reading

Sources & Acknowledgements

Waite, C. with La Vardera, D., Survivor of the Long March (Stroud, Spellmount, 2012)

Gilbert, A., P.O.W. (London, John Murray, 2006)

Doyle, P., Prisoner of War in Germany (Oxford, Shire Books, 2011)

Rollings, C., Prisoner of War (London, Ebury Press, 2007)

Longden, S., Hitler’s British Slaves (Moreton-in-Marsh, Arris, 2005)

Pape, R., Boldness Be My Friend (London, Elek Books, 1953)

Castle, J., The Password is Courage (London, Souvenir Press, 1954)

Batstone, S., Wren’s Eye View (Tunbridge Wells, Parapress, 1994)

Houston, R., Changing Course (London, Grub Street, 2005)

Scott, P., The Battle of the Narrow Seas (London, Country Life, 1945)

Dickens, P., Night Action (London, Peter Davies, 1974)

Sweet, M., West End Front (London, Faber, 2011)

Thomas, D. A., Malta Convoys (Barnsley, Pen & Sword, 1999)

Fearnley-Whittingstall, J., The Ministry of Food (London, Hodder, 2010)

Braithwaite, B/Walsh, N/Davies, G., The Home Front (London, Leopard Books, 1995)

BBC, WW2 People’s War, recollections published on the internet (2003-6)

. . .

I am indebted also to the following for their invaluable assistance: The Archives Department of the British Red Cross Society; The Imperial War Museum, London; Dover Public Library; Mr R. B. Williams, Hon. Librarian, Dover Museum; Capt. T. Rowbotham, R.N. retd., Coastal Forces Heritage Trust; ‘The Wren’ magazine; the late Mr Albert Marshall for his memories of prison camp and work camp life in Upper Silesia; Mr Dudley Ridgeon, sometime First Lieutenant of MTB 354, and Mrs Joyce Baker, sometime P.O. Wren, for their wartime recollections of HMS Wasp and HMS Lynx; Ms Susan Scott, Archivist, Fairmont Hotels and Resorts, and the obliging staff of the Savoy Hotel’s American Bar, for information regarding the layout and decor of the bar in 1945; Dover Harbour Board for allowing me to explore Lord Warden House, where much of the story took place; Mrs Susan Mosley for her help with the glossary; Miss Chloe Wood for her part in the cover illustration; the Director and Archivist of Eden Camp Modern History Theme Museum for allowing me to use the photograph of the observation tower; my wife Sheila for tolerating my long absences, for answering a great many silly questions and for helping me put together a typical Next-of-Kin parcel. Finally, I should like to thank my brother Chris, who acted both as soundboard and as a ready source of ideas from planning to final draft, and who helped fuel my enthusiasm throughout.

Glossary for Readers outside the UK

Wren member of the Women’s Royal Naval Service

MTB motor torpedo boat

ML motor launch

RAF Royal Air Force

Shilling or ‘bob’ 12 old pennies. Worth 20 US cents during WW2

Blitz the nightly bombing of British cities

Coupon (ration) ticket proving entitlement to rationed goods

‘Blackouts’ navy-blue, elasticated drawers, sometimes altered by

Wrens into French knickers. An allusion to the cloth

used to darken buildings at night against bombing

Suspender (lingerie) garter

Vest (underwear) T-shirt

Balaclava (helmet) knitted garment that covers the ears, neck and throat

Queue Line

‘Jack’ (‘Jack Tar’) any British sailor

‘Pusser’ 1anything officially naval

2 strictly according to naval regulations

Wardroom naval officers’ mess

‘The Andrew’ The Royal Navy, but no one really knows why. It

is possibly an allusion to Andrew Miller, a prolific

18th C press-gang officer, or to St Andrew, Patron

Saint of fishermen and sailors

‘Bootneck’ Royal Marine

‘Marrer’ (Tyneside slang) ‘buddy’

Chips fried potatoes

‘Cuppa’ cup of tea

‘…Got a cob on’ (Liverpool slang) angry

NAAFI Navy, Army & Air-Force Institute – a retail/catering

facility, equivalent to the American PX

‘Oppo’ friend (lit. ‘opposite number’)

ATS Auxiliary Territorial Service – women’s army

WAAF Women’s Auxiliary Air Force

‘Civvy’ civilian

‘Blighty’ home (the UK)

‘Bookie’s Runner’ a collector of off-course bets. Illegal until 1960

‘Doodlebug’ V1 flying bomb

‘Randy’ ‘horny’, eager for sex, therefore not used as a name

(at least, not a polite one) in the UK

Anderson shelter outdoor air-raid shelter for family use

Scouse native of, or pertaining to, Liverpool

ENSA Entertainments National Service Association

Solicitor attorney

WVS Women’s Voluntary Service

‘Hoolie’ (Liverpool slang) party or celebration

‘Sweetie’ (sweet) piece of candy

‘Party’ boy/girlfriend

Barrage balloon large balloon moored by a steel rope, flown to

impede low-flying aircraft

Pavement sidewalk

‘Queer Street’ financial ruin

‘Goffers’ non-alcoholic drinks

Tamowicz Work Camp

Poland

1943

Freddie had no intention of admitting he was in the wrong, at least for the time being. It was the kind of defiant gesture that had become his habit, although he wasn’t sure exactly when it had begun. It was as if, having forfeited his freedom, he felt obliged to defend every decision and stance, however unworthy, simply because he had lost far too much already.

