With the doggedness of youth we stuck it out, kneeling on opposite sides of my stretcher, the straw palliasse making us sneeze and our noses run, the cold draughts and damp ground making us shiver, and all the while wishing we’d never made the vow, the promise, in the first place. When Lent ended one of the older girls came to us and said not to worry about the chiacking, that the girls thought it was fine that we’d stuck to our guns, but we must consider the whole, the total mateship and camaraderie that alone could render our work effective. That gave us amnesty for the rest of the war.
* * *
Though religion didn’t loom large in our thoughts, Phyl and I once went to the local convent for advice. We had both met the men we were later to marry when they returned from New Guinea. We two girls were worried: ‘What do you do when you get married?’ I asked Phyl. She said she didn’t know. So, after worrying about it for a couple of weeks we decided to go to the nuns and ask them. Phyl phoned and the nuns said they’d be delighted to have us to afternoon tea. Off we went, certain that all would be revealed before evening fell. Well, of course it wasn’t.
The nuns had pretty pieces of needlework and the odd embroidered amulet done for us as gifts, and lots of gorgeous cakes. They were curious to hear of the way we travelled and lived in this new, strange world we young women inhabited in 1942. But they said nothing at all about bed. Phyl and I exchanged looks and took it in turns to try to bring the bright, friendly conversation round to what happens when the lights go out. But the nuns said nothing about it. Neither had we. We said nothing that would provoke a discussion on virginity, intercourse and pregnancy – and no wonder. We had never thought of it, or spoken to one another or any other person about such matters. Our mothers had certainly never spoken about sex to us, and I imagine very few girls of our age at that time would have been much different from us.
Eventually, three hours later when the sunset had already faded, we said our goodbyes, gathered together the gifts these good women had given us and set off back to camp. It started raining and we had nowhere to shelter except for a children’s playground. We hadn’t spoken to each other since we left the convent and we sat on two children’s swings and went silently backwards and forwards. After a while Phyl said: ‘They didn’t tell us, did they’, and I said ‘No’. And they hadn’t.
By the next Lenten period Phyllis and I had been parted – not for any disciplinary reason but because I had been given rank. Rank? I was only eighteen years’ old. I was wild and wayward, as Matron had often told me, but now I’d given her a real headache. It came about this way (and it was one of the few things in life that Mum did for me that was wrong and nearly got me into trouble). I had enlisted for overseas service and now a batch of girls were to be sent to Bougainville. I wrote and told Mum. She asked her priest to pray for me (people did lots of praying in those days) but the priest said there must be some mistake, I was too young, and that Mum should write to army headquarters and tell them about their being mistaken about my age and that I should be sent home. At this time Dad was in charge of a ‘flying gang’, a chosen group of railway-line repairers who were on call 24-hours a day to patch up the havoc caused by massive overuse of the rail tracks because of wartime traffic. When he eventually got home he was told about Mum posting this letter and, of course, being an old navy man of the First World War, knew that such a letter could drop me into it. But there was nothing he could do, it was all too late.
I was called into Matron’s office and our senior surgeon, Colonel Colquohuon, was standing beside her desk, both looking monstrously big and fearsomely sombre. I thought – nothing. I was stricken. I was inside all the terrors I’d ever heard of, from the Siege of Mafeking to the execution of the Tsar and his family. Matron’s bosom, high above my head, was swelling and swamping over me. She was very cross indeed, probably more so because her routine had been interrupted. Routine was her alpha and omega.
The colonel had always been good to me, I was his pet. When the hospital staff had had an official photograph taken he insisted I should sit at his feet – and when I squinted because of the brilliant Queensland sun, he roared ‘Get it done with! This little girl’s being boiled!’ But now he seemed not to remember me, he was looking anywhere but at me, while Matron looked nowhere but at me. By God, she hated her brilliant routine to be interrupted – doubtless more so for being interrupted by one of the lowliest cogs in the Australian army. She was making huffs like drumming-out noises. I expected her to say ‘Your parents will be disgraced if you are dismissed’. She was reading from a document in her hand, and it said that my family had had honourable records in two wars and two had been killed at Lone Pine and three others wounded and four ‘missing’ since February 1942. Colonel Colquohoun said slowly ‘We’ll have to hide her for a while; where can we hide her?’ Silence. Then he said something about being too busy to be wasting time on something so stupid and to let him know when she’s been hidden. ‘She’ll be eighteen in three months and everything will be all right then.’
The warrant officer brought up the answer within the hour. I was to be sent south to a Warrant Officers school and I would have to leave that afternoon by train if I was to get down to Brisbane, to Sydney, and out to the school at Liverpool before the course opened in three days’ time. ‘You might even come out as a Warrant Officer Class II.’ ‘What?’ ‘That’s the school we’ve got you in.’ There was another different school beginning in six weeks’ time but the colonel had said to ‘get her out today’.
