Hungry ghosts, p.5
Hungry Ghosts, page 5
Chapter 6
In late 1941, as she approached her nineteenth birthday, and prompted by the Blitz and the splendid sight of Jim in his brand-new sailor’s uniform – he looked so handsome – Ruth volunteered for the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.
‘You’ve changed your flippin’ tune – you said you was a pacifist,’ sniped Ethel.
‘I’ve grown up. I want to do what I can to stop Hitler and support Jim. I can’t fight, but I can still do my bit,’ said Ruth.
‘Thank God you can’t fight,’ said Ethel. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Ruthy. I couldn’t stand it.’
‘Well, for God’s sake don’t join the bleedin’ army,’ said Carol. ‘Them uniforms are awful. You’d look a sack of potatoes.’
‘How about the land army?’ said Ethel. ‘Fresh air. Hard work. Feed the country. That’s the ticket if you ask me.’
‘No. You can’t change my mind. It’s the WAAF. I’ve got skills they need.’
‘I could ask if there’s anything going down the exchange, it’s a protected thing and you wouldn’t have to join up,’ said Carol.
‘Too late, sis. I’m already in.’
Ruth embarked on her initial training at RAF Innsworth, near Gloucester, as an aircraftswoman second class. She found it tough wearing dull stockings and uncomfortable blue skirts, and she had never worn a necktie in her entire life, not even at Dan Dougan’s. She tied up her long, dark hair and secured it with a bobby pin, but it kept falling loose during the endless marching, and so a fortnight into her training, she had it cut into a manageable bob.
She found the marching and the discipline demanding. She loathed being ordered around by drill sergeants who made Ethel look like the queen of compassion. And the food was unpalatable, to say the least. But at least she ate three solid meals a day, which had not always been the case at home. She told herself that the discomforts of training were a necessary evil in the fight against the fascist darkness eclipsing the European sun. She kept her chin up and did not permit the homesick sobs of other girls to get her down.
On completion of her training, Ruth was posted to a depot at RAF North Coates. Though she remained a lowly clerk, her work was faultless, and it became clear to her superiors that she was bright, hardworking and capable of much more than was being demanded of her.
A year after she had joined up, Ruth discovered that “clerks” were sometimes given special duties in operations rooms, radio interception stations and even top-secret radar bases. When her boss informed her that the RAF were searching for a clerk to support the collation and interpretation of arial photographic reconnaissance, Ruth put her hand up for a transfer straightaway. Having impressed the recruiters, she was despatched to RAF Medmenham and a grand old mansion in the Buckinghamshire countryside, Danesfield House, about an hour and a half out of London by train. With it came elevation to aircraftswoman first class.
Ruth and two other WAAF personnel were picked up from Marlow railway station by an RAF driver and transported in a rattling lorry to the base that would be her home for the remainder of the war.
‘I’m Joan,’ said the bright-eyed girl who sat next to her.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Ruth. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m joining the team here as a photographic interpreter. I did geography at Cambridge, so I suppose that will help. And you?’
‘I’m a clerk.’
‘Oh well, I suppose we interpreters need that kind of support.’
Ruth flushed with humiliation. ‘We all have our part to play,’ she said.
As the truck laboured grumpily up the hill, Ruth was astonished by the view through the window. Danesfield was a grand, off-white aristocratic country house with a red roof and two turreted towers that reminded her of a fairy castle set within expansive green and grassy grounds. She almost expected to be greeted by Lord and Lady somebody or other, or at least welcomed at the door by the handsome butler.
You could house half the homeless of London in that great mansion.
Having recovered her composure, Ruth stepped confidently out of the lorry onto the gravel drive and climbed the stone steps towards the mansion’s front entrance. She showed her appointment letter and security pass to an imposing soldier at the guard post and waited in line behind Joan to report to the reception desk. Joan was soon whipped away by a WAAF officer, leaving Ruth to introduce herself to the receptionist with a sharp salute.
‘Aircraftswoman Wolfe, reporting for duty.’
‘Welcome to RAF Medmenham. Someone will be along soon to show you around,’ said the receptionist, a young, blonde-haired woman whose WAAF uniform bore no insignia, signifying to Ruth her lowly rank.
‘You’ll be assisting K section, I believe.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Someone will explain all that to you in due course. The unit is organised into sections which have specific responsibilities. K is bomb damage assessment. But really, it’s not for me to say what you’ll be doing. I shouldn’t really say anything. Official secrets and all that.’
‘I ain’t a German spy.’
‘Ha ha. No. But all the spies we get here say that. So, mum’s the word.’
‘I’m Ruth, by the way.’
‘Julia.’
As Ruth glanced around the foyer, she imagined herself at a royal ball dressed in a long, white, sparkling dress. A dashing young RAF officer would invite her to dance, and he would turn out to be Lord Ponsonby’s (or whoever’s) son and heir. He of course would be instantly smitten and, after a whirlwind romance, they would be married in Westminster Cathedral. She smiled to herself: what a ridiculous fantasy she had dreamed up. She couldn’t imagine Ethel and Trevor at that wedding. Her dad would hate that she had married into a posh family. Bet they don’t vote Labour, he would say.