On this occasion, however, his obstinacy was tempered with guilt. The girl had written the letter out of kindness and therefore deserved his gratitude. She was also blameless and a thousand miles away, unlike the instigator of the letter, who currently occupied the bunk beneath his. Freddie leaned over to speak to him.

‘Len?’

‘Yes, mate?’

‘Why did you do this?’

There was a meaningful silence, the disagreement having run since the arrival of mail that morning, and then his companion said wearily, ‘Joyce and I reckoned you needed an interest beyond the wire. We thought it might buck you up a bit if someone wrote to you with news for your eyes alone, and perhaps bunged you the odd pair of socks.’ He levered himself upright and punched his flattened pillow into shape. ‘It still might if you let it.’ He was plainly tired of the argument, because he said, ‘I’m going for a stroll.’ He added almost as an afterthought, ‘Are you coming?’

‘All right.’ Freddie swung his legs over the side of his bunk and slid with practised ease to the floor. The two men donned their greatcoats against the early winter chill and left the hut.

‘I’m sure you did it for the right reason,’ Freddy conceded after a while. ‘I just feel, I don’t know … awkward about it, I suppose.’

‘Awkward my foot.’ Len kicked at a mound of earth in frustration. ‘I know fate’s played a rotten trick on you, Freddy, but you’ve got to break out of that shell of yours some time, if only for your own sake.’

‘I know that.’ In spite of Freddy’s whims, their friendship had survived almost two years in Italian and German prison camps, and he was used to Len’s direct manner.

‘In any case,’ said Len, ‘letters make life behind the wire worth living. They’re a reminder that we won’t always be half-starved, eaten by lice and herded by goons.’ When they had walked a little further, he asked, ‘What does she have to say?’

‘Basically that you told Joyce I never get any letters, and they both think it’s a bugger – my word, not hers – and she’d like to write to me regularly.’ He added, ‘To be fair to the girl, she sounds very pleasant.’

‘If I’d told Joyce what a miserable sod you can be she’d never have got her to write to you. What’s her name, by the way? Joyce told me but it’s slipped my mind.’

‘Sylvia.’

‘I remember now. It’s a nice name.’

‘Her address is in Leyburn. It’s in the Yorkshire Dales.’

‘That’s a stroke of luck, isn’t it? You won’t need a translator.’

Freddy ignored the jibe. ‘She wants my measurements so that she can knit things for me.’

‘And you’re still dithering?’ They stepped aside to make way for two morose guards, who were too involved in their conversation to notice the two prisoners.

Len watched them disappear into the orderly hut. ‘What was all that about?’

‘Nothing much. They were just having a moan about the duty roster.’

‘Even the goons have their problems.’ Len smiled briefly at the thought before returning to the original subject. ‘What are you going to do about that letter?’

‘I don’t know. I need to think about it.’

‘Well, don’t spend too long thinking about it. You’re going to need those woollies.’ The previous winter in northern Italy was difficult for either of them to forget. ‘Just out of interest, what’s the date on the letter?’

‘The twenty-second of August.’

‘Two months, same as Joyce’s. Still, I suppose they had to come via Italy. Like us, really.’ He held up his hand to cover an expansive yawn and said, ‘I’m going back to the hut.’

Okay, I’ll walk that way with you.’ Sunday was their day off and leisure time was too precious to waste so they returned the way they had come. In taking that route they could also stay upwind of the latrine, known somewhat starkly as the Abort.

Physically they were very much alike: clean-shaven but with dark, roughly-trimmed hair, their features gaunt after months of prison camp rations. Each wore a greatcoat too. Len’s matched the RAF uniform and sergeant’s stripes to which he was entitled, but Freddy’s was khaki, and beneath it he wore a nondescript navy-blue battledress tunic with khaki trousers, the Red Cross store having been short of naval uniform when he was kitted out. His flying overalls were at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

More than anything, their accents told them apart. Len was a native of Balham in South London, whereas Freddy’s flat vowels were born of Yorkshire’s East Riding.

‘If it helps,’ said Len, ‘I reckon Sylvia might need someone to write to as much as you do.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Her chap was killed in action last year. Joyce says they were very close, so it must have been hell for her.’ He gave Freddy a straight look and said, ‘You’re not the only one with a problem, mate, and she’s only nineteen.’

‘Poor kid.’ It was impossible to imagine. At nineteen Freddy and his contemporaries were still enjoying the novelty of legal drinking and the tantalising possibility of sex. In those days war had seemed no more than a passing threat.

He left Len to his siesta and continued walking. The hut was noisy and reeked of wood smoke and stale sweat. It was easier to think in relatively fresh air.

