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On the morning of the 3rd Sept 1939, I and my two best friends stood listening to the wireless. Listening to the sounds of the funereal music which had been played from Sept 1st when Poland had been entered by the Germans. As the music ceased, the voice of the Prime Minister, Mr. Chaimberlain was heard: 鈥榃e are at war with Germany鈥�. I looked at Peter, my best friends face, so often serious but now even more full of concern. I saw that he was pained, prepared to face the future with fortitude. Looking at Alan, our mutual friend, I saw, call it what you will, some sixth sense, that he felt he would not live through the war.

Ever since Mr. Chaimberlain had returned from Munich, after consultations with Hitler, and stood at the top of the aeroplane steps, waving an umbrella and a piece of paper, shouting 鈥榩eace in our time鈥�, England had been preparing for the eventual war. Trenches were being dug in Hyde Park, people were learning how to deal with gas masks and training people to become ARP wardens. We three were also being trained. Not because it was a glamorous thing to do, but because we all felt it was what we had to do. Peter, 20 years old, was learning to fly at the weekend in the yellow bellied tiger moths, with the RAF Volunteer Reserve. Alan was spending his free time training as an air gunner in the RAF Volunteer Reserve, whilst I, a 17 year old, had joined the Red Cross and was learning how to bandage, stop profuse bleeding, splint and resuscitate injured people should bombs fall.

On the night war was declared, just as I walked through the cornfields under the darkening sky with the silvery moon rising, to my first posting 鈥� Sharston Hall in Gatley, to work as an ambulance attendant, unable to believe that in spite of the peaceful countryside, any moment the sound of the sirens telling us that bombs were approaching, might be heard. Even the birds had quietened, apart from the occasional hoot of a barn owl as it swooped down for an early evening feast. On I walked through the gathering darkness until I came to Sharston Hall. How strange it seemed, to be entering a building where two centuries ago my ancestors had lived. It was now turned into an ambulance depot.

On entering the hall I met my driver. A stocky, grey haired, middle aged woman with a very cheerful face. At least she appeared to me, a teenager, middle aged. We were given maps and lists to memorise of the areas where we were to serve should there be a raid. Both she and I chose to sleep in our ambulance so that we would be ready. We were only disturbed during the night when the sirens began to wail. Every hour men would come and turn the starting handles of our old ambulance but we soon adjusted to the sound and continued to sleep. Engines were not so finely tuned as they are nowadays and ambulances had to be ready to go immediately the siren ceased to wail. Not the kind of life that I as a 17 year old envisaged, to be on duty all night and working during the day but it was a job that had to be done and many other young and older people were doing the same as I.

February 1941. By this time Peter had 鈥榞ained his wings鈥� and was flying Blenheim Bombers. Alan had become a rear gunner in a Lancaster Bomber. Sadly, just as he felt he would be, he was killed. His Lancaster was damaged after a raid over Germany and had crashed in the Fens. Alan, injured, had parachuted, landed in a dyke but was unable to disentangle himself from the cords of his parachute and he died of hypothermia on that very cold February morning. Life was so precarious and precious that Peter and I got engaged to be married on the next leave he had. Letters were a lifeline between us and we each wrote as often as we were able to.

One day several months later, a pilot friend from another command, who was on leave with his family in Gatley, brought me a letter from Peter. It was written on scraps of paper, in pencil. By this time paper was becoming scarce, and ink an almost unknown commodity. As I lay down on my stretcher that night I felt the scrunch of paper in my pocket. For the nineteenth time, I took out the letter and read by the aid of a torch. Amongst most of the things that Peter had written were the words 鈥渕y tour of ops is nearly over鈥�. 鈥淥nly two more to go and then a glorious four days leave鈥�. Next morning, as I, a very sleepy 18 year old, walked once more through the fields home, knowing that within an hour I had to be washed, changed out of uniform, eaten my breakfast and be on my bicycle, cycling to work in the bank in the next village. Most people were having to do this and it had become a normal way of life. No matter what had occurred during the night, work had still to continue.

Opening my ledgers I commenced to add up the stream of figures when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning round I saw the accountant and he just said quietly 鈥減lease go down to the managers office鈥�. With shaking knees I set off, wondering what mistakes I could have made. Knocking on the door, a gentle voice said 鈥榗ome in鈥�. As I went inside I realised the manager was looking very serious. 鈥淥h what have I done?鈥� I wondered. Then softly, peering over his glasses, he said, 鈥淚 think you鈥檇 better go home. I鈥檝e just had a telephone call from your mother.鈥� Nothing else was said. It was obvious by his manner he did not want me to enquire.

As I rode my bicycle down the tree lined roads, I was thinking, what could be wrong? Could Gran be ill? There hadn鈥檛 been a raid - It couldn鈥檛 be that. As soon as I鈥檇 turned into my drive, I knew. It was Peter. He鈥檇 been killed. Later I learned that he too had crashed after a raid over Germany. Limping home he鈥檇 realised he was going to hit another plane in the same condition. He had stalled his so that only three people were killed instead of six. He鈥檇 finished his tour of 30 ops but unfortunately had to go out on a further two raids, the targets being the Scharnhorst and another boat, in harbour. I鈥檝e since wondered whether he was too tired and doing those too extra raids had proved too much.

I felt totally bereft. The desolation at losing, not only my fianc茅, but my best friend since school days as well as Alan, our dear friend was almost unbearable. I attempted to console myself by thinking I was not the only one in this plight. So many women were and some had babies and young children to bring up on their own. I had to do something, more than I was already doing for the war effort. If Peter and Alan had given their lives I felt there must be something I could be doing and so transferred as a full time nurse in the Red Cross Volunteer Aid Detachment Mobile. I became one of the numerous women who were assisting in the service hospitals. In my case I was attached to the army. Many others served in the Navy or Air Force. There, I was kept constantly busy and gradually the pain eased. 3 years later I met a sub mariner who taught me to laugh once more and in less than a year we were married, a marriage that would last 48 happy years.

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