On a Wing and a Prayer

The group, having received their issue, returned to the rather Spartan hut that they were to live in for the foreseeable future. It contained iron beds, some cupboards, a few chairs, and a picture of Eleanor Roosevelt, wife of the President of the United States, who had toured the camp in August.

‘Shouldn’t she be in the lecture rooms with the King and the PM?’ Rose asked, but no one answered, being too involved in comparing uniforms.

Rose was not a vain woman, personal vanity not having been encouraged by the Petrie parents, but when she saw herself dressed in uniform for the first time, she wanted to weep. The tunic was wearable if she tightened the half-belt at the back till it was almost nonexistent, but the skirt, although long enough, was so loose that it fell down, leaving her standing in her new knickers. Since leaving school, only her twin sister, Daisy, or their mother had seen Rose in her underwear and she was embarrassed.

‘Why did I ever leave Dartford?’ she said aloud. The uniform looked so unprofessional and, although she was at a base in Surrey, which was not too far from home, the new intake had been told not to expect leave for some time. Were she to post the absolutely necessary items home, it could take weeks for them to get there, be altered and be sent back.

‘Don’t worry, Rose.’ Another girl, whose name she had not yet learned, came over from her bed. ‘I’ll take the skirt in for you after tea, and they’ll all be here to admire the stunning new khaki issue, so try to take it in your stride. With those blue eyes and that glorious golden hair, the colours will suit. And as for modesty, three months at a boarding school and you wouldn’t have an inhibition left. That’s about all I learned, apart from a bit of sewing – both skills equally useful in the ATS.’

‘You’re very kind. I can sew on buttons, jobs like that, but—’

‘Always better to leave it to the professional. I’m Cleo Fitzpatrick, by the way, which is, believe it or not, short for Cleopatra. My father was stationed in Egypt when I was born; I still haven’t discovered a really good way of paying him back.’

Rose, who had a very happy home life, looked at Cleo’s face and relaxed as she saw that the girl was joking. She was obviously as fond of her parents as Rose was of hers. ‘My twin sister and I always hated being called after flowers.’

Cleo looked up at Rose. ‘But you suit your name, and what about your sister? Are you identical?’

Before replying, Rose reached for her shoulder bag, took out her purse and retrieved a small black-and-white snapshot taken on the beach at Dover before the war. ‘I’m obviously the giant looming over two of the others, but which one d’you think is Daisy?’

Cleo examined the picture for some time. ‘None of them even has the same eyes or hair. That one maybe, the taller one.’

‘That gorgeous creature is our friend Sally. The sweet little one in gingham is my twin sister.’

‘No, you’re not serious.’

‘Cross my heart. She’s in the ATA, believe it or not, and a pilot. Been in since ’41.’

There was no time for further chat as several other girls poured in. ‘Quick, you two, the boiler’s on in the washhouse. First come first served.’

The accommodation on this training base was basic. It consisted of huts of all shapes and sizes. The toilet block was a long rectangle built over a pit. A slight wall separated each toilet, but at this time there were no doors. Girls like Cleo who had spent years in boarding schools and were used to dressing and undressing in front of other girls were much more relaxed about this situation than those who had been raised to keep all matters of personal hygiene private. Rose hated it and longed for the day when her induction period was finished and she would be transferred, she hoped, to more comfortable living quarters. There was only one washhouse for the group and a limited supply of hot water was available, and only in the evenings. The new auxiliaries soon worked out a rota system – ‘another thing boarding school taught,’ said Cleo.

The oldest auxiliary in Rose’s hut was a thirty-eight-year-old widow from Derby, who told the others that she had joined up when her twenty-year-old son had insisted on joining the army.

‘“Join the army and see the world, Mum,” he said, and I, tears streaming down my face, begged him to reconsider. He’s all I got in the world, see, but – “I got a chance to do something grand, Mum,” he said, “and, just think, I’ll be able to give you a bit of a hand. All my food’s provided, and my uniform, plus I get paid. You’ll see, we’ll be able to put a bit aside for that cottage you’ve always wanted. The war’s an opportunity for them as is willing to take it.”’

Chrissy Wade explained her situation to the girls during a welcome break. ‘An opportunity to get killed is what I told him, so what could I do but join up? Had a cleaning job afore the war and a lot of opportunity there was there, I don’t think. Hope this lot don’t give me all the cleaning to do in the ATS.’ She had laughed then, and the younger women laughed with her, already liking her spirit.

