 17 May

  In this most dismal war, letters from friends are the greatest joy. In Holland, the Nazis have sent the Dutch army officers and men into concentration camps – the old, loyal Regulars. Also four hundred hostages, important folk – not, I hope, my friend Ada – have been seized.

  Monday, 18 May

  The country shines with blossom. Thousands of white candles are on the tall tree in the lane. Letter from Cis about the missing Jim Cameron. Apparently the Squadron Leader wrote to Dulcie, and said that on this flight – to Warnemünde – Jim was acting as wireless operator. The customary signal to say they were over the Channel did not arrive. They have just vanished, that crew.

  Grace says that her boy was flying over Rostock and Warnemünde, and for once was completely exhausted, slept for hours after, and wrote admitting that the flak sent up against them was ‘about as bad as I shall ever see’.

  Many are saying that our airmen are often overworked and fly too long.

  Sunday, 24 May

  In spite of having the very barest of necessities from the grocer and other tradesmen, I find my weekly bills are pre-war, or slightly more.

  I hear on the wireless that a crowd paraded in Trafalgar Square today, calling out for another front: a second front.

  This seems to me quite impossible at present.

  Met Mr W., the vice president of the Stock Exchange today. We waited together in the leafy churchyard while the Rector became more and more oblivious of the time within.

  Mr W. said that business was not so bad as one might have expected on the Stock Exchange. He says eleven souls are on fire-watching duty in his office; he himself takes his turn and has a Lilo mattress.

  He advised me to go to Moorgate when next in London, and look at the ruins in Fore Street. The City consists of 650 acres of which, he told me, 300 acres were blitzed.

  Monday 25 May

  The usual bank holiday depression is hanging over the village, which is enveloped in rain. General Stilwell says we were pushed out of Burma in a most humiliating way and must re-conquer it.190

  Who can do this but America? And, oh Lord, how long?

  Nothing has been heard of Jim Cameron, or the crew of his bomber. I keep thinking of the fair-haired young wife, who sits for hours distraught.

  Tuesday, 26 May

  The charwoman arrived in misery; her husband has sudden orders for abroad – and no embarkation leave, as he has just had leave. ‘I told little Jimmy he would not see his daddy for ages and ages.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And my husband isn’t really as strong as I am.’ Difficult to say just the right thing to her.

  Wednesday, 27 May

  Tonight I hear that the offensive may have begun in Libya. And it is so hot! Poor Basil.
>
  Sunday, 31 May

  Robin has just rushed in at 8.15 to say the martins have arrived again, and are once more hovering above our bedroom window. Amazing the way they return every year to our yellow wall.

  Yesterday, apparently, more than 1,000 bombers set forth for Cologne, and bombed it for an hour and a half. One thousand! ‘Enough to send people mad,’ Robin said soberly.

  The stern announcement from Churchill that this vengeance shall extend from city to city must disturb the Germans. One thinks of the bombers being wheeled out of the hangars, of the young men climbing in, all over Britain.

  Tuesday, 2 June

  Troubled again by my visit to Nora to have my hair done. She can’t pay her rent, and the landlord of the shop won’t meet her, ‘so I just don’t send the money’.

  Saturday, 6 June

  May Sinclair has been here since Wednesday. She spoke of her trip to Russia in the garden yesterday evening, while fifteen friends of mine sat round and were fascinated by her account of her adventures.

  The evening before, we had had a session with Bey. She worships Russia (and hasn’t been there). Bey became very defiant whenever May said such things as that ‘police control was universal’, ‘the people looked shabby and depressed’, etc.

  May received a telegram saying that her boy Jack, RAF, was just leaving for training overseas. The war presses on her heavily: ‘I sometimes feel almost insane about it.’ We agreed that our waking hours were most depressed nowadays. I feel so much better for her visit.

  Robin is out on a Home Guard exercise in his hot khaki uniform.

  I am always thinking of Basil in the battle.

  Monday, 8 June

  A lovely drive down to Picket Post. We went in the Royal Blue bus. At Southampton I again gazed sorrowfully at the once hospitable little hotel opposite the bus stop. It is now an ugly ruin.

  The Forest is unusually quiet. People have given up their cars, and only military traffic goes by.

  News had just come from Peter that three officers of the East Surreys had been seen safe and well in Singapore, two days before the surrender. That is really good news, though the poor mother is still despondent. I lay awake looking at Peter’s fishing library, and was so thankful to be here, away from my own sink.

  Tuesday, 9 June

  To Bournemouth. They had bombs four days ago, and there were two huge craters in the gardens and many dilapidated houses.

  In a private garden, three ladies sat last Saturday afternoon, tranquilly drinking tea. The bomb fell, and they were all killed.

  Thursday, 11 June

  I ought to copy a paragraph from May’s letter:

  ‘Tell Robin it would do him good to see the BBC working on their allotments in Regents Park, all most beautifully done – fair maids and talented announcers all gardening away for all they’re worth.’

  Saturday, 13 June

  Practical work is what is wanted and asked for from women of sixty like me. Just washing up old dingy forks and spoons at the children’s kitchen and dipping countless greasy plates into greasy water. It’s all. It’s all. No thought, no anxious mental consideration, no reading of poetry, no comment on the war or anything else, no account of what is being read is needed – just the soap and the water and the tea towel!

  Lunch news was that our army is locked fast with the German army in the desert. God help our side!

  Monday, 15 June

  This evening on the wireless there were grave hints about a big reverse for us in Libya.191

  Inventive posters encouraged people from all walks of life to ‘Dig for Victory’.