Len and his wife had acted in good faith. It was a shame he found their gesture intrusive, but reticence was an essential feature of camp life; a prisoner’s thoughts and feelings were part of his private self, the ultimate citadel that neither the enemy nor anyone else could penetrate. There had been no privacy at Veano, and neither Tamowicz nor the main camp at Lamsdorf offered any improvement in that respect. He’d told Len about his family because he’d been in the hut when the news arrived, and that was a measure of their friendship, because he had told no one else.

Even so, Len was probably right. It was time lower his guard, at least to some extent, and he had to reply to the girl’s letter out of politeness. Even if their correspondence ended there, he owed her that. He was also uncomfortably aware that her personal tragedy had touched him where he was most susceptible.

He walked and pondered for some time before returning to the hut, where he measured himself with the tape from his sewing kit and a little help from Len. Then he took out a letter-form and pencil, laid a bed board across his bunk as a makeshift writing desk, and set about the easy part.

31st October, 1943.

Dear Sylvia,

Thank you very much for your letter, which arrived today. It was very kind of you to think of me. It’s also generous of you to offer to knit something for me but I don’t want you to be out of pocket. If you really want to do that I can write to the Paymaster at the Admiralty and arrange for money to be sent to you, so please let me know what I owe you. Here are the measurements you asked for:

Length 26 inches, sleeve seam (I imagine that’s shoulder to wrist) 20 inches, and my shoe size is 10.

Then he was stuck. Life in camp and at the railway yard was too sordid and banal to interest anyone. The main features of his day were work, hunger and insect bites. In any case, according to Len, nothing he wrote about camp life would make it beyond the censor.

He wondered a little about Sylvia. She worked with Joyce, and that meant she was in signals, so she might be a coder or telegraphist, or maybe a visual signaller. Otherwise, all he knew was that she was a nineteen-year-old Wren earning less than three shillings a day and she was offering to send him parcels.

He thought for a while about her coping with the loss of her boyfriend, and it seemed to him that to shy away from the subject once might create a taboo as hard to break as to ignore, so he had to say something. Also, he wanted to repay her kindness in some way, and sympathy was all he had to offer. He picked up his pencil again.

Len told me about your loss and I’m truly sorry. People say the most ridiculous things. They tell you they know just how you feel, and most of them haven’t a clue. I believe I can sympathise with you, though, because I lost my parents and sister last year in the Blitz. My home was on the outskirts of Hull, so the risk was always there, but that kind of knowledge doesn’t help us when it happens, does it? We only know that it hurts. We know as well that people learn to cope with the hurt, but the coping sometimes seems a long way off. I hope it starts happening for you very soon.

He looked at what he’d written, relieved that he’d felt able to say those things, and suddenly the task that had seemed so daunting was much easier.

People do terrible things to one another in wartime, but some are capable of true kindness, as your letter shows. Please tell me about yourself, the things you like to do and what you did before the war. It should be fun to compare notes. I’ll go first to start things off and then it’s your turn.

Dover Naval Base HMS Wasp

November

The hand on Sylvia’s shoulder was ‘Will’ Hay’s. He was one of the leading telegraphists on her watch and she liked him because he was good-natured and helpful. Also, he came from Middlesbrough and didn’t poke fun at the way she spoke.

‘What have you got there, Sylvia?’

‘Just one “Routine”.’ She finished logging the six pages of four-letter coded groups and looked up at the clock. It was nearly 0200.

‘Take it through to Coding and then you can have a wet.’

‘Thanks, Will.’ She was ready for a mug of tea. Her last one had been before she came on watch at 2300 and that seemed a lifetime ago. She removed her headphones and vacated the chair for him.

HMS Wasp was a base for coastal forces. The motor torpedo boats, gunboats and motor launches operated from the submarine basin at the eastern end of the harbour; accommodation, signals, plotting and operations took place on the western side, in the former Lord Warden Hotel on Admiralty Pier. There was no hotel luxury, however, in the junior Wrens’ mess. It’s bare, dull-green painted walls and uncared-for appearance led Sylvia to imagine that the room had been a utility area or dining room for the hotel staff. It couldn’t have looked very cheerful then, and four years of naval service had done nothing to improve it. Also, the building was inhabited by cockroaches. She wasn’t sure when they had invaded the place but they were now part of the establishment. One wag had even suggested painting them blue before the next inspection.

She joined Joyce at the tea urn, having spotted her immediately. Even in their pinned-up state, those ginger curls were impossible to miss.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘what have we got tonight?’

‘Herring or pilchard. I suppose we’ll never know which, but I’m going to have one anyway.’

‘Me too.’ They took their tea and sandwiches over to the nearest table.

Joyce took a sip of her tea before giving way to curiosity. ‘Tell me about the letter.’

‘It’s a nice letter.’ Sylvia smiled as she took it from her shoulder bag. ‘ “Leading Airman F. W. Hinchcliffe”,’ she read. ‘He’s from Hull. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from the East Riding. Still, it’s quite a coincidence that he’s a Yorkshireman, isn’t it?’

‘You mustn’t say too much about where you live,’ said Joyce. ‘The censors are quite strict about that.’