The others were, like Rose, in their twenties. They included waitresses, beauticians, seamstresses, shop assistants, factory workers like Rose, and even two university students: Cleo, and a shy, rather intense girl from Poole named Phyllis.

‘You two will be officers in no time,’ said Chrissy, ‘that’s what my lad said. Ten lads signed up with him and one went straight for training to be an officer.’

‘I hope not,’ said Cleo.

‘You couldn’t be an officer, Cleo,’ Rose teased her. ‘How embarrassing for the ATS to have an officer with two left feet.’

‘Don’t officers just stand looking rather splendid while the others march?’ Phyllis, who hardly spoke, surprised them all by joining in.

It was obvious to Rose that Phyllis was joking, but most of the others seemed to take her remark seriously. Except Cleo.

‘That lets you out too, Phyllis. You’re too small to be splendid.’

‘Thanks very much. I’ll remind you that Queen Victoria was small.’

‘Like a little Christmas pudding,’ Rose surprised herself by suggesting. Everyone laughed.

The trainees were up by seven o’clock, their sleep having been somewhat disturbed by the almost constant droning of aircraft. Rose, like thousands of other people living in the south of England, had become used to the sound of planes flying overhead night after night, and she could recognise the sound of enemy aircraft.

‘They’re ours,’ she mumbled several times during the night. ‘Go back to sleep.’

They slept and woke, dozed and woke again, and by eight o’clock were washed, dressed, beds made, room tidied, and in the canteen for breakfast. Rose, who had shared the cleaning of their little shop and their homely flat above it, had hoped that cleaning would not be on her list of daily tasks.

‘I don’t mind keeping my own area clean, and I’ll clean up after myself, but I didn’t join the ATS for domestic duties.’

After breakfast came the dreaded drill. Learning to march certainly woke them up every morning. Cleo complained loudly that her boarding school had not included marching in its comprehensive syllabus. ‘Honestly, Rose, it looks so bleep-bleep simple when we see regular soldiers on the parade ground, but it’s far from easy. And that drill sergeant yelling in my ear only makes me mix up my feet. I’d do better if you were teaching it. Why do we always have to be bullied by men? Makes something in me rebel. But right now I’m thinking of drawing a great big R on one of these ghastly, clumpy shoes.’

‘Just make sure it’s on the right, right shoe,’ teased Rose.

In a way, however, Rose agreed. Would they ever learn to keep in line, stay in place, to use the correct foot or the proper stride, especially since they were of varying heights? Could they possibly master standing to attention, standing at ease, halting smartly when on the march, and would they ever learn to salute properly? Rose, with brothers in the Forces, found herself wishing she had paid attention when they had wanted to show her.

She was quietly glad that at school she had been on the very successful athletics team and so set herself to rapidly mastering the drills.

Aptitude tests – or trade tests, as the girls called them – came after all the marching and drilling. Scores attained in these tests would be used to decide where each ATS auxiliary would work. Rose worried that, as a working-class girl who left school at fourteen, she might be sent to work in the kitchens.

‘What do you think, Cleo? You went to a posh boarding school till you were seventeen. Some of the others have had secretarial training. You girls will get the best jobs. Girls like me will end up peeling potatoes or waiting tables.’

‘Rubbish, Rose. You have more experience in driving and in looking after cars than anyone – in our hut, at least. I learned to drive but I’ve never even put in petrol, and as for oil and keeping the blinking thing chugging along – that is all far beyond me.’

Rose laughed. ‘Don’t you have any brothers? Mine were always taking engines apart—’

Cleo interrupted. ‘And putting them back together.’

‘Exactly.’

Rose wrote to her parents during her first week of training.

If the King himself, God bless him, was to come into the camp, I would not be ashamed of my salute. But if Mr Churchill comes, and Sergeant Glover says as how he often has a quick visit somewhere, do we salute him? He’s not in the army and he’s not a royal. I’m not going to worry. Sergeant Glover knows everything.

Last night, as in two o’clock in the morning!!!!, we had a practice of what to do in an air raid. It was just an alert but it frightened the life out of most of us. We have to wear these uncomfortable steel helmets – can you imagine, steel? They’re really heavy but Sergeant Glover says they can be the difference between life and death. Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll wear mine.