  Photograph © IWM PST2893

  I felt suddenly very hot, and then cold, shivering, as the idea that Basil might be prisoner came to me. I felt suddenly as if I were dying, and dissolving into thin air. A stiff drink, which I immediately fetched, pulled me round sufficiently to go through the evening. I have never had this feeling before. Slept very badly, and was very cold all night. We were warned by a great manly voice, very severe, that we must prepare for ‘disturbing news’. Of course I do not know if Basil is in the line or not.

  Wednesday, 17 June

  Was very angry with two little village lads when I saw them this evening, watching a really lovely tame pigeon strutting by the churchyard wall in the clear mild evening. The bird was ringed. It showed great confidence. One boy took up a large stone, and was going to throw it at it. I stopped him in time. He said, ‘I want it for my dinner!’ I had to speak very sharply to him.

  Rommel has now the initiative in Libya. Basil may be in it all. It is impossible to think much of details – too ghastly.

  Thursday, 18 June

  From a letter in today, Sara writes: ‘Weymouth was dreadful when I visited it the other day. Except for the blue sea, and even that is not so good, seen through line after line of wire entanglement. Then half our terrace is flat on the ground and the sight gave me a shock from the distant train.’

  Friday, 19 June

  Basil’s airgraph this morning was so welcome – but dated 29 May.

  Now where is he? The Germans claim a great many prisoners. We have evidently had a severe setback and Tobruk is again surrounded. I think of Basil all the time, and wonder what he is doing. He would be very calm and sensible whatever happened.

  To Guildford, and went to a film. George Formby, quite funny, and there was a good Blitz film. How the Blitz lends itself to filming – the crashings and the zoomings! There were some amazing pictures of the tube stations full of people sheltering.

  Saturday, 20 June

  To see my doctor. He told me his partner (already rushed to death) might be called up. ‘At any rate he would get a rest.’

  Anybody wanting to know the condition of England in June 1942 might remember that people are still drifting out of all sorts of jobs, and of houses, and out of partnerships. I heard of a sad case today. A very old public-spirited lawyer and his wife are losing their housemaid, and the cook threatens to leave also. ‘I,’ says he, ‘could go and live at the Working Men’s Club, I suppose, as I am its President. But you, my dear?’

  News from Libya is all bad.

  Sunday, 21 June

  After a bad night, thinking how horrid would be the sight of a telegraph boy, the bell pealed, and there was a man on the step, but the message he held was gold, and I knew it to be a birthday greeting.

  I haven’t enjoyed being sixty at all. Life’s now all jobs I don’t like, and don’t do well, but the worst of it is the continual background of England’s defeats, in spite of our bombastic speeches. Very thankful that Harry is out of Singapore, and Jenny. And that Robin and I are together and that he has splendid health.

  I have just been in the heat to the village to post some letters. All morning the ARP, complete with helmets, worked a pump under my window, for a practice. When I walked up the hill, six Spitfires flew over me, and as I write, another drones outside.

  Later: To our intense surprise and dismay, on the six o’clock wireless comes the news that Tobruk has already fallen.192

  The Hun claims 25,000 prisoners, including several Generals.

  I think Basil is not there. But this will affect all his future – the struggle will be longer, the endurance will be greater – one simply cannot understand it yet.

  Tuesday, 23 June

  To Wentworth. Dickie told us that a Hun plane, anxious to drop a mine in Portsmouth harbour, had been chased inland, so he let it drop on the land. Two whole streets of the city were destroyed.

  Thursday, 25 June

  Went up to London for the first time in many months. It cheered me to find my young sister so smart and attractive in her Glengarry hat of scarlet straw. We lunched at Marshall’s, with a brief side-glance at the horror of what was John Lewis. Then, resolved on a pious pilgrimage to the office in Paternoster Row, where the British Weekly was first started, we leapt on a bus and went down to St Paul’s.

  The desolation at the back of the great cathedral is truly fri
ghtful. Yes, it frightened me, as I stood looking across the great space full of ruins. A solitary tower, a tiny bit of a house with a curtain at the ghostly window, then – nothing as far as the eye could see.

  I felt that if I poked my shoe under some of the rubble by my feet, I should come upon a lock of hair or a baby’s rattle. If it had not been Mildred with me, I think I should have wept. What hopes have sunk upon this ground! What loved possessions have been burned! What kind and gentle people have been killed, what tidy office arrangements have been blasted, what valuable papers destroyed! What feelings of fear and indignation hang round these lost acres, what emotions of terror and despairing farewell. Yet St Paul’s stands intact, proud and glorious.

  Later, gazing at the ruins of Paternoster Row, we thought of our young and ambitious and delicate father, mounting the office stairs at No. 27 (entirely vanished now as if it had never been!).

  Determined to have a good tea after our sorrow, we asked the Oxford Street bus conductor to put us down near Buzzards. ‘It’s blown to hell, lady!’ was the cheerful remark. And we presently passed by a dreadful hole.

  So we went to Barballion’s in Bond Street, and had good cakes, and felt refreshed. As we hurried for a bus again, and read two very discouraging placards scrawled on boards, one about the raid on London which Mildred had heard in the night, her customary light-hearted manner broke, and she shuddered and said, ‘It is all horrible.’

  Tuesday, 30 June

  How do we bear ourselves in these days of dreadful crisis? Sebastopol seems about to fall,193 the Rommel campaign seems to go in Axis favour. The news is exceedingly grave.

  I sit writing this; the sky outside (9.30) is very pensive and grey, after a brisk thunderstorm. Robin, in his dark grey coat and grey flannel trousers, looks very tired. Perhaps it is the heat.

  From Joan K’s Hove letter this morning: ‘Down here we are living in the shadow of a horrible bogey of compulsory evacuation.194 It’s too grim for words, and would mean just leaving the flat unlocked and just as it is – so even if it was still standing on one’s possible return, you can bet it will be well looted.’