by Nevil Shute
At Ford aerodrome she passed the most formative eighteen months of her life. She went there as a callow, undeveloped schoolgirl, unsure of herself, awkward and hesitant. She left it as a Leading Wren with no great ambition for any higher rank, reliable, efficient, and very well able to look after herself; a mature young woman.
She became a pleasant young woman, too, and a popular one. She never aspired to any film star type of beauty, but she was an open, cheerful, healthy girl with a well-developed sense of humour. She was better in overalls and bell-bottoms than in a backless evening frock, more usually seen with a smear of grease upon her forehead where she had brushed back a wisp of hair than with anything upon her face from Elizabeth Arden. The pilots of the flight she worked with grew to like her and to have confidence in guns that she had serviced; from time to time they used to take her up in Swordfish or in Barracudas to fire a gun from the rear cockpit. She was quite a good shot with a stripped Lewis. Physically she had always been broad-shouldered and athletic, and lugging loaded drums and belts and canisters of ammunition about all day made her as strong as a horse.
She was all things to all men and spent most of her life being so, because the men outnumbered the girls at Ford by four to one. Every evening there was a dance or Ensa show, or a party to the movies in Littlehampton. She learned to talk in terms that they could understand to the shy young sub-lieutenant fresh from school or to the uncouth rating fresh from a Liverpool slum; on occasion she could express herself on matters of sex in good Old English words that would have shocked her father and puzzled her mother. She learned to suit her language to the company that she was in.
War moulded her and made her what she was. When first she went to Ford the German bombers used to come frequently to bomb the aerodrome during the night; she spent long, weary nights down in the shelters. She learned quite soon what a dead man looked like, and a dead girl. She learned what a crashed aircraft looks like, and what a frail and messy thing the human body is when taken from the crash. The first time she saw this she wanted to be sick, and then she wanted to cry and was afraid of being laughed at. After the fifth or sixth such incident she wanted to do neither, and was content to do what she could to help in cleaning up the mess.
She got home to Oxford now and then on leave, and gradually she became distressed for her parents. War was hitting them much harder than it was hitting her. She was merry and well fed and confident, serene in the knowledge that she was doing a worth-while job; she could put on her Number Ones and doll herself up smartly to go home and cut a dash. At home she found her mother tired and worn with the work of cooking and catering for a large household with little or no help at a time of increasing shortages, and harassed by six strange children from the East End of London living in the house. Her father seemed smaller and greyer than she had remembered him; he was no longer the jovial don who took life easily with good conversation and good port in the Senior Common Room. There was no port in Oxford in those days and little time for conversation; her father seemed to be able to talk of nothing but the Observer Corps, its administration, its efficiency, and its discipline. Before she had been a year at Ford Janet came to look forward to her next pass with something close to apprehension; it was pitiful to see her mother aging and be unable to help her, to see her father turning into just another poor old man.
In the early summer of 1943 she got an opportunity to change her job. CPO Waters told me about it when I talked to him in his tobacconist’s shop in Fratton Road, in Portsmouth, in 1951. He remembered Leading Wren Prentice very well indeed, for she was the subject of one of his best and most frequently told stories. “It was in 1943, in the summer,” he told me. “Gawd, that was a lark!” He savoured the memory, grinning. “They wanted Ordnance Wrens to look after the guns on the invasion fleet, Combined Operations. They sent a chit all round the Ordnance depots asking for Wren volunteers. These girls, they didn’t know what the job was on account of it being secret; they thought it was to work on MTB’s, but really, it was the tank landing craft and that. Every LCT Mark 4, she had two Oerlikons, and every LCS — and there were thousands of them. No wonder they had to rob the other branches of the Service for Ordnance Wrens! I dunno how many Oerlikons there were in the Normandy party — thousands and thousands of ’em.”