Would you believe we had a talk on obeying orders? ‘Orders must be obeyed immediately and without question. Your life could depend on your ability to master this simple skill.’ Never thought I’d be grateful to have had the Dartford Dragon as my teacher in elementary school. I’ve already made a friend, although everyone in our hut is friendly. Some is quite posh and some in between, like Cleo, my new chum, who has done a lovely job of altering my uniform. You’d have cried if you’d seen me before she fixed it. I could have wrapped the skirt round me twice. The underwear is awful, can’t think why they gave it to us, unless some girls is so poor they hasn’t got changes – isn’t that a shame? – and we’ve got this huge furry coat-like thing that reaches almost to my ankles. Cleo’s trailed on the ground till she had time to fix it. She did look funny – a bit like Charlie Chaplin waddling along like a duck – but Sergeant Glover says we’ll be glad of our Teddy Bear coats in the winter.

Cleo had indeed made a beautiful job of tailoring Rose’s uniform and, as her appearance improved, so did her confidence. When she had worked in the Vickers munitions factory in Dartford, she had become expert at keeping her long hair safe inside a net; now she made one thick plait, wound it into a tight ring and fastened it with kirby grips. No matter how active she was, it stayed inside her cap.

Somehow, knowing that she looked professional made it easier for her to believe that she would succeed. Once or twice she had felt that she was struggling in the aptitude tests but consoled herself with the knowledge that she had done her best. Her ambition was to be a driver; surely the men in charge would see that she had years of experience, not only of driving but also of vehicle maintenance. She knew that driving the Prime Minister was probably an impossible dream. People say that dreams can come true but, in the meantime, decided Private Petrie, any driving would do.

She managed to go home twice during her time in Guildford. Once she took Cleo with her, worrying all the time about Flora’s nervousness around people she did not know. Her worries were for nothing. Cleo might have a retired army officer for a father and might have been educated at boarding school, two possible reasons for Flora to feel anxious, but Cleo endeared herself to Fred and Flora immediately.

‘Boarding school and then the ATS,’ sighed Flora. ‘You’ll need a good tea, pet.’

Rose and Fred exchanged an affectionate smile over Flora’s head. The much-loved wife and mother had found another lost lamb. The first one, young George, arrived home from Old Manor Farm, which was tenanted by the Petries’ long-time friend Alf Humble, in time for the ‘good tea’, and was immediately fascinated by this exciting creature with the exotic name.

‘Do you know all about the real Cleopatra?’ he asked Cleo immediately, as he munched happily into his sugarless carrot cake.

Cleo thought quickly. It was obvious to her that the boy was anxious to show his knowledge.

‘Well, I was born in Egypt and my dad said she was an Egyptian queen; I don’t know much about her except that someone rolled her up in a carpet.’

George was delighted to show her the difference between historical fact and fiction. ‘Miss Partridge told me all about Cleopatra and Julius Caesar. Do you know who Caesar was?’

Cleo had a sinking feeling that she might be doomed to spend her entire forty-eight hours’ leave reliving her secondary education. It was obvious that the boy remembered every word spoken by the wonderful Miss Partridge. ‘I do indeed, George,’ she said, ignoring the disappointed look on his thin face. ‘We could talk about Roman history but isn’t Sergeant Petrie coming tonight? He’ll want to talk to his sister, won’t he?’

Flora’s face had worn an enormous smile when she had told the girls that, hearing of Rose’s expected visit, Sam had requested – and been given – a twenty-four-hour pass. ‘He’ll be here soon,’ she said, ‘and he’ll have news of Grace and of Daisy.’

So it proved.

Sam arrived just as his father was on his way out to do his usual fire-watching shift. Fred had time only to hug his son, and say, ‘I’ll catch you at breakfast, lad,’ before hurrying off.

Cleo looked somewhat shocked as Flora brought out yet another tin. ‘Doesn’t rationing affect grocers?’ she asked, and was immediately ashamed of herself. ‘Oh gosh, Mrs Petrie, I didn’t mean that the way it came out.’

Rose laughed. ‘My parents are as honest as the day is long, Cleo, but Mum has made stretching rations into a science. In other words, when she’s expecting one of us, she and Dad do without and all rations are saved.’ She looked across at her mother, who was pretending not to hear. ‘They think we don’t know but we do.’