‘Yes, I saw that in the stuff that came from the Joint War people.’

‘Len and I have a sort of private code that we use for odd bits of information. It’s just references that mean something to us but to no one else, and it’s quite useful. The prisoners have their own slang words as well but I imagine the Germans will know them all by now.’

Sylvia nodded. ‘They can’t be as obscure as some of the naval jargon we’ve had to learn.’

‘No, it’s nothing like that. There’s a new word though. It must have something to do with them being in a German camp now because I don’t recall Len using it when he was in Italy.’

‘What is it?’

‘ “Kriegie.” It’s what they call themselves, so I imagine it means “prisoner-of-war.” ’

‘Yes, it’ll be short for Kriegsgefangene.’

‘Who’s a clever girl, then?’

‘Not really. It says Kriegsgefangenenlager on the outside, here.’ She held the form up to show her. A Gefangene is a prisoner and a Lager is a camp.’

‘Well, I never.’

‘He was a photographer before the war.’ Sylvia moved the conversation on so as not to appear too clever. ‘He took pictures of animals as well as people. He says cattle are particularly photogenic because they have such large, appealing eyes.’

‘I suppose someone has to love them.’

‘Well, I respect a man who likes animals. He likes dancing as well, and he played clarinet and alto sax with a band called the Humber Rumba Boys.’

‘Is he serious?’

‘I think so.’

‘I wonder what they were like. There were so many awful bands around before the war.’

‘And lots of good ones too. Be fair.’ Sylvia looked at the first page of the letter again and her smile faltered. ‘He was really nice about James,’ she said. ‘Len must have told him.’ She finished her sandwich while she re-read the paragraph.

‘It’s good that you can talk about it now,’ said Joyce, ‘even with a stranger.’

‘Yes, and he doesn’t go on about it. He just says … well, he says enough.’

Joyce gave her wrist a sympathetic squeeze. ‘What else does he say?’

‘Oh, lots more. His writing’s really tiny.’ She smiled again. ‘He says that as we’re not allowed to send photos he wants me to describe myself.’

‘Ah, but has he described himself?’

‘Yes, he’s got dark hair and grey eyes, and he used to be five-feet-eleven but he thinks he may have shrunk in captivity. He says it’s either that or his ducking in the Med that caused it.’

‘So he hasn’t lost his sense of humour after all. Len’s been quite concerned about him.’

‘Yes, you said so.’ She looked again at the second paragraph. ‘He certainly has plenty to feel sad about.’

Joyce smiled playfully over her mug and said, ‘Tell him about your lovely brown hair and those pretty blue eyes. It’ll give him something nice to think about instead.’

‘He could be disappointed if we ever meet.’ She lit a cigarette and drew on it without inhaling. Smoking was just something that everyone did because duty-frees were so cheap. She kept telling herself she would stop before her teeth turned black like the First Lieutenant’s.

‘He won’t be.’

‘Ah well, it’s not as if it’s likely to happen.’ She folded the letter and put it carefully in her bag. ‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘has he got absolutely no one to write to him?’

‘He has an uncle and a cousin somewhere, but they stopped writing ages ago, when he was in Italy. They were never close.’

‘That’s awful.’ Sylvia glanced at her watch. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘It’s time to go back.’ They rinsed out their mugs and returned to work.

. . .

After breakfast she fell into bed and slept until after half-past three in the afternoon. On her return from the bathroom, she was surprised when Dorothy, a new girl from Liverpool, told her about the shelling.

‘Surely you can’t have slept through it. Do you mean you never heard a thing, like?’

‘Nothing at all. I was exhausted when I turned in. Was it bad?’

‘It was terrible. Some of the shells landed in the town. I can’t imagine how you slept through it all.’

‘I’ve been sleeping better lately.’ She was also getting used to the regular shelling from Sangatte. She and Joyce had recently stood in the Signal Station at the end of the pier and watched the muzzle flashes across the channel, but gunfire was a new and startling experience for Dorothy.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Sylvia told her. ‘Everyone does.’

‘I hope so.’ Dorothy looked inconvenienced rather than scared. She was quite plain, and Sylvia wondered in her nineteen-year-old wisdom if Dorothy’s stiffness might be rooted in insecurity.

When she was dressed she took out a letter-form and wrote:

Dear Freddy,

Thank you for your letter. You said some lovely things that I found helpful, and you naturally have my sympathy too. Maybe we’ll both begin to feel better soon.

I really enjoyed reading about your life before the war, and we have so much in common! I love dancing too. Can you do the slow foxtrot? It’s my favourite dance, and most men I’ve met haven’t a clue. If I’m honest, I haven’t known all that many men, but I expect you know what I mean.

She had been thinking hard about the next bit. Somewhat self-consciously, she wrote:

I’ve never described myself before, but you asked what I look like, so here goes. I’m quite ordinary really, not glamorous or anything special. My hair is medium brown, my eyes are blue and I’m five-feet-five. My sister Audrey says I’m skinny but I’m not really. She’s jealous because she’s expecting a baby in two months’ time and it’s created havoc with her figure. Oh yes, and people say I smile a lot. Well, it’s better than scowling, isn’t it? I hope that helps.