The 20 mm. Oerlikon was not unlike the 20 mm. Hispano that Janet was used to servicing, so the work would present no difficulty to her. She felt that she would like to make a change and to see another side of the navy; it seemed absurd that she had been in the Wrens for nearly two years and she had never been near a ship. With half a dozen other Wrens from Ford she volunteered for the new service, and was sent on a short course to Whale Island to convert to Oerlikons.
Whale Island lies in Portsmouth Harbour and it is the site of H.M.S. Excellent, the naval gunnery training and experimental establishment. Whale Island is a very serious place, full of ambitious regular naval officers with black gaiters on their legs and a stern frown on their foreheads, all intent on advancing themselves in their career by developing a new system of fire control or improving an old one. Janet Prentice was ten days at Whale Island and to her delight the curriculum of her course included two afternoons of firing the Oerlikon at a sleeve target towed by an aeroplane; this practice was carried out upon the grid at Eastney firing out over the sea. It was considered necessary that the girls should be able to test the guns that they had overhauled with a short burst of fire, and to make the matter interesting for them they were given a brief, elementary course of eyeshooting at a towed target, using the simple ring sight.
On the first afternoon of their shoot, when it came to Janet’s turn to fire, the target sleeve mysteriously began to disintegrate into ribbons. She went on firing for about twenty rounds, and it parted from the towing wire altogether and fluttered down into the sea. “The rest of ’em all missed astern,” the chief petty officer told me, years later, leaning across the counter of his little shop. “You get them sometimes like that — natural good shots, but this was the first time I ever knew it in a girl. I give her a coconut out of the ready-use locker, there on the grid. Gunnery officers on ships from West Africa or India, they used to bring me back a sack or two of coconuts, ‘n I’d always have one ready if that happened. Makes a bit of fun for the class, you see. Makes ’em take an interest.”
Two days later they were taken to the range again for their final shoot. Their visit coincided with a demonstration to the Naval Staff of a new sort of towed target designed to replace the sleeve, a little winged glider that looked just like a real aeroplane and which seemed to tow much faster than the linen sleeve.
At that time the Naval Staff were divided into two schools of thought regarding the best method of fire control against low-flying aircraft. The Director of Naval Ordnance held that all guns should be predictor controlled. The Director of the Gunnery Division held that all guns should be radar controlled. This battle was raging at the time more fiercely than the one against the Germans. The one point that both agreed upon was that eyeshooting was no use at all for bringing down an aeroplane.
The Fifth Sea Lord wanted to see a shoot against the winged target, the First Sea Lord wanted to see if radar was really any good against an aircraft at close range, and both wanted a day down by the sea. With their attendant brass they drove down in style from the Admiralty, had lunch with the captain of H.M.S. Excellent, and went out full of good food and Plymouth gin for their afternoon’s entertainment at Eastney.
The range officer at that time was a certain Lt. Cdr. Cartwright, RN, whose ship had been torpedoed in the North Atlantic by two German submarines simultaneously while he was busy depth-charging a third. His subsequent immersion for two hours in the North Atlantic in midwinter followed by thirty-six hours in an open boat had done him no good. After his convalescence he had been relegated to shore duties for six months, to his immense disgust, and had been sent down to take charge of firing operations on the grid at Eastney.
Commander Cartwrigh
t was a general duties officer, a salt horse, whose profession was commanding a ship; he had little use for gunnery specialists and their toys. To him a simple weapon was a good weapon and a complex weapon was a bad one; it was as straightforward as that. His administration of the range included both the experimental and the training shoots; in his own mind he gave strong preference to training and had little patience with experimental work, especially when it interfered with any of the courses. To him the visit of the Board of Admiralty that afternoon was a sheer waste of the time of busy people. It meant that he would have to stop his training shoots when the brass arrived and he would have a hundred ratings and a dozen Wrens standing idle for an hour or so, waiting till this damned experimental nonsense was over.
He let off at his RNVR assistant in hearing of the CPO. “Half of them won’t get a shoot at all unless we stick our heels in,” he said irritably. “Well, I’m not going to have it. I won’t pass them out until each one of them has had a proper shoot. These muggers from the Admiralty seem to think that training doesn’t matter.”
