A Girl in Wartime

by Maggie Ford

  ‘You’re scared!’ his father had mocked after another argument at Christmas. ‘Bloody scared out of your pants while your brothers are fightin’ for their country.’ Well, they weren’t yet but Dad saw it as if they were … ‘And ’ere’s you, wetting yourself in case this country finally gets you in its grips. There’s already rumours that we could end up with military conscription by next year if we’re still at war. Then you’ll ’ave to go, won’t you, whether you like it or not. Then we’ll see. I’m bloody ashamed of you, that’s what I am.’

  So saying, Dad had turned his back on George since then and had hardly spoken to him. But Dad was not going to turn him from his beliefs.

  His minister would hand him pamphlets, booklets that he’d written, sometimes in the form of poetry, exquisite poetry that went straight to the heart: gentle patience, control over anger, the ability to turn the other cheek. They made him wish that others could read the message they held, that if all men could understand, there’d be no wars. He’d agreed to hand them out to people, but when he did, all he got were snide remarks and ridicule; usually people tossed the pamphlets to the curb – or back in his face – as they walked off. It was soul destroying, really. But it hadn’t shaken his faith and never would.

  Chapter Seven

  March 1915

  There’d been no word from the newspaper that had interviewed her. So much for talk, getting her all excited. So much for expectation! What had she expected? A factory girl with just an ordinary education … Not even reckoned clever enough to master a filing job. Better to stop dreaming of wonderful things and resign herself to what she was. Besides, she now had much more to think about.

  At the weekend Ronnie and Bert had appeared on the doorstep, on twenty-four-hour leave. But excitement had changed moments later to deep concern and, from Mum, tears, as they heard that the two were finally being sent abroad. This was embarkation leave.

  Young Ronnie, eighteen just four months ago, now looked so much older than that, as if his youth had been stripped from him overnight. But there had been something else that had disturbed the family, at least her. Hardly had they stepped into the house to be fallen upon by Mum and have their hands mightily shaken by Dad. George made the excuse that he’d planned to be away that weekend with a friend of his and had vanished upstairs to appear a few minutes later with an old case, briefly wishing his brothers well and disappearing out of the house.

  Nothing was said, which made it all the more obvious, and painful. And there was no need to guess what they were all thinking – that he had no guts, no guts at all, not even to face his brothers with his so-called beliefs, but had made that pathetic excuse of having made plans. Connie had felt ashamed of him, at the same time deeply embarrassed, and that embarrassment was still with her now.

  The thing was, one couldn’t go more than a few steps without seeing the recruiting posters on every available wall. Especially the eye-catching one with the handsome colonel with the wonderfully huge moustache and those steady eyes looking into those of everyone who went by, and that steadily pointing finger as if directed at the passer-by personally; underneath the words YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU.

  How could anyone see those posters and ignore the call? Already it had prompted thousands more young men to volunteer, so the newspapers were saying, including her two brothers-in-law, who had now signed up with the wives’ understanding, even if they feared what would happen.

  And then there was George … But she would not think of George. It made her unhappy to think about him.

  He had tried to explain, so he said, but Dad would have none of it and she couldn’t blame him. In fact as soon as George walked into the room, Dad would get up and walk out, usually muttering something about him having something else to do; more often than not it would be down the pub.

  Mum would be left there, slack-faced and ill at ease. Any attempt of George explaining his beliefs, or any attempt on his part to follow her and explain how he felt, would have her hurrying away to do some household chore or finding some shopping that needed to be done.

  But he had explained his reason to Connie, and she found herself feeling for him. Part of her admired the fact that he was prepared to bear the ridicule of his family for something he believed in so strongly. In the current patriotic climate it was far easier to join up than say no and stick to those beliefs. However, she did still feel that it was his pastor who was exerting undue influence on him. Hopefully one day George would see it.

  For a long time the atmosphere in the house could have been cut with a knife. But since the boys had left, weighed down by their gear ready to be sent off to France, the house had felt like a mausoleum, even though they’d been stationed away from home for months. The knowledge of their being sent abroad to fight had felt more ominous.

  When it was time for them to leave, Mum had been in tears, clinging to them as if she alone might stop them; Dad had solemnly shaken hands with them but looked as if he too wanted to hold them tightly.

  Elsie and Lillian, who’d come on the Sunday to say goodbye as though that might be the last time they’d see them, took turns to throw themselves into their brothers’ arms, while their husbands shook Bertie and Ronnie’s hands, telling them to look after themselves and come back safe.

  Connie had dissolved into tears at being held close by each of her wonderful brothers, while Bertie’s fiancée, Edie, an engagement ring now on her finger, had stood quietly back, dry-eyed but ashen-faced, too numbed to cry. She’d have her moments of tears standing with her Albert on the railway platform to see him off in privacy, or with as much privacy as any railway station can afford with hundreds of men bidding goodbye to their wives and sweethearts.

  Three weeks had passed since they had left, and Connie had been working next to Sybil at that rotten conveyor belt, always with her mind on the hope that maybe tonight a letter from the London Herald might be awaiting her to say she had a job there. Some hope!