I decided to wear my khaki uniform that afternoon when I set off to Sydney. There was no point in flogging a dead donkey. Like many early VADs, up until then I had been rebelling when the title was altered from VAD to Australian Army Medical Women’s Service (AAMWS). Worst of all, our blue uniforms had been changed to khaki, with big pockets like the Diggers had. Being short, I looked like a burnt dumpling. Now the time had come to be sensible, there was no way we could get back to the old days. Our small revolt was over. Yet strangely, there was an unspoken bond between those of us who enlisted voluntarily before the date when women, as well as men, must enrol for labour if not in the armed services. It was, and is, silly, but there you have it. War is the silliest thing.
I gained third place among thirty-five professional men and women, and came out of that school with two stripes on my arm and the opportunity of going on to the rank of Warrant Officer Second Class (or WO II) as vacancies came along. But I would have happily swapped those khaki uniforms, including the knickers, and the stripes, for our much-loved navy-blue uniform.
With my two stripes I was given more responsibility and I was sent with four VADs to a small hospital that was being set up near a Military Provost Centre for ‘incorrigibles.’ I thrived on the challenge of more responsibility. The four girls with me had their own work to do in wards and I organised the general duties rosters and the kitchen, and the myriad things that crop up. It never seemed to be any different to what I had been doing before I began to go up the ranks. But I was working harder and longer than ever because, apart from all my other tasks, I must now see to the comfort or problems of the four privates in my care. We were a very happy lot and Phyllis came over to stay when she could get leave. I had a good big tent for me alone, with hanging wardrobe, chest of drawers, and boards for a floor.
But I did hate this place. From the lip of the hill we could look down and see the men brought in for punishment being dragged out of the back of trucks and sent off in the terrible, humid heat to run till they dropped, round and round an area as big as a football oval, in full army kit of great coat, kit bag, heavy boots, the lot. And when they fell they were kicked till they got up and began running again, and this was repeated until they collapsed and were dragged into a barracks in the compound. I was not so naive not to know that there would be some of the worst men in Australia enlisted in the services, as there would be in any army, but it seemed a terrible thing that it was Australians bashing Australians, even though they may be incorrigible.
I asked for a transfer, and got it.
I fitted in well wherever I was sent. I like to think it was my country – bush – upbringing. I could turn my hand to most things, was strong and willing, and would happily work day and night when necessary. But the constrictions and restrictions of working in wards eventually were not for me. It wasn’t the boredom of bottles and pans and sponging that bothered me, but the nursing sisters who, doubtless piqued at our youthfulness, could play merry hell on a VAD. (Shades of Vera Brittain’s experiences some thirty years before.)
Few ex-VADs (now AAMWS) speak of the attitude taken by nursing sisters on the use of our service. It was strange to find, when re-reading Testament of Youth, that Vera Brittain could write: ‘The sisters hated the necessity of using VADs and they showed it plainly. Whatever training or experience she had, they were determined she should not be permitted to imagine, even for a moment, that this entitled her to any kind of status. The longer a VAD performed the responsible work that fell to her, the more resolutely her ward sister appeared to relegate her to the most menial and elementary tasks. I was never allowed so much as to attempt the simplest of dressings, I was sent, together with the rest of the VADs to that multitude of soul-killing, time-wasting tasks so dear to civilian hospital tradition, and so infinitely destructive of young energy and enthusiasm…’ Vera Brittain believed that the ‘holiness’ of the nursing profession was its worst handicap, that the ‘sanctity’ of the nursing profession was such that people forgot that nurses were just human beings. She wrote at great length about VADs and the treatment of them in her day. She claimed that the rigid sectarian orthodoxy crushed the gaiety and independence out of the young women who had gone nursing so hopefully.
I suppose not much had changed from her day to ours. She would have had exhausting rounds of bed-making, bed pans and bowl washing, cooking, cleaning: all of them part of the VAD’s work. I got along reasonably well and none of this really bothered me. If a VAD was complaining to me about a superior, I always said ‘Don’t get upset about it, it’s only because they’re older than us and the young boys won’t go out with them.’ This always brought a laugh.
I was personally never troubled by any sister, but I saw and heard the stories of other girls and that disturbed me. One day I hinted to Colonel Colquohoun (what a cheek one has when young!) that I would like to do some other task and he said ‘How about doing the officers’ mess?’ ‘I wouldn’t be a flunky for anyone!’ I snapped. ‘Well, go away and cook,’ he said laughing at me as he walked off. ‘You get a shilling a day more for cooking.’
I didn’t know if this was true, but asked the adjutant and he said it was true, my pay would go up to seven shillings a day. The officers’ mess had lost their cook who had gone on leave and the replacement had failed to turn up. I could transfer immediately.
Well, I had fun. The young doctors would come to the kitchen and warm themselves at the wood-fire stove on early chilly mornings, and they experimented with cooking, and flirted and laughed with me. The older surgeons came out and shared a bottle in the evening, and it was very homely. I loved it all – except I couldn’t cook. When I was stuck for an idea or had ruined a dish, I’d race over to the general kitchen and the real cooks always helped me out.