I’ve got lots of interests, including films and reading, and I’m glad you like animals, but instead of telling you about it all now I’ll do it in instalments.

I’m going to send you some things, hopefully by Christmas but I suppose that’s in the lap of the gods. I’ll keep writing, but in case my next letter doesn’t reach you before Christmas, let me wish you whatever happiness you can find in spite of everything. I’ll be thinking of you.

Yours with warmest wishes,

Sylvia

She read the letter twice before she was satisfied, and then considered her next job, which was to organise some knitting.

Walter Charlesworth took his eyes off the Yorkshire Post crossword for a moment to ask, ‘What are you knitting, Jessie?’

‘A pair of socks.’

He peered over his glasses at the bottle-green wool his wife was using. ‘Not for me, surely?’ He never wore green socks.

‘No, they’re for the boy our Sylvia’s writing to, the prisoner-of-war.’ She paused between stitches to say, ‘You know, I just don’t know what to think about that.’

Walter shrugged. ‘It’s Sylvia being Sylvia. You wouldn’t want her to be different, would you?’

‘No, of course I wouldn’t, and if it helps her to get over that poor lad James it’ll be a good thing, I suppose. I’ve told her to send the labels and all the literature to me. She has to use this address anyway as she has to keep quiet about being in the Wrens, so I’ll send the parcels. There’ll only be one every three months.’

‘I see, but where’s all this stuff going to come from? I suppose she’s considered rationing and shortages?’

‘There are special allowances of cigarettes and chocolate for prisoners and she’ll get extra clothing coupons for him as well.’

He lit his pipe and smiled. ‘I think I know who’s going to pay for all this.’

‘Yes, that’s your job, Walter.’

‘I thought it might be.’ He took his pipe from his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘I often wish I had a wealthy father too. I’m told they can be very useful.’

They sat quietly for a while, the only sounds in the room being the soft click of Jessie’s needles, the ticking of a log in the grate and an occasional squall that rattled the window panes. The house was double-fronted and built of stone, and it had defied more than two hundred Dales winters.

After a while Walter said, ‘I fancy that old fishing jersey of mine is about to die of old age.’

‘Well, it didn’t help when you caught it on that nail. It’s certainly past its best.’

‘I shan’t need one until next spring but I’ve been wondering about the situation with the clothing coupons.’

‘I should wait and see what happens at Christmas, Walter.’

‘Oh really?’ He peered more closely at his wife’s knitting and said, ‘Jessie, that’s my old fishing jersey, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it was.’ Jessie finished the line she was on and put her knitting down. ‘But as you said, you won’t need one until next spring.’

. . .

Sylvia sat on her bed embroidering the initial ‘A’ on a handkerchief, a Christmas present for her sister; Dorothy was unpicking the thread from a broken suspender, and Joyce, the other inhabitant of the cabin, as they were obliged to call their accommodation, had stopped knitting briefly to reminisce.

‘I once had a suspender break on a date,’ she told Dorothy. ‘It was before Len and I were engaged. We were just coming out of the Gaumont Palace Picture House in Streatham when it happened.’

Dorothy paused from her work and asked, ‘What did you do?’

‘Len gave me a fruit gum to use.’

Dorothy’s eyes widened.

‘We went into a shop doorway and he stood in front of me while I fastened it. It worked nicely, but when we got to the bus shelter in our road he asked for it back.’

‘Was it his last one?’

‘No, he just wanted a fumble.’

Dorothy scowled. ‘Men are only interested in one thing.’ Her thoughts seemed forever poised on the edge of that alarming prospect.

‘There.’ Sylvia finished her embroidery and held it up to admire it.

‘I wish I could do fine stitching like that,’ said Dorothy. ‘Mine always ends up tatty, like.’ She held up her suspender belt with a fatalistic shrug.

‘It’s easy if you’re careful,’ Sylvia told her. ‘Let me have it and I’ll show you.’

‘All right.’

‘We swap favours, remember,’ said Joyce. ‘We help each other.’

Dorothy seemed at a loss but Sylvia had the answer. ‘Can you knit?’

‘It depends what it is.’

‘A pair of mittens for a man.’

‘If I’ve got a pattern.’

‘I’ll give you a pattern, the wool and the needles.’

‘All right then.’

Sylvia threaded a sewing needle and said, ‘Right, now you’ve unpicked it I’ll show you how to sew one on without making it look a mess.

She took her work down to the Wireless Telegraphy room when she went on watch at 1800. It was a good idea to have something to do when things were quiet.

Third Officer Fuller was impressed. ‘You girls are all so talented,’ she said, ‘You make me feel ham-fisted.’

Sylvia asked, ‘What are you best at, ma’am?’

‘I’m afraid my needlework is very basic.’

‘Can you knit, ma’am?’

‘Yes, I used to knit. Perhaps I should take it up again.’

‘I think you should, ma’am.’ Third Officer Fuller was the most approachable of the officers, and Sylvia felt confident enough to ask, ‘Could you knit a man’s scarf if I gave you the wool and the needles?’

