The War Robbed Me Of My True Love

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This story has been submitted to the “People’s War” Web Site, by Betty & Don TEMPEST of Lancshomeguard on behalf of Margaret JOHNSON, and has been added to the Web Site with her permission.

“The War Robbed Me Of My True Love”.

I wiped my hands on my apron and gazed out of the café towards the Prom. From the pan behind me came the sizzle of fish and chips. I prepared to serve the next customer.

On the sea breeze, a voice invaded the café: “Atten — SHUN!”. It was 1940 and we were at war. The holiday camp near my Auntie Gladys’s café was now an Army base. Down near the beach, the soldiers were practicing their drill. There was a clatter of boots and boisterous laughter. “I can hear customers”, said Auntie Gladys. They crowded in taking off their uniform caps. We stared. These boys were different. They were wearing blue, not khaki. “The Air Force”, I whispered. “We’re based at Blackpool Airport”, one said. “It’s a proper Military Aerodrome now”.

That evening I visited my friend. “The RAF have arrived”, I said. “Let’s go dancing tomorrow”.

Blackpool’s three ballrooms had never been so busy and we had never had so many escorts. I was 18 and reckon the war was good for us girls. I arrived on my bike. I went inside and the ‘Gay Gordon’s’ struck up. Someone invited me onto the floor and I started to dance.

After the ‘Lambeth Walk’ I flopped down in a chair. “When you’ve recovered”, said a voice, “May I have the pleasure?”

I turned to look. “I’m Roly FOXTON”, he said, and although he was a stranger he smiled like an old friend. I told him my name was Margaret HANDS. He was tall, fair and handsome enough for his smart Air Force uniform. When we danced we moved in perfect harmony. He said he was a ‘Flyer’ from Harrogate in Yorkshire. He was a couple of years older than me.

“I’ll call round for you tomorrow”, he said. Next evening he arrived at my door and presented me with a bouquet of flowers, and some chocolates for Mum. She was enchanted. Behind him was a taxi. “So you can leave your bike”, he said.

We went dancing again a few times, and then he took me out to tea in Morecambe. I put on my best green suit and hat because I was so proud to be seen with him. In the café he lit up a pipe. “I thought those were for old chaps”, I said. He just laughed. Its smell made me feel comfortable.

We spend all the time we could together. The war was rumbling on and people were afraid. Nothing seemed certain anymore. But I knew one thing without doubt, Margaret HANDS loved Roly FOXTON.

He couldn’t tell me much about his missions. Radar had just come in and was classed as secret, but I think Roly was involved with it. Every night Mum and I would count the planes flying out overhead. Then count them back in again. If any were missing, I couldn’t sleep.

One summer evening the barbed wire barricades were down and we were allowed to walk on the beach. We strolled arm in arm. He took me in his arms and kissed me. “Margaret”, he said, “When you are 21 will you marry me?” I didn’t answer straight away. I wanted to memorise the moment so I could preserve it forever. “That’s so far off”, I murmured. I was only 19. His face fell. “Don’t you want to?” he asked. “Of course!” I cried. “I just wish it was now”.

I got a job as a clerk in an Army Office in nearby St Annes. I liked helping the war effort. One day I answered the phone there and heard his familiar greeting. But his voice sounded strange and shaky. “Margaret!” He said. “I’ve got to go away. I’m sorry. We’re being posted somewhere else. I can’t tell you any more”. I could hardly speak. “Can I see you?” I asked. “No”, he said. “We’re off right away. I’m sorry”. Somehow I held back the tears till I got home. Then I fell into Mum’s arms and sobbed. “Shhh love”, she said. “This is what war does. These things happen”.

Days passed and I heard nothing. The hours were empty. I spent every long evening sitting by the window, gazing blankly at the stars. Hoping he could see them too.

One morning Mum dropped a letter on my bed, ‘I’m in Stranraer, Scotland. I miss you desperately…’ I wrote back immediately: “Are you coming back? Why did you go?”

He couldn’t answer my questions, but he wrote about how much he looked forward to the end of the war, when we could be together at last.

I pressed each letter close to my face and sometimes I caught a tiny whiff of his pipe smoke. Then the longing for him whirled up until it hurt like a wound.

One day I grabbed an envelope from the mat. It was the last letter I had sent to him. It had a stamp on it: which read ‘Not known at this station’. “It’s a mistake”, I said. I posted the letter again. Days later it was back again, with the same stamp. I began to panic.