I began to like the idea of being my own boss. I had a full-time offsider for fetching and carrying, preparing vegetables, cleaning and running errands. Half the time I couldn’t find him but we got along well when we did meet. Later, when the cook came back from leave, I was transferred to various places where it was considered I would ‘calm things down a bit’. Seemingly I did, but from this distance in time I can’t remember how I could do this as I was noisy, always in trouble for forgetting rules, laughing, flirting with patients and staff, always late (I still am) – but could manage to get on with nearly everybody. That was no great qualification, but not everyone had that ability.
That May Morning
ONE DAY A TELEGRAM ARRIVED to say that the man who had decided I was to marry him, Bill, was on his way down to Brisbane from the islands in a hospital ship. It said I was to meet him at the wharf. This telegram came at midday and I was on duty until 6 that night, so I spoke to Warrant Officer McKellar, who had been very good to us young girls, and he learned that the ship was due before daybreak – twelve hours away if I could get away from the hospital. As it happened, things went surprisingly well; there was a concert party performing outside the hospital that evening and they would then pack quickly as they had to be in Brisbane the next day to set up for a concert there that night. Mac spoke to one of the drivers and arranged for me to travel in the truck, so I would be in Brisbane by daybreak.
The concert party was like several others of the time – good quality. Some of the best entertainers in Australia performed at these concerts and this one had American and Australian stars. I introduced myself to the sergeant driver, he got me a good seat and told me he would be leaving the instant the show ended. But I still had my hours to work. Phyl said she would starch my collar. In those days collars were not attached to the shirt and we had to mix up a paste and dip in the collar, then iron it – quite a job. It was the sort of thing we bush girls could do well, but I didn’t stop to think that Phyl wasn’t a bush girl. When I came off duty I rushed to the tent to get things together. Phyl had everything ready so I went to the ablutions block and, as usual, there were long lines of girls waiting. Eventually I got back to the tent, but when I began to fasten the collar it was sharp and when I had a good look at it I found it was covered with blue lumps as Phyl had tried to make it stiffer, but she hadn’t mixed the paste properly so I had to go with this appalling collar scraping a hole in my neck throughout the concert and all the way to Brisbane.
The concert remains in my memory as one of the best I’ve seen. A tenor sang the last item, then the whole concert group came back on stage and started to sing softly, so we could scarcely hear, There’ll always be an England …’ We all leapt to our feet and joined in this song which had an enormous effect on the troops at this time, when British people were being bombed mercilessly and we still believed England was ‘the motherland’. We stood as if it were the national anthem. Then, as the lights came up, I grabbed my haversack and ran to the truck.
We rumbled through the night and when we reached Brisbane daylight was still an hour away. However, the ship was already in the Brisbane River and we could see the glow of cigarettes all along the ship’s rails where the wounded men were leaning. I learnt from people in the great crowd there – so much for secrecy of military movements! – that the wharfies had refused to bring in the ship. I asked what would happen and they said that probably at about 9 am the wharfies would go back to work and permit the ship to berth, so I decided I would go to the VAD hostel. These hostels were in all major cities for nursing aides in transit. I knew roughly where the hostel was, but hadn’t allowed for the fact that the trams had stopped running. It was 3 in the morning. When I saw a tram coming I propped myself on the track to make sure it stopped. The driver was cross, he asked what I was doing and I explained I wanted to go to the hostel; he explained that this wasn’t a regular tram – it was a track cleaner, trams had finished for the night and he was returning to the depot. I hopped on anyway and stayed there and wouldn’t get off, asking him to drop me wherever was near the hostel. This he did, but he was very sulky. I reached the hostel, rang the bell and the Matron came. I told her what had happened on the wharf and she got a bed and a cup of tea ready while I had a quick shower. She said she would call me later and not to worry. When she did call me, she put her hand on my shoulder, shook me and said, ‘Your friend is here.’ She told me not to bother to get into uniform but to put on my dressing gown and come to the vestibule where my ‘friend’ was waiting. I did this, but there was only a very thin, yellowish-looking man there who smelt quite pungent and gave off an appalling odour when he moved. I went to the kitchen and asked Matron where was my man she was speaking of and she said he was in the vestibule. But
I said no, that wasn’t him. Then she spoke his name and said it was the name he had given, so I went back and he put his arms out to me and I realised it was him. I learnt later that the smell was not just from the ship, it was from the incredible eruptions he had in his armpits and crotch which were like running boils, caused by the damp heat, the poor and meagre food, and debilitation. Matron was as professional as one would imagine, she said for him to get in and out of the shower before the other girls awoke (this, of course, was ordinarily definitely forbidden).
I was bewildered. I had no idea he would be in this condition, although I had seen other men like this after returning from fighting in the jungle. When he came out of the ablutions block I had to tell him I had no leave, was due back on duty the following morning, and the driver who had brought me down had said he would fix for another truck driver to let the two of us travel together back to the hospital so I would be in time to go on duty at 6 am the following day. This we did, and it was unfortunate that amongst the cargo of this truck were coffins. At the time it didn’t seem alarming, I had seen coffins and took no notice, but Bill had been reluctant to board the truck so I offered to sit in the back among the coffins and let him sit in the front, but he said no. It wasn’t the happiest of meetings and when we got back to the hospital area we weren’t sure what to do as he didn’t want to go to hospital.
Goodbye Girlie Page 8