Miss Fuller hesitated only briefly and said, ‘Yes, I could. I take it you have a particular man in mind?’

Sylvia told her story and the deal was made. Now, all she had to do was find the wool.

. . .

Her opportunity came on her next day off. The YMCA were holding a jumble sale at their hostel in Folkestone Road, and Sylvia, who had never been to one in her life but had taken advice on the matter, was there in good time. Even so, she found when she arrived that a queue had already formed and that many of the people in it seemed to be old hands. Some of them were poorly dressed and appeared ill-fed, and she imagined they must be living on very little. Simply being there made her feel quite guilty until she reminded herself that the man whose needs had brought her there was currently a jolly sight worse off than they were. It also crossed her mind that many of them would be there for the wool, as she was, and that sort of equalised things.

A woman next to her said, ‘They’re nice. I suppose you get them free.’

Sylvia realised that the woman was looking at her artificial silk stockings, which must have looked impressive, considering no one else was wearing stockings at all. ‘We have to pay for replacements,’ she said.

‘Do you, now?’ The woman sniffed. ‘At least you can get hold of ’em. No one else can.’

All the conversation was about shortages, rationing and, inevitably, the daily shelling of Dover, huge areas of which were already reduced to rubble. It was heart-rending to see what was happening to these people and their homes.

The same woman asked her, ‘Are you from down the Lord Warden, then?’

‘That’s right.’

The woman was eyeing her category badge with open curiosity. ‘What is it you do down there?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t say. “Careless Talk” and all that.’

‘Fair enough.’ The woman seemed satisfied.

‘She’s a signaller.’ An elderly man joined the conversation, pointing to her badge. ‘That’s what she is. Isn’t that right, dear?’

‘Yes, but I really can’t talk about it.’

‘It’s amazing what they train these young gels to do.’ The woman blinked in disbelief.

‘That’s right,’ said the old man, ‘and they’re doin’ a grand job. All our boys and girls are. We’ve got the job weighed off now and we’re ready for anything.’

As a general principle it was possibly true, but Sylvia was not prepared for what happened next. Someone in the queue had seen a face at the window, and that gave rise to a murmur of excitement that reached its peak on the stroke of ten, when the doors opened and the queue surged through.

Scarcely able to keep her feet, Sylvia was carried along by a tidal wave of determined humanity until she found herself in a hall set out with long tables of the kind paperhangers used. Each was laden with clothes, boots, shoes and bric-a-brac, through which the shoppers, who had waited so patiently in the queue, were now rummaging voraciously. It was too much for a girl of Sylvia’s polite upbringing. Her parents had taught her always to stand aside for others and to wait for her turn, and now, as she struggled to reach one of the tables she was elbowed out of the way. She had no idea what she might have done had fate not intervened at that moment in the most violent way.

There was a screeching roar like the noise of an express train, which continued for several seconds before terminating in a thunderous explosion. It must have been some distance away but it shook the YMCA building so that the windows and doors rattled violently. The shelling siren was now wailing its belated warning, and one of the YMCA people pointed to what looked like a cellar door. She called, ‘The shelter’s this way!’

Immediately, the jumble hunters, who had been jostling, shoving and grabbing only a few moments earlier, formed a brisk procession to the door, leaving behind only Sylvia and the helpers.

One of them asked her, ‘Aren’t you going to shelter, dear?’

‘Yes, please. That’s very kind of you.’ Sylvia completed her search and held up three thick woollen jerseys. ‘How much are these?’

As another shell came screaming over the helper said somewhat anxiously, ‘They’re a penny each, dear, but you can give it to me down the shelter.’

Shells continued to fall but Sylvia was happy. She had found the knitting-wool she needed.

December

The cabbage soup was thin, and three thin slices of black bread didn’t go far, but it was the main meal of the day and the kriegies awaited it eagerly. They also welcomed the fifteen-minute break that accompanied it. Mail had arrived for most of the Arbeitskommando at the railway yard, including Freddy and Len.

‘She’s going to send me a parcel,’ said Freddy. ‘I don’t mind if it arrives after Christmas. It’ll still be something to look forward to, but I can’t help wondering how much she can knit in a few weeks.’

‘Oh, some women are like lightning with their knitting needles.’ Len folded his letter and put it in his pocket. ‘What else does she say?’

‘She’s given me a description of herself, just as I asked.’

‘Go on then.’

‘She says she’s quite ordinary and not glamorous or anything special, but I don’t care.’

‘She’s modest as well, Freddy mate, because Joyce says she’s pretty.’

‘Does she?’

Len took out his letter again to consult it. ‘She says, “Sylvia is pretty in a nice sort of way”, whatever that means.’ He put the letter away again and said, ‘I think the world of my other half and I really appreciate her letters, but I have to say that she talks fluent bollocks sometimes. What is “pretty in a nice sort of way”, for heaven’s sake?’

‘It makes a kind of sense. She says that Sylvia’s pretty but not glamorous. She could be pleasing to look at but not in a way that makes women sharpen their claws.’