I wrote to his Group Captain. His reply was terse: ‘There is no one in that name in this Squadron’. I wrote again, begging for information. He sent me the same reply. I didn’t know what to do.

I waited and waited, but there was no word. I kept writing. The answer was always the same, ‘Not known’.

Weeks became months. I had to take my mind off the misery, so I enlisted into the WRENS, in 1941. My mother didn’t want me to as my father was abroad and my brother was a ‘Sparks’ in the Merchant Navy, but I prevailed on her to let me go. (I had my 21st. Birthday whilst I was in the WRNS.)

I went to Mill Hill in London, a purpose built training centre, with lots of other girls. It was Christmas and when we got in the Training Centre we saw some lovely things. There was a Make-up Shop that had perfumes with names like Elizabeth Arden, Coty, etc. There were shouts of joy, but we were told ‘No! This isn’t for your lot. These are for the regulars”. There was a sweet shop with chocolates and all kinds of goodies, but they were not for us intakes. So we all felt a bit down, but it was Christmas and we saw WRNS running about with streamers and balloons, making decorations. So we thought, “Great! We’re having a party”. But no, we were sent to bed like little children and I have never heard so many little girls crying and trying to muffle it in their blankets as I did that night. Many of them had never been away from home before, and after all it was Christmas.

We got over that and were assigned our tasks. I wanted to be a wireless operator, like my brother and his friends who had studied in Preston and when they came home they let me study with them. But unfortunately ‘Kings Regulations’, said, ‘that years intake could only be cooks or stewards’. No one wanted those jobs, they all wanted glamorous jobs, drivers, wireless operators etc. I chose to be a Steward and became an Officers Steward, which is a bit upper class.

It wasn’t bad. We had to go to the Officers bedroom in the morning, get everything ready for them, take down the ‘Black-out’ Screens and wake them with a cup of tea. There was one Officer; I could have slapped his wrist. He would say ‘Good Morning, Sweetie’. I would say, ‘Good Morning, Sir!’Then he would say, ‘Come here'. He would have a sweet in his hand. I would hold my hand out for it, but he would insist on putting it in my mouth, which I didn’t want him to do. He didn’t do anything more to me, it was just the sweet episode I didn’t like. After we had given them their tea and biscuits, we went down and prepared the places for their breakfast. When they came we used to have to stand to attention behind them with our hands behind our backs. We would then wait on them, getting them whatever they needed. After their breakfast, we could have ours. We then went to the cabins, cleaned the floors and polished the furniture. We were never allowed to make up the beds for new people coming in. If there were we got up in the middle of the night to make up beds. Which went against the grain, as we had to get sheets and blankets for the rooms. We felt like skivvies. We had to wear horrible overalls, looking just like prisoners.

After two weeks training, we sat an exam about our jobs, what to do first and what was the most important things to do. The questions were basic. I thought, “My Mother taught me all this”. ie, ‘How do you wash up?’ I said, ‘You do glasses first, then silver, then crockery, then cooking utensils’. These were the sorts of questions asked. By this time we had been issued with our uniforms so we felt a bit better.

Whilst at Mill Hill I made a friend called Pat. One day we decided to go out to lunch. Walking through the grounds of the building, Pat turned to me and said, ‘Do you realise you’ve passed the Quarterdeck without saluting?’ I said, ‘Where is it?’ I wouldn’t have known a Quarter deck if I had fallen over it. Shortly after this we received our postings. I was posted to Liverpool Naval Base, H.M.S. Mersey, which had been the Royal Northern Children’s Hospital. It was a great big block building, with lots of space. I settled in all right, but it was hard work, especially on payday when I realised I could have earned a lot more working in Blackpool as a waitress. But of course that wasn’t the object of the exercise. We were doing our bit for the war.

Where the WRNS were based overlooked the Parade Ground and all the Matloes were on the other side of the Parade Ground. They used to whistle at us and throw their caps in the air. I was told later, that as I entered H.M.S. Mersey there was this sailor talking to his mates, who said, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry’. Unfortunately he did.

We were out walking one night in Liverpool, before we got engaged. It was pitch black and he was walking on the wrong side of me, the man always walked on the outside, but he was walking on the inside. Suddenly there was an almighty crash and a tirade of swearing. I shouted, “Where are you?’ This voice came from the depths, ‘I’m down this b….. hole’. He had fallen through the grating of a semi-basement. It had broken and he fell through it. I had an awful job to get him out. It was a good job he was walking on the inside, or it could have been me down the hole.