  ‘It says in the paper,’ Sybil yelled above the rattle of conveyor belts, ‘it says women are being asked to do war work, taking over from the men what’s gone off to fight.’

  Connie nodded in her direction, one eye on the box coming along. ‘I’ve read that too.’

  ‘You know, I think I might have a go at that,’ Sybil shouted hoarsely. ‘Anything’s better than this bloomin’ dead-end job. I’m sick of it. But there was never a choice before. But now there is and despite me dad saying I should hang on to the job I’ve got, I think I’ll take tomorrow off and go and see what’s on offer.’

  ‘I might come along with you,’ Connie said on the spur of the moment. She too was sick to death of this unending, soul-destroying job. She was just wasting her time away waiting for those newspaper people to contact her. It was time to take her life in her hands and look for something more rewarding than sticking boxes together.

  But with war work, she’d heard that you had to work where you were told: maybe at some machine or other, taking over where the man who usually operated it had left off to join up. She might just be exchanging one factory job for another. Though some women were now delivering milk like her brother had, or doing a post round – though that wouldn’t be so bad. It was being said that women were now working as bus conductors, even bus drivers. But she could end up in a factory sewing parachutes or making bombs – hard, dangerous jobs – did she want that? And once in war work it was like being in the army – you wouldn’t be allowed to leave just because you didn’t like the work.

  Not only that but by following Sybil she’d be giving up any chance of accepting any situation the newspaper intended for her. Not that it seemed likely after all this time – if there was a situation at all. That man, that interviewer Mr Clayton, had just been offering her a pipe dream, stupid man! Getting her hopes up like that.

  She went home that evening not so much upset as resigned. Why be upset when there’d been no job in the first place? She should have known from the start that an opportunity to use her drawing
talents was too good to be true.

  It had started to rain, not much, but arriving home, letting herself in by the back door after popping into the loo first to save having to go out there later when it really began to come down, she found her dinner waiting for her on the table. Dad was already halfway through his, but of George there was no sign.

  ‘Letter came for you around dinner time,’ said Mum as she sat down to eat. People round here saw midday as dinner time even though they often had their main meal in the evening, calling it teatime. Apparently better-class people always called their midday meal lunch, their evening meal being dinner.

  She stopped eating. ‘A letter? For me?’

  Her first thought was that one of her brothers had thought to write a note to her personally and a surge of excitement caught her. Where were they, the two of them? How were they? If they’d had time to write home, they couldn’t possibly have been put in any danger.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ she asked stupidly.

  ‘I don’t know, love,’ her mother said mildly. ‘It’s your letter.’

  But when had she ever had a letter from anyone? They were usually addressed to Mum or Dad, usually Dad, and they were usually bills. If her sisters needed to get in touch, they popped round, being only streets away. So would her friends.

  The envelope had an English stamp and postmark. There was also a printed name on the left side: ‘The London Herald Newspaper’.

  Excitement shot through her, which was instantly dulled by a defensive reaction. A letter finally telling her that she was not suitable for any situation at the paper. What had she expected? Putting it to one side she took up her knife and fork and began to eat her meal that suddenly seemed to have no taste in it.

  Chapter Eight

  April 1915, somewhere in France

  It was the smell that hit Albert first as, along with this new intake, he and Ron clambered down into the already crowded, narrow trench that in the half-light of dusk could be seen zigzagging endlessly into the distance.

  They’d been brought by bus, ordinary London buses that to his mind made the fighting at the front almost farcical. But not for long as, alighting at their billets four miles behind the lines, they could plainly hear explosions of shellfire and see the flashes even from this distance.

  Given just time to deposit the belongings they didn’t need and gobble down a long-awaited if meagre meal, the new intake formed up to march towards the shellfire. Albert’s heart was thumping, his stomach going over the nearer they got, knowing his brother felt the same, knowing that each man in their company felt the same, though no one said anything, looking straight ahead as they marched, faces set. All that travelling, on top of a four-mile march past fields of winter mud that had once been ripe for crops, they had been almost glad to reach their destination, relieved to find a temporary lull in the gunfire.

  Passing through the ruins that had been the fine town of Ypres, Albert had become aware of a strange odour that seemed to hang in the air.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ he’d whispered to Ronnie beside him. ‘Can you smell it?’

  Ronnie had nodded, keeping his voice down. ‘No idea. Ain’t never smelled anything like that before. Gas d’you think? Hope it’s not.’

  ‘At least we’ve got gas masks. No one had any gas masks earlier on. Some say they’d piddle on their handkerchiefs and put that to their noses – that’s supposed to stop gas getting inside a bloke.’

  ‘Shut up and eyes front!’ came a harsh command from behind. They shut up and looked to their front, glad to be finally halted. The smell had become even stronger as they’d neared their destination.

  ‘Smells like something died,’ Ronnie muttered. ‘Dead horses?’