When all the admirals and captains came to the grid he was stiffly correct in his black gaiters, inwardly furious. The towing aircraft appeared dead on time, and far behind it a small winged object streaked across the sky. It was the first time that any of the brass had seen it and nobody knew how large it was or how fast it was going. The technical officers examined its flight with some concern. The predictor boys spoke in low tones to the Director of Naval Ordnance protesting that some knowledge of the size was necessary to their fire control. The radar boys spoke in low tones to the Director of the Gunnery Division explaining that the thing was giving an uncommonly poor response upon the cathode ray screen, and voicing their suspicion that it was made of wood, which clearly wasn’t fair.
The two Directors hesitantly proffered these objections to one or two of the lesser admirals. The First Sea Lord, overhearing, remarked that they would listen to the technicians after tea. In the meantime, he was there to see that thing shot down.
They fired at it for an hour, in ten runs past the grid at varying angles of approach and altitudes. They fired at it with the quadruple Vickers, with the multiple pom-pom, with a predictor-controlled twin Bofors, with a radar-controlled triple Oerlikon, and with a comic thing that fired a salvo of sixteen rockets all at once. At the end of the hour the target was still flying merrily about the sky, and half the officers were laughing cynically and half were speechless with frustration.
Commander Cartwright was a very angry man. His training classes were standing idle and laughing at each failure; clearly their morale was suffering. They would have little confidence after a show like this that they could hit an aeroplane, if all the experts couldn’t. It was intolerable that they should have to witness an exhibition of this sort that brought his training effort into ridicule.
His instructor, CPO Waters, who had had ten years of experience upon the grid, sidled up to him. “I got a Wren down there could hit that thing,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “That one what hit the sleeve on Monday. She’s a natural, she is. She could hit that, sir.”
The officer’s eyes gleamed. “Think she could?”
“I think so, sir. What’s it doing? Hundred and eighty knots?”
“About that, I should say.”
“She could hit it, sir. Ask if some of the training class can’t have a go, and leave the rest to me.”
Commander Cartwright went up to the observation tower, caught the eyes of the captain of H.M.S. Excellent, and saluted smartly. “We have three courses waiting down on the grid, sir, each for their final day of eyeshooting. Could we save time in getting out another aircraft by letting them shoot at this?”
The captain said, “I think that’s quite a good idea. It would be interesting to see the comparison, too.” The Director of the Gunnery Division said, “I don’t think you can expect much from that.” The First Sea Lord said, “I have no objection. What time is it now? I must be off by half past four.”
Down on the grid the chief said, “Here you, Leading Wren Prentice. On the Oerlikon.” She stepped forward, bursting with importance, and slipped her shoulders into the half rings. The chief pulled the strap behind her shoulders and made it fast for her. “Take it easy,” he said quietly. “Try it first about a hundred and eighty knots, ‘n if that don’t work, feel it up towards two hundred, like you been taught. Now wait till I tell you to fire.”
Janet grinned at him. “Okay, Chief.”
Up on the observation tower where the high brass were congregated the Vice-Admiral who was in charge of weapon development looked down to the Oerlikon. “What’s that — a Wren?”
By this side Commander Cartwright said, “It’s the eyeshooting class for Wren Ordnance Artificers, sir. Ladies first.”
Down on the grid Janet moved up on the circumferential steps behind her as she depressed the Oerlikon to the approaching target. A hundred and eighty knots, fairly near the outer ring but two-thirds in from that because it was diagonal, flying a little below the centre because of the range. She had never had the slightest difficulty with this; it all seemed common sense to her. By her side the old chief said quietly, “Wait for it. Remember, don’t look at the tracer, just keep looking at the sight, and mind what I told you. Wait for it.”
She had it fair and square between the rings at about four o’clock, exactly as she wanted it. The little target glider grew quickly larger.
“Now — fire!”