We did get married, we had a naval wedding. My brother the Merchant Navy ‘Sparks’ and my cousin who was also a ‘Sparks’, were at the wedding. So there were three Naval men there, which was a nice thing to have. Not one of his family came to the church, my family were all there, but none of his. In time I was taken to his family home in Liverpool and was introduced to them. His mother said to me, “Well, I hope you realise that you have come to a hostile home”. I said, “I do hope not, Mrs Johnson”. Apparently he had previously got a girl in trouble and was paying money to her, so really he couldn’t afford to get married. But I knew nothing about this before we did get married. He was also a compulsive gambler. In time we got divorced.

After Liverpool I was posted to H.M.S. Night Jar at Inskip, which was handy for me because I could cycle home to Squires Gate, Blackpool, where my mother and grandmother still lived. I used to ride into Blackpool and dance with all the Air Force boys, of which there was a lot at that time. We would go to the Palace, have a lovely time and then I would cycle back to base. I vividly remember cycling back one Christmas Morning and it was thick with snow. My hands were so cold they stuck to the handlebars. There was nobody about, just me and the farmers, who shouted, “Merry Christmas, Lass”. I was glad to get back to the cookhouse to warm my hands by the fire.

One of the most horrible things I remember whilst I was in the WRNS was the Gas Mask Drill. This entailed being taken into a blockhouse, with the big Military Gas Masks we used. Electric lights were on and there were no windows. We were told to put the Gas Masks on, which we did. Then they turned the gas on and orders came, ‘gas masks off’. I have never felt so terrified in my life. I had a dreadful sensation of choking and not being able to get any air was the worst thing in my life. We were nearly fighting to get out of the door, but it was locked and bolted. When we did get out we were coughing and spluttering and staggering about. I don’t know what the point of the exercise was. We were never told. All the Military men I have spoken too since then said they never had to go through it.

Another sad thing happened whilst I was at Inskip, we had a lot of Naval people connected with the Air Force and a lot of young Pilots came down in the sea at Blackpool, and in the church at Inskip I don’t know how many funerals took place of these young boys. Their mothers and fathers came and they must only have been in their 40s, but they looked like grand parents. Grief ages people very quickly. I visited the graves once or twice and thought about these young boys who had had no life, but had died for their country

I stayed at Inskip until I became poorly and I had to come out of the WRNS, I thought I was pregnant and I went to the Naval Doctor, who said, “Yes. You’re having a baby”. So my brother, the ‘Sparks’, who was in America at that time, bought some beautiful clothes for the baby. However, it turned out it wasn’t a baby. It was a pelvic abscess, among other things.

My illness grew worse. I had surgery. Operation followed operation. I would lie alone in my hospital bed, nursing thoughts of Roly, my first love. They were the darkest days of all.

The war ended, and on V.E. Day, 8th. May 1945, I sat in my Mum’s house, listening to the celebrations outside. “My war finished when Roly left”, I said.

Soon I could go on day trips. “I love Harrogate”, Mum said. “Let’s go there”. My stomach lurched. Harrogate was Roly’s hometown.

We set off on a fine summer day. “We’ll walk along to Betty’s Tea Room”, said Mum. The footpaths were crowded with day-trippers. Everyone was still celebrating the outbreak of Peace.

Mum and Auntie Gladys held on to my arms, because I was still weak. I gazed round at all the happy faces. Then I froze. A few yards away, just ahead, was a tall figure. I stopped dead and stared. Everything around me seemed to disappear. Except for HIM.

Even without the uniform, I knew him at once. His fair hair was the same. His back was still straight. But his face had changed. It was still his face. But it was also another face.

Everyone knew such faces after the war. They were faces that had been part of the Nation’s sacrifice. Heat and flame had been pitted against his youthful flesh.

He hadn’t seen me. I opened my mouth, but no sound emerged. I couldn’t move. I froze. He carried on walking. I watched him until the crowds closed around him and he was gone.

“What’s the matter?” said Mum. “Nothing”, I said. It was too late to find him again. For the second time I had seen him leave my life. We returned to the train and climbed aboard. As it pulled out of the station no one knew why my face was wet.

A great number of years have passed since then. I’ve made efforts to trace him, but without success. I have never stopped thinking about him.

Every day I wonder why he never told me about his burns. I’m sure our love was strong enough. I curse myself for my silence when I should have spoken out. That day ended all my hopes of happiness.

There has never been anyone else. I did get married for a while, but, as I have said, it didn’t work out and we were divorced. I believe you love only once in your life, and Roly was my love. At least I was lucky to find him for a little while.

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