  But no one answered as something other than dead horses dawned in the mind of every man, their expressions tightening as they clambered down into the already crowded trenches that seemed to go on and on. Albert followed the rest, the clinging smell coming up to hit him, making him want to gag. He was to discover its source the next morning. But tonight he slept, worn out, half-sitting for want of room, hardly out of his kit before his eyes closed. Ronnie was already snoring despite the occasional explosion of enemy shelling. Neither realised how lucky they were that no one would be ordered over the top tonight and they could rest.

  Waking up stiff and parched as dawn came up, Bertie peeked over the parapet in the half-light and finally began to make out strange humps dotted here and there across the churned-up mud. As the light grew, he saw they were bodies, unretrieved bodies. Horrified, he asked why of the thin air.

  ‘You can’t go out there collecting ’em, sonny,’ answered a gruff voice behind him. ‘More than your life’s worth with Jerry lookin’ on. Try doin’ that and you’ll end up joining ’em.’ The sergeant smiled sadly at his stunned expression. ‘I know, son, they deserve to be buried, decent and proper like. But who’s gonna do it, and what’s the point? They don’t know they’re dead and gone to heaven, sonny, so what’s the point getting yourself killed just to get ’em back?’

  Without waiting for Albert’s response he moved on.

  Ronnie groaned himself awake and stretched his cramped limbs. ‘What’d he want?’ he asked. To which Albert muttered, ‘Don’t know.’

  Waking up had brought the return of the smell: the poisoned and burnt mud mingled with that cloying stink of rotting corpses. The odour of men crowded together in a narrow space had another smell all of its own: controlled fear, body sweat; control deserting a man, a bowel emptying itself unexpectedly, and stale vomit of those who, on the last onslaught over the top, had seen the limbs or the head of a comrade blown clear from his body, a man cut clean in half. These stricken witnesses did not weep, but they had a special look of their own. There was a vacancy about them, in their stare, in their silence.

  Hastily, Albert turned to peep again over the parapet at the churned-up stretch of mud, interlaced with barbed wire and pitted with shell craters. News reports at home bore no resemblance to seeing it first hand as they had marched.

  ‘Christ!’ Ronnie had cursed when they’d been first ordered down into the trench, which was narrow and already crowded. Albert had not replied – couldn’t. That single word exploding from his brother’s lips said it all. Minutes later his boots and several inches of puttees had disappeared under the muddy water, despite the duckboards. As he lifted one foot clear, a man already there, squatting on some firing steps, had grinned up at him.

  ‘Wouldn’t bother, mate. You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Used to this?’ Bert had shot at him, too shocked to grin back. ‘Pigs couldn’t get use to this!’

  The man stopped grinning. ‘Then fuckin’ don’t. Anyway you’ll soon be dead, so don’t fuss your fuckin’ self about it.’

  So saying he’d got up to plough his way further along as the intake of raw young soldiers piled into the trench in the dark.

  The only relief Albert had felt was that everything had been relatively quiet – none of the bombardment he’d been expecting, just the occasional crack of rifle fire that seemed to come from a distant direction. He was knee deep in mud and water. He’d turned to a staff sergeant who’d been busily getting this new intake to move along. ‘How do we stay dry, Staff?’

  The man hadn’t even glanced at him. ‘You don’t. Don’t have time to worry about that – been under bombardment for days. Bit of a lull now. Keep your heads down, cos it’ll probably start up again at some time or other. Them over there’s forever takin’ pot shots at us.’ With that, he’d moved on.

  A young lieutenant who was coming up to Bert from the other direction had explained in a quiet, cultured voice, ‘There are a few dugouts that are relatively dry back there where they lay down the wounded. Some manage to get a wink or two of sleep there when they can.’

  ‘Where do the others sleep?’

  The man had given a weary smile. ‘When you’re under fire, old chap, you sleep standing up the second it ceases. Cat naps. One hardly realis
es one’s drifted off. Beneficial in its way, I suppose.’ With that he had turned back the way he’d come.

  Now fully awake, Albert thought of the lieutenant, a cultured voice amid the coarse cursing of working-class men waking up, stiff and sore from lying awkwardly.

  But he thought more of something to eat as he took a swill from his water bottle. How did men eat in this place? Moments later he found out. Someone coming along, keeping his head down, poured a thin gruel into the mess tin he had hurriedly found and held out. It wasn’t half bad and he gobbled it down, feeling a little more satisfied as he stowed away the empty mess tin.

  At that moment, the bowels of hell seemed to break loose as a terrific bombardment opened up from somewhere behind the German lines, which, he realised, were hardly more than fifty yards away.

  Instinctively he ducked and cowed against the running wet walls of the trench he was in, grateful for its cover. Lying beside him was his brother, Ronnie, swearing like the devil. The noise was deafening, yet he could hear himself saying over and over, ‘Keep us safe, dear God, keep us safe!’

  Further along the trench, a deafening explosion sent sandbags and mud up into the air, knocking him off balance. It could have been no more than sixty feet away. A few minutes later, although it seemed an eon, the bombardment ceased as suddenly as it began. Men were running to where the shell had exploded. Bert automatically ran with them, as much as mud and water allowed, Ronnie close behind. Anyone who had been in that spot would have stood no chance.