She scrutinised a tall, dark-haired officer striding towards her.
‘Aircraftswoman Wolfe?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Section Officer Dorothy Claremont. Come this way, please. I’ll show you the ropes.’
Ruth was posted to the second floor, where the bright, natural light supported the examination and interpretation of arial photographs. She was anxious about supervision from snooty-mouthed officers: posh girls from the home counties who’d been to private schools and learned how to speak proper and carry themselves like a lady. Dorothy Claremont had even been to university, or so she said. Ruth hadn’t known that women could even do that. In any case, Ruth was going to be nothing more than a clerk who filled in forms, filed papers and followed orders, a bit-part player to the lead actors strutting the main stage.
Ruth had hoped for more challenging work; nonetheless, she worked with energy and enthusiasm. Over time, she realised that her tasks were more complex and interesting than she had first thought: they were certainly a step up from her clerical post at North Coates. She was allowed to read some highly sensitive material and sometimes spoke with interpreters about the meaning of their photographs, especially if they were stuck and needed a new perspective.
Everybody Ruth spoke to at Medmenham said that her boss, Dorothy, was a “good stick”, and so she proved to be, within the limits of her brief. To begin with, she was simply courteous with Ruth, but as they settled into working side by side, Dorothy talked to her more openly about the section’s work.
‘We examine photos taken before and after raids and then compare them to see what damage the RAF has inflicted on the enemy,’ she said.
Dorothy placed a photograph on the desk in front of Ruth.
‘You see that little dark shape in the woods? That’s a munitions dump hidden in the trees.’
‘Oh, wow, it’s amazing how you can see that.’
‘And this one shows us what’s left after the RAF bombed it.’
‘Whoa. Not much, eh.’
‘Not much indeed. Which is what we like to see. In the past, we saw a lot of sites with little or no damage after a mission. The bombs were falling way off target. Their accuracy is much improved these days, I’m glad to say.’
Dorothy explained to Ruth that earlier in the war, K section pored over photographs of bridges and factories and munitions sites, before moving on to study and assess the damage inflicted on German cities, Cologne and Hamburg for starters. By the time Ruth took up her position, they had become preoccupied with identifying V1 and V2 launch sites and the success the bombers had in destroying them. While they had annihilated many V1 flying bomb positions – enough at least to dent the Germans’ capacity to halt the expected Allied landings in France – they had found that V2s could only be demolished on the ground.
Dorothy had taken a shine to Ruth and continued to show her photographs and talk in a limited way about what they had uncovered. And since she typed reports and internal communications, Ruth came to understand and appreciate the section’s work in increasing detail. Sometimes, when a crisis unfolded, the job was highly demanding, and she was required to type multiple reports in double quick time. Dorothy assured her that her work was of great importance to the war effort. Ruth listened carefully when the officers discussed their investigations, and she learned more and more about the role of photographic reconnaissance. But she always felt that they kept her at arm’s length, and she was never invited into the inner circle of photographic interpreters.
At first, Ruth felt uncomfortable working with officers who, she assumed, knew better than she did. She often had no idea what they were talking about. Who was Wagner anyway? And what did the inside of Harrods even look like? She did know a bit about Ascot, though. Her dad liked a punt on the horses from time to time and would send his teenage daughter to the betting shop with a slip and a pound note gripped in her hand. Rarely did Ruth return to collect winnings; too many duff tips from mates, he said. She had at least enjoyed a couple of racecourses – Newmarket and Kempton Park – unlike, she guessed, some of the officers who said they couldn’t wait for racing to resume. As far she could tell, Royal Ascot, which had been suspended during the war, was more concerned with hats and social standing than with horses.
In time, Ruth got used to the plummy-throated women and they became accustomed to her, though she was yet to forgive Captain Carter-Brown for announcing to all and sundry that she had a gutter accent; only military law and her own good nature prevented her from punching Miss Brown in the face. She comforted herself with the thought that officers couldn’t help being who they were any more than she could. They all had families; they had all suffered loss; and they were all working to help “our boys” win the war. But when the fighting was over, why couldn’t she aspire to the education they had enjoyed? They were all waging the same war, so they all deserved an equal chance.
Ruth’s social world at Medmenham was confined to friends amongst the lower ranks, and when time allowed, she met with a small group of women who lived in one of the many hastily converted rooms in Danesfield House, or in the corrugated Nissen huts that had sprung up across the expansive lawned grounds. Her basic room at the rear of the main building contained bunks for herself and three other girls. Ruth was struck by the juxtaposition of the old and the new. A room that had once housed expensive paintings – they had left their tell-tale marks on the wall – and had perhaps been the scene of rich people’s family gatherings, was now filled with bunk beds for military use. And her, a girl from Bethnal Green, who in times gone by, might have been a maid.
Ruth soon established herself in her new job, and she was good at it; everyone said so. A year into her new post, she was rewarded with promotion to leading aircraftswoman.
‘You’re a marvel, Ruth,’ said Dorothy. ‘Great work.’