‘You could be right, now I think of it. She could be pretty in a pleasant sort of way, I suppose.’

A guard terminated their conversation by shouting, ‘Arbeiten!’ It was time to return to work.

‘I imagine they shout all the time, even when they’re at home,’ said Len. ‘You’ve got to feel sorry for their wives.’

‘I don’t. It serves ’em right for marrying goons.’

‘Stille!’ The guard called for silence and the prisoners marched back to their various jobs.

The railway yard was rich in opportunities for sabotage. The kriegies had to be careful that nothing could be traced back to them, and it would be unwise to attempt anything too ambitious, but any little hitch that hindered or frustrated the enemy made the risk worthwhile. Freddy and Len had the task of loading freight on to the outgoing trains, and in the short time they had been at the camp they had consigned several cargoes to some highly inappropriate destinations. The trick was to do it selectively and infrequently.

‘What sort of preservative do you reckon this is, Freddy? There are two cases of it.’ Len was peering at a case in the gloom of the wagon they were loading.

‘Let me see.’ Freddy crouched down to look. ‘Präservativ,’ he read. ‘Believe it or not, each of these cases contains one thousand contraceptives and they’re going in this wagon to Leipzig. At least, they were.’

‘Two thousand spoggies,’ said Len. ‘It makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s better not to.’

‘Right enough.’ He grinned mischievously, ‘Where do you think we should send them?’

Their heads turned simultaneously towards the train on the next track. They had spent the past two days loading it, so they knew it was due to leave that night for the Russian Front. Freddy jumped down and looked around. There was no sign of a railway worker or guard, so he beckoned to Len, who threw both cases down to him before joining them. Quickly, they crossed the track and stowed the cases in an enclosed wagon, pushing them out of the line of sight of anyone looking through the open doorway. Len gave them a farewell pat, saying, ‘There you go, all the way to the Eastern Front, but I don’t think they’ll get much use out of you there.’

. . .

Sylvia was pondering the pros and cons of service in the Wrens. ‘Join the Wrens and Free a Man for the Fleet,’ the posters said, but they made no mention of heavy shoes, starched collars with studs, and the worst bugbear of all, which was squad drill. Everyone had done it in basic training but the Admiralty nevertheless insisted that all personnel serving in shore establishments must undergo regular sessions of foot drill. Therefore at odd times the First Lieutenant ordered off-watch personnel – Wrens alternating with ratings – to muster on the parade ground, formerly the hotel’s car park, where they marched back and forth, performing complex manoeuvres unrelated in any way to dance steps or any other worthwhile pedestrian activity that Sylvia could call to mind. Moreover, she was convinced that nature had not designed women for marching. There was something unnatural about walking in a straight line whilst staring straight ahead. If women were intended to do that, why on earth, she wondered, had shop windows been invented? Worst of all, though, was man’s inability to speak coherent English once he stepped on to a parade ground. The man in question on this occasion was an ebullient, newly-promoted petty officer from the submarine basin.

‘Squad, with intervals, by the righ’, dress!’

It was a good start. The order was in reasonably plain English, and each girl spaced herself by performing a little sideways shuffle until the tips of her right fingers touched the left shoulder of the girl on her right.

‘Squad, squad, ’hun!’

They came to attention, and their performance might have passed without comment had Elsie Crabtree not dithered, thereby bringing herself to the petty officer’s notice.

‘Squad, ’tan’ at heise!’

Guessing correctly, they stood at ease and waited whilst he eyed Elsie up and down.

‘You’ve got two left feet, darlin’. What ’ave you got?’

‘Two left feet, darling … sorry, I mean “PO”. Silly me.’ Looking down at her feet, she said, ‘I suppose they are very similar. I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it much, but I was actually trying to avoid this puddle.’

‘Were you now? Well, when you’ve quite finished tiptoein’ round the rock pools, per’aps we can get on with the drill. I realise that it must be hard for you gels to step into a man’s world an’ do all that we have to do, but you’ll just have to try your hardest, an’ that includes you, my dear.’

‘Oh yes. Yes, of course, PO.’ Elsie played an excellent dizzy debutante.

‘Squad, squad, ’hun!’

Guessing correctly again, they came to attention.

‘Squad, move to the right in threes. Righ’ turn! By the righ’, quick march!’

The squad moved off. When ordered to do so, they turned to the right and the left, they wheeled and they halted, all of which attracted the petty officer’s criticism, although Sylvia thought they were doing quite well and that their drill master was just being fussy. After all, marching was men’s work, as he had pointed out, and he demanded very high standards.

They had almost reached the perimeter when they heard the order, ‘Squad will turn about, squad haybout turn!’ They completed the manoeuvre but the petty officer was far from satisfied. ‘Squad will halt, squaaad, halt! Lef’ turn! ‘’Tan’ at heise!’ He stood in silence for a moment with his eyes closed, struggling to find the appropriate words. Eventually, they came to him. ‘Dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ he said, ‘what a shambles. It’s so simple my little boy of three could do it smarter than you lot.’ He breathed deeply again and looked around the squad. ‘There was one of you, just one, who had more or less the right idea.’ His eye came to rest on Iris Dean. ‘I want you,’ he said, ‘to show the others how to do it properly. Come and stand beside me, dear. Don’t be shy.’

