My War Part III — ATS

Despite the attraction of my time in Ascot, at some time I decided to become a Wren. I had taken driving lessons at a school of motoring in Herne Hill, London and naively thought that would enable me to become a driver. However, having gone through all the procedures, medical etc., this could not be guaranteed and it was clear to me that I might end up being a cook! So I joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service (ATS) in 1944 and after four months became a driver and ready for anything. What I wasn’t prepared for was the inscrutability of War Office procedures when it came to my first posting after basic training at Queen Elizabeth ATS camp in Guildford and the 11 or 12 weeks’ driving course at No.1 M.T. Group in Camberley. Incidentally, the Queen did her driving training there a few months later and, beyond being the same age, I imagine the only thing we had in common was the Commanding Officer! At the end of that we were invited to state our preferences of where we would like to be posted. I chose London, as with doodlebugs falling, I wanted to be near home. Big mistake for it was a classic army cock-up.

At the end of our leave four of us reported at the Royal Army Ordnance Corps Depot, Greenford: they knew nothing about us, didn’t want us, and swiftly arranged for us to go that day to the RAOC Depot at Bicester with travel papers that took us as far as Aylesbury by train and “find your own way from there”. We saw some soldiers and ATS climbing into the back of some Bedford personnel carriers and, having established where they were going, we clambered aboard, each of us wondering what had made us volunteer! (It is interesting how little changes in 60 years. Upon reading this, my son commented on more modern volunteers - serving friends of his in the Territorial Army - who had a very similar experience on arriving in Kuwait in 2003 shortly before the invasion of Iraq. They were neither expected nor wanted, only this time were effectively told to go away, leaving them to flag down their own transport to sort out a posting for themselves!)

On arrival at the camp some distance from the town, it was the same story as at Greenford. It was about 10.30pm, quite dark, and an ATS sergeant at first was flummoxed — not expected, not wanted and what should she do? She found some odd unoccupied beds in a couple of Nissen huts, assigned to girls who were on leave, and produced some clean sheets but couldn’t find any pillow cases, so that night I laid my head on the Daily Mirror!

To say we were miserable is telling the half of it and it was to get worse. The following day we were sent to the vast sheds where crates of Army supplies were housed and given Lister hand-controlled vehicles to drive, pulling the heavy loads from one place to another. It was not what any of us wanted to do. Then, as I remember it, there was a minor mishap involving one of the Listers that led to a mini-mutiny against them by all of us. Our Officer in Command (OC) called a meeting to sort it out during which some barrack room lawyer quoted King’s Regulations which stated that we, being under the age of 19, were not allowed to drive Listers. Then followed the prolonged time when we paraded and went to work in the self-same sheds, only there was no work. All day we sat round a coke-filled conical stove (I forget the name of it, but it was a standard barrack-room fire) drinking tea, reading and chatting until it was time to go back to the huts.

Desperately unhappy, I wrote to the Commanding Officer (CO) at Camberley on behalf of my friend, Jean Horner, and myself and have recently come across the reply. Surprisingly there was no reproach for breaking all the rules about making complaints and, without commitment, a hint that something might be done! I don’t know what action she might have taken to influence subsequent events, but eventually both of us were posted to No.3 M.T. Group at Nuneaton and started convoy driving. Before that came through, there was the time I went AWOL (Absent without leave).

It was the last Christmas of the war and, except for compassionate reasons, leave for all the services had been cancelled. Given the “no work” situation I had no intention of spending Christmas sitting round a stove in my greatcoat (it was perishingly cold), so a day or two before the 25th, I hitchhiked home. There were of course many occasions on which I hitchhiked (everyone hitchhiked during the war) but this was the most memorable, if only for the fact that it’s just the one time I recall doing it on my own. I can’t fully remember why I chose to travel that way. It might just have been to save the fare but my guess is that I knew I would have been in trouble at a railway station given the nationwide ban on leave for all services and I guess anyone in uniform would have needed an official pass. The lorry driver dropped me off somewhere in north London and I can’t remember the rest of the journey. My mother was so worried about what I had done and what “they” might do, that I ended up spending Christmas with my friend, Rita, and her family in Wembley. I went home briefly before going back to Bicester on the seventh day of my absence and thereby avoided seeing the policeman who called at the flat the following day!

As soon as I returned, I was of course put on a charge and duly wheeled before the CO. At some point, she asked me if I had any reason for going to which my reply was, and these are my exact words: “No particular reason but, on the other hand, I had no reason to stay.” “You had no work?” she asked, after which she let me explain in full what the situation had been for many weeks prior to Christmas. A somewhat flustered Captain, standing at her side said she was unaware of the situation but someone else present (probably my escort) confirmed what I had said. The CO was clearly sympathetic but could not condone, said it was a pity I had spoiled my otherwise unblemished conduct record and that I was to understand I had been reprimanded. So I sailed back to the barrack room, only to be greeted with some outraged shouts from a few of the girls who had also gone AWOL for 48 hrs and had been given seven days CB (Confined to Barracks), during which time they had to do various evening chores. A perfect example of how unfair life can be, but I wasn’t complaining!

Then followed an inquiry, conducted by a senior Wren officer, about the mini-mutiny and what followed, during which we were called in individually to make our contribution. I started by saying “Speaking for myself…”, and before I could add more, there was a very gentle voice saying: “Yes, that is what I want to hear” and I found myself crying. It isn’t easy to explain why I cried beyond the fact that suddenly all formality had disappeared and I knew I could unburden my feelings without fear of reproach. I can’t remember the precise words but I must have spoken of the boredom and the disappointment and the misery-making conditions.

The upshot was, again no doubt unfairly, that I was the only one who became a general driver and I really enjoyed the last few weeks at Bicester. I would drive officers to the station in cars; run errands in Oxford and surrounding areas in Tillies (utility vehicles); take shoes for repair to Chipping Norton in 15cwt lorries etc., etc. To be driving alone, to be out and about and feeling free was pure joy. I was once carried away by the easy-going atmosphere that prevailed when, breaking rules again, I stopped to enjoy a cup of tea and a cigarette in a fancy country restaurant on my way back from somewhere. I suddenly realised when I came out that I had no signature on my Work Ticket, i.e. the necessary authorisation for me to have gone to wherever I had been — never mind not authorising me to be where I was! I expected a rocket from the officer in charge but she was totally unphased and just signed. I didn’t forget the experience of that last bit of my journey back, fearing some mishap might have someone inspecting the unsigned W.T. I have just come across another forgotten document, Army Form A2038, which authorised me to drive “on Government duty” and which I obviously carried with me all the time but it would not have been sufficient to satisfy any M.P. (Military Policeman).

I am reminded of another example of the army’s rigid application of rules at this point as I recall the only time I ever reported sick. I was really under the weather and the Medical Officer acknowledged that I would be better off in bed. She could not have been kinder and allowed me to spend a couple of hours lying down in the sickroom, apologising for not being able to let me go back to my own bed. Reason: I wasn’t running a temperature!

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