‘My mother’s housekeeper was exactly like that, Mrs Petrie,’ said Cleo, anxious to make reparation for her insensitive remark. ‘Probably mothers all over the country are doing without so that their children can have everything they need. Are meals still good in the army, Sam?’

Sam smiled at her. ‘Depends on where the army is. It wasn’t too good in the POW camps, except when we got Red Cross parcels. We got them from the Yanks, the Canadians, and our own. Camp I was in, we had some trouble with guards; they sometimes pinched our stuff. Mind you, I don’t think the poor beggars got much more to eat than we did. We traded with them sometimes. Everybody got cigarettes and I exchanged mine for other things – vitamin C tablets, writing paper.’

‘You got parcels from America? But they weren’t in the war then, Sam. They only joined after the Japs bombed them at Pearl Harbor just before Christmas last year.’

‘They still gave aid. Every country in sympathy with the Allies did a bit. The parcels went to a Red Cross centre in Geneva, I think, and the Swiss distributed them to every camp. Nobody cared where the parcels came from. The notes inside were in several languages: Yugoslav, French, English, Polish – a lot more. We’ll never forget the Red Cross or the St John. And you’ll see, now that the Yanks are in, they’ll come to Britain and they’ll fight with us in Europe.’

Cleo was deeply moved. ‘I’ve been a bit sheltered, Sam, I’m afraid. I didn’t know any of that about the Red Cross parcels. Good people everywhere. Makes me proud to have joined up.’

‘We’ve got a friend in the Land Army, Cleo,’ put in George. ‘She’s Sam’s sweetheart, isn’t she, Sam?’

Sam stood up and looked at his mother. ‘Isn’t it time for little boys to go to bed, Mum?’

‘I was just saying about Grace so you could tell Cleo about farm food,’ said the aggrieved George.

‘Well, actually—’ began Cleo, but before she could say another word they heard the doorbell.

‘I’ll get it, Mum,’ called Rose, already running quickly down the wooden stairs to the back door.

‘Sally Brewer, I don’t believe it.’ Rose’s excited voice rang out on the staircase. ‘Mum, Sam, George, you’ll never guess who’s here.’

George jumped up. ‘Sally’s a film star,’ he boasted somewhat erroneously, going to meet her. He stopped before running down the stairs and called back, ‘A real one.’

It was a lovely reunion: Rose, Sally and Sam actually there in the familiar, comfortable living room, with Grace and Daisy present in spirit. Phil was at sea. The family was conscious, as always, that since Ron had been killed it could never be complete again, but they did not burden others with their personal sorrows. They welcomed Sally, who had come down from London, where she had had the smallest of small parts in an actual West End play. Her news, which she had hoped would excite Rose, was that she was going to be in a musical – in Guildford.

Rose, and Cleo, who was almost as star-struck as George, groaned. ‘We’ve finished training. We’re leaving Guildford.’

They cheered up when Sally told them all manner of stories connected with her time in the theatre, actors and actresses she had met, screen tests she had had for film-makers and the, admittedly, tiny parts she had had in propaganda films. ‘I actually stood beside Noël Coward for three whole minutes in a film.’

‘The real Noël Coward. Wow.’ Cleo breathed out the word in awe.

Sally added Cleo to her list of ‘suitable friends to be invited’, and then organised the group into writing round-robin letters to Daisy, Grace and Phil. ‘Everyone writes a sentence about anything and signs it, and we’ll keep going till everyone has written at least one sentence on each letter.’

‘But I don’t know them, Sally,’ Cleo pointed out.

‘They won’t mind, and besides, you’re bound to meet them one day. Seems to me the whole world wants to be looked after by the Petries, and Flora and Fred want to look after everyone. Relax and enjoy!’

Much later than ten o’clock George, grudgingly, went off to bed, as did Flora, and Sam walked Sally back to her home.

‘We always thought Sam was sweet on Sally,’ Rose told Cleo as they brushed their hair before turning off the very dim bedroom light. ‘But you couldn’t doubt where his heart really is when you see him with Grace. Funny old thing, love.’

‘Hysterical,’ agreed Cleo.

They were asleep in minutes.

The great day came. The intensive study and hard work of just three weeks – which somehow seemed to have been much longer – were behind them.