Ruth thought to herself: well then, if that’s true, I deserve more – I deserve a chance to work side by side with you developing intelligence and assessing bomb damage. She longed to identify objects on the ground from photographs taken from on high, to learn how to use the Wild A5 stereoscopic viewing frame which gave a three-dimensional image and how to distinguish signs of enemy military activity. She couldn’t see any good reason why, with a bit of training and hard work, she wouldn’t be able to do those things.
When Ruth had told her mother about her work at Medmenham (at least as far as she was allowed to speak about it), Ethel was astounded that women were making a major contribution to the war effort.
‘What do women know about all that stuff?’ she said. ‘They’re best off in the Land Army growing food if you ask me. That’s what women do best. Leave the fighting to men. Anyways, I can’t even see why women would want to fight if they don’t have to.’
‘They know lots, as it happens, Mum. The women at Danesfield are smart. They have degrees from university and everything. It’s amazing.’
The day after Ruth’s promotion, Julia, the receptionist whose room was adjacent to Ruth’s, asked her to join friends for a drink.
‘Some of us are getting together after work down at The Red Lion in the village if you want to come with us and celebrate your elevation,’ she said.
After half an hour of work talk, in which they toasted Ruth’s success and then evaluated the officers’ personalities and capabilities, the conversation turned to more personal topics. Home lives and love lives and family. Julia, like Ruth, was from London; Catherine was born in Exeter, while Joy hailed from Newcastle. They shared a life forged in struggle street, with loves and hates, discontents and dilemmas, that were similar.
‘Would you ever go out with a flier?’ asked Julia.
‘I stay well clear of blokes who might not come home,’ said Ruth.
‘I walked out with a pilot once. He was a canny lad and I thought we might have a future. But he was shot down over France,’ said Joy.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ruth.
‘Oh well, it was sad alright, but you have to carry on,’ said Joy.
They chatted for an hour about boyfriends and family and the problems of living on top of each other, until Ruth steered the conversation back to Danesfield House.
‘Wouldn’t you like to do more important work? Like be involved in interpretations?’ she said.
‘Not really. I’m happy with what I do,’ said Julia. ‘I wouldn’t want all the stress and worry. Have you seen the hours those girls work? I like my sleep.’
‘I know I’m only twenty, but I’d like to do more,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m sure I can do better than type letters. I’m sure I have more in me. It don’t seem fair not to have the chance.’
‘I can’t see it happening, pet. We’re just the hired help, like in the big houses of old. Me mam was a maid and we’re all downstairs in the scullery like her,’ said Joy.
‘Have you had a gander at the officers’ mess? Posh chairs and tables and newspapers. We don’t get none of that, do we? It’s really not fair,’ said Ruth.
‘It’s the way of it. Always has been. Always will be,’ said Catherine.
Ruth remained silent. She didn’t believe that anymore; Julia might be content to accept her allotted place, but she was not.
One Monday morning, when she was typing up an urgent report and her boss was hovering around waiting to pick up the completed document, Ruth summoned up the courage to seek Dorothy’s support.
‘Excuse me, Section Officer Claremont, could I have a word?’
‘Yes, Ruth. What is it?’
‘I was wondering, do you reckon I might be able to work with you on the photographs one day?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to do it and I think I could. I don’t feel I’m doing as much as I’m capable of.’
Dorothy Claremont paused and studied Ruth’s face before she responded.
‘You’re ambitious?’
‘I think I can contribute more than I am being asked to do.’
‘Well, you would have to do some training and you’d have to be an officer. An NCO at least.’
‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ said Ruth. ‘I ain’t afraid of hard work.’
‘I’ll ask upstairs,’ said Dorothy. ‘It might take some time, though. Be patient, Ruth. But first things first, can I have that report now?’
In the weeks that followed, Ruth glanced expectantly at Dorothy each time she passed by her desk, but her boss said nothing. Ruth supposed that the men upstairs with grey hair and moustaches wouldn’t allow her to progress. She would just have to accept her allotted station, for the time being. Ruth was not an officer, nor likely to be one any time soon; she didn’t have the education or the right background. She was at the bottom of the pile, and it seemed like the powers that be wanted her to stay there. No one held doors open for women like her.
Chapter 7
Vic joined the RAF in November 1942, at the age of nineteen, with childhood “Biggles” books filling his head with the romance of pilots soaring across the vast blue sky above the clouds. Amelia, however, poured cold water on the idea that he might join the fliers.
‘You’ll never be a pilot, la,’ she said. ‘You’re the wrong sort. You didn’t go to the right schools, and you don’t know the right people. And you sound like a proper scouser, just like me and your mam. That’s the way it is in this country, I’m afraid. It’s daft and it’s stupid, but there you go. Never mind poster-boy pilots from public schools, there’s plenty of other things you can do. They’re all pomp and ceremony anyway, our kid.’
‘You gave me an education I wouldn’t have had otherwise. Don’t you want me to use it? Besides, they need anyone they can get right now,’ he said.
‘Anyone ready to kill and to die,’ said Jonny, who had been a conscientious objector in 1914 and said he would remain one in the unlikely event that he was called up.
‘Anyone ready to do their duty,’ said Vic. ‘This war is different. We’re talking about Nazis and our freedom. I don’t want to kill anyone, but what choice do we have?’