Sylvia stifled a smile. Iris was the last girl anyone would call shy.

The petty officer placed his hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Go ahead.’

‘Yes, PO.’ Addressing the squad, Iris began her demonstration. ‘The word “turn” comes as your left foot goes down. You bring your right heel to the left one to make a letter “L”, rather like Charlie Chaplin but without the silly walk. Then left in front of right, and you go sort of pin-toed, to make the letter “T”, like this,’ and she demonstrated, lifting her knees high like a soldier. ‘Then bring your right heel to your left to make a nice, neat “V”, and off we go. Actually, PO, it helps if you say “L-T-V” as you do it.’

‘Does it now? And which expert gave you that piece of advice?’

‘My brother.’

The PO blinked. ‘Your brother. And he is?’

‘An officer in the Grenadier Guards.’

‘I see.’ The petty officer licked his lips uncertainly for a moment and said, ‘Right, we’ll try it again, and you can say, “L-T-V”, as the officer said.’

Iris rejoined the ranks and the petty officer marched them off again. As they approached the perimeter fence he gave the order, ‘Squad, haybout turn!’

The squad responded lustily. ‘L-T-V! Left, right, left, right….’

‘All right, all right, all right. I give the orders around here.’ He halted them again to speak to them. ‘That was a lot better. Not perfect but better. One thing I will say, however, is that you are not required to slam your heels the way … What is your name, dear?’

‘Wren Dean, I.M., nine four two one seven six ….’

‘All right, never mind all that.’ He addressed the squad again. ‘You are not required to slam your heels the way Wren Dean showed you. It is not necessary and could even be harmful to the female anatomy.’ The last two words were barely audible as he muttered them with some embarrassment.

Iris was quick to ask for clarification. ‘What could it harm, PO?’ Her expression was one of innocent enquiry.

‘I was referring,’ he said, articulating the words hurriedly out of the side of his mouth, ‘to the female parts. It suffices to say that there is no need to slam your heels. Right…’

‘What harm can it do the female parts, PO?’ Elsie Crabtree snatched the baton eagerly.

‘The PO coughed, ‘I am referring to the … moving parts.’

‘What moving parts?’

‘The parts that move independently.’ His face was crimson and he was about to give an order when Elsie delivered the knock-out blow.

‘But PO, don’t men have parts that move independently?’

He looked around in near-panic. ‘Squad, squad, ’hun!

But no one could, because they were all helpless.

When Sylvia went on watch at a little before 1800, she asked Will Hay why sailors never slammed their heels.

‘Oh yes, I heard about you lot giving that PO a headache this afternoon. Did he tell you it might do you a mischief?’

‘Yes.’ Sylvia was still amused.

‘That’s what I heard, but seriously, can you imagine watchkeepers trying to get their heads down with all that stamping going on up top?’

‘Fair enough, it would be impossible.’

‘They don’t let bootnecks do it either, and drill is their department. Mind you,’ he chuckled, ‘they say it’s because it damages the brain.’

‘Oh no.’ For the second time that day, Sylvia was helpless with laughter.

‘But silly stories apart, what’s all this about Iris Dean’s brother being an officer in the Guards?’

‘That was a daft story too,’ she said, recovering. ‘He’s only twelve and he’s a boy scout.’

It was good to have a laugh. It was just a shame she couldn’t tell Freddy about it. He might have enjoyed the story.

At the end of the watch she went down to the mess for cocoa before turning in. She had with her Freddy’s latest letter, which she read again.

Dear Sylvia,

Many thanks for your 20th November. I’m allowed to write two letters and four postcards each month and, as mail takes anything between three and five weeks, things could get confusing unless we refer to each other’s by date. Do you agree? As a rule, I’m not keen on numbers, even though they’re occasionally useful. I only just scraped through School Certificate Maths, and what a lot of incomprehensible nonsense that was. Shall I tell you about the worst kind of betrayal? It’s letters turning up in a maths problem. Just when you think you’re among friends, they suddenly turn on you and start behaving like numbers. They should be stripped of their serifs and drummed out of the alphabet with ignominy.

And now to answer a very important question. Can I dance a slow foxtrot? My dear girl – you have to remember of course that my feet last touched a dance floor in March, 1942 – but yes, I can certainly do that. My favourite slow foxtrot number is ‘All the Things You Are’, a marriage of music and lyrics that could melt the heart of a marble statue. What’s your favourite song?

We’re getting excited about Christmas here. We’ll get a holiday and have a high old time. Don’t worry about Len and me. They can’t keep two good men down.

In case you don’t hear from me before it happens, have a very merry Christmas, and let’s hope for a cracking 1944. Take care.

Best wishes,

Freddy.

Sylvia was glad she’d decided to write to him, even when his letters were so cheerful they made her feel sad, and when listening to ‘All the Things You Are’ on the portable gramophone made her feel even sadder.