With the exception of Chrissy, the occupants of Rose’s hut were wide awake by five-thirty; few of them had been able to sleep at all.

Would anyone be told that she just did not measure up? They had been together for such a short time but they were a team, a family, supporting one another, and today they would be parted and perhaps would never see each other again. It was a sobering thought for all but the two ‘boarding school girls’, who were quite used to meeting and parting.

‘Royal Mail, girls, fabulous invention, and there is the telephone,’ said Cleo. ‘Let’s make a pact to meet somewhere every year. All suggestions for suitable venues gladly received.’

‘Officer material if ever I saw it,’ said Avril Hunter. ‘Were you head girl, by any chance, Cleo?’

‘God, no,’ said Cleo, adjusting her beautifully tailored skirt. ‘For some obscure reason I did become a prefect and possibly became the teeniest bit bossy; it was that lovely magenta stripe on my grey blazer – went to my head, it did.’ She waited till the laughter died down before continuing, ‘Rose is definitely head girl material: popular, bright, attractive, and, to top it all, she’s an athlete. Bet they make her an officer.’

‘All my brains are in my legs,’ said Rose, blushing furiously. She was moved to hear that she was popular – Daisy was always the instantly popular twin. She really did not want to be selected for officer training. She could hear Stan’s voice – Stan who had not answered what she thought of as her ‘apologetic little letter’. ‘Not in your league, Rose.’ Despite her churning stomach, she pulled herself together. Whatever happened today was the beginning of something, and if army recruits worked half as hard as ATS recruits, he probably had no time for writing letters.

Everyone in the new intake confessed to a churning tummy. Would a girl be selected for cooking, cleaning, waiting tables in mess halls, as a storekeeper or a telephonist? Would the two university students be asked to train as translators – both had studied at least one foreign language – or might something even more secret and necessary be their lot? Who might become a lorry driver, a motorbike messenger, a mechanic or perhaps even an engineer or electrician? And those were not the only jobs available. With the necessary skills, a woman might be trained in wireless telegraphy, to use the newly developed radar systems. Yes, the opportunities were there.

The early morning hours seemed to crawl by. Would it ever be ten o’clock? But, of course, ten o’clock came, as usual.

By lunchtime, with many of them in a state almost of euphoria, they trooped into the canteen. Chrissy could scarcely contain herself and had tried to avoid lunch so that she could sit down and write to her son. ‘Can you imagine, girls?’ she asked them several times. ‘They don’t want me to clean. They think I’m secretarial material. What will my lad say when I tell him his mum’s going to be a secretary?’

No one was unkind enough to tell her that, since she could not type and knew nothing about shorthand, she had a long way to go.

‘You’ll get there, Chrissy, and secretaries make lots more money than cleaners. That cottage with roses round the door is just a matter of time.’

No one from Rose’s group had been selected for officer training.

Cleo had been selected for driver training. At the most, she could drive and, thanks to Rose, she now knew where to put petrol; Phyllis had been chosen for reasons even she could not begin to understand to join an anti-aircraft crew, looking out for enemy aircraft with the help of radar and searchlights.

‘Please don’t do any firing until you can recognise every type of plane in existence,’ Rose warned her, half seriously. ‘Don’t want you shooting down my sister.’

‘Only men fire guns.’

‘That doesn’t fill me with confidence,’ retorted Rose, and again everyone laughed.

Next they turned on Rose. ‘Come on, Rose, why so quiet and modest? What job have they given you? Chauffeur to the American general?’

Rose smiled and tried gamely to hide her bitter disappointment as she said, ‘No, very sensibly they’ve put me down as a mechanic – trainee, that is; it’s usually a man’s job. What’s your betting they still give me a woman’s wages?’

Each of the young women had been told that her wages would be two-thirds of that earned by the men. For Chrissy, it was still better than she had earned as a cleaner, and was, in her eyes, a definite step up.

Cleo hugged Rose. ‘I’m so sorry, Rose. They should have made you a driver. Probably there’s been a mistake. They’ll discover that and change your posting.’

‘I’ll be a good mechanic, Cleo. Honestly, I’m delighted; I was always afraid they’d throw me out altogether. Pity we won’t be together, though. It’s been fun.’

Promising to keep in touch, they continued to walk back towards their hut, where already packing-up was going on.