She pressed the grip and the gun started shaking rhythmically, and the noise was great, and the smoke of cordite was all around her. She had the little glider held fixed in her sight exactly as she wanted it; she swung her body across and down to keep it there and the gun swung slowly with her. Deliberately she felt the target back towards the outer ring, moving it very slowly, anticipating the violent throbbing of the gun, bracing herself to master this wild thing that she had started with her grip.
She was exultant. This was really living; it was fun!
And suddenly there were two flashes on the little glider, one on the wing and one on the body. It rolled over on its back and one of the wings came off and began to flutter down. The chief roared in her ear, “Cease fire!”
She released her grip and the clamour of the gun stopped, and she stood watching with the smoke all around her. The glider was plunging violently and wildly in the air at the end of its mile length of cable, in fantastically irregular flight. Then the cable suddenly went slack as the observer in the towing aircraft cut it free, and the target fell in spinning confusion into the sea with a small splash.
On the grid the class were cheering wildly. The chief released Janet from the back strap; reaction was upon her and she was trembling as if she still fired the gun. From the ready-use ammunition locker the chief produced another coconut; she took it from him, laughing.
Up on the observation tower the Range Officer said drily to his captain, “There’s something to be said for the old methods, after all.”
His captain said, “Oh, certainly. But it’s exceptional. She’s probably a Senior Wrangler in civil life, and teaches trigonometry.”
The higher admirals were perfectly delighted, especially the Fifth Sea Lord. “There, DNO — and you, DGD. What about it? Beaten by a girl with five bob’s worth of sights upon the gun! I haven’t had an afternoon like this for years!”
Somebody said resentfully, “She’s probably a crack shot in civil life, sir.”
The First Sea Lord said, “Well, I should like to know about that. Let’s have her up here for a minute.”
An RNVR officer was despatched down to the grid at the double to fetch CPO Waters and Leading Wren Prentice to the Presence; Janet fumbled with her coconut and gave it to May Spikins to look after for her, put her hat on straight, and went with the warrant officer up to the tower. Here she was passed quickly to Commander Cartwright, by him to the captain of H.M.S. Excellent, and by him to the First Sea Lord. She looked at him nervously, a red-f
aced old gentleman with heavy gold braid rings upon his cuff that seemed to go right up to the elbow, and a fruit salad of medal ribbons on his chest. She was still trembling from the clamour of the gun, from reaction, and from fright.
He said kindly, “That was very good shooting, young lady. I congratulate you. Had you done much shooting before you joined the Service?”
She said, “I had fired a shotgun, sir. Only twice.”
“Have you done much shooting since you joined?”
She hesitated, because at Ford it was against the regulations for Wrens to fly. Then she decided it was better to tell the truth. “I was in the Fleet Air Arm before coming here,” she said. “They used to take us up sometimes to test the observer’s Lewis or Browning by firing it.”
“What did you fire at? Something in the sea?”
“Yes, sir. A bit of wood or seaweed — anything.”
All the officers were studying her. The First Sea Lord asked, “What are you in civil life?”
She said awkwardly, “Well, sir — I wasn’t anything. I mean, I was at school.”
The captain of Excellent asked, “What were you best at, at school?”
She hesitated. “Well, I liked Latin best, I think.” It seemed a pretty crackpot sort of question to her, and it must have been, because one or two of them laughed.
The First Sea Lord asked, “Did you have any difficulty in learning eyeshooting?”
“No, sir.” She had a natural flair for it. All the rest of her class had been much puzzled by it, and she had spent an hour trying to make May Spikins see what seemed so obvious to her. “I just did what the chief taught us.”
That brought in Chief Petty Officer Waters. The admiral asked him, “Is this Wren exceptional, Chief?”
He answered stiffly, “She’s better than the general run, sir. I’d say that she’s a natural good shot.”
“That’s why you put her on to shoot?”
“Yes, sir.”
Somebody else asked, “What are the Ordnance Wrens like, in general, compared with the ratings?”
