For King and Country

There would be hell to pay when she got home.  No doubt about that.  Her parents would put forth a watertight case.  She had never, ever defied them except to buy her bike and go to Seasalter with a friend and a young fellow from the church.   They had been furious about that of course, but this?  This was something else. 

Valerie, my mother, in a giddy moment, along with her colleague, Inez Grey, had ducked out of the Crown Agents to the Colonies where they worked and signed up to join The WAAF.  Unfortunately, a photographer caught both girls grinning like Cheshire cats in the queue of young, pretty things.  The photo had made the front page in the evening newspaper under a headline pertaining to the gallantry of young women opting to join the fighting forces; the very paper her father would read on his way home from The War Ministry where he was employed.

Gingerly, she turned the key and stepped into the polished hall. The aroma of a good evening meal hung in the air and she was starving; but a meal would not be served just yet!  Oh no, the music had to be faced first. It wouldn’t be a long wait either – both parents were more than ready to face her.  “What on earth can you be thinking of?” Questioned her father.  “You’re breaking our hearts!” from her mother.  At that time, mum had a secure job; a very good job at The Crown Agents so there was no fear of her being called up to work in some munitions factory.  She had had, for the most part, a private education.  She was a member of the church cycle club, for heaven’s sake, and more to the point had been waited on hand and foot all her life by her mother who didn’t want her daughter to experience the hardship of servitude that she herself had experienced. She would not be able to cope. She was not up to it.  Not strong enough.  What would happen if she took ill, what with all that drill marching? And those miserably cold Nissen huts? she would freeze!

On and on it went.  Why, why, why?  Valerie wanted to scream out loud and clear “Because I’m bored witless!  Because I don’t want to sleep in an Andersen air-raid shelter listening to you two snoring!   Because I loathe using a chamber pot in front of you all whilst hearing doodlebugs rain down. Because anyone who was worth their salt had already joined up. Because I don’t want to sit at home knitting socks for soldiers.  Because I’m sick of spending Sundays going backwards and forwards to church!”

But instead, she stood firm said nothing.  She had made up her mind and was determined.  Indeed, she couldn’t wait to leave them… leave it all behind, every little bit of it.  Sweet and loving as her parents were, she could not wait to face a new exciting chapter in her hitherto ordinary life.  To experience real life; one that was not under their stifling control and their rigid religious routine.  She would suffocate if she were to remain a moment longer.  She wished she was already gone!

Valerie Elizabeth Irene Neil was going to fight for her King and Country and she could not wait.  Once they began on their call to arms she was never again to see her friend Inez Grey again. Inez who had encouraged her on this escapade, who was responsible for turning her life upside down.  Or was it she who had persuaded her?  Come to think of it she did not really know now who encouraged who.  That area seemed fudged in her recall. Inez’s parents would blame Valerie, of course, for leading their daughter astray.  Still, it was an extremely comforting thought to think just how she and her friend would laugh about it all whilst wearing their smart WAAF uniforms, sitting with a drink and cigarette.   But it was never to be, for the girls were sent to different air bases miles apart.  The shock of this took away the excitement of throwing in their jobs and wearing the cheeky hat and badge.  It didn’t seem such a good idea after all.  Maybe they had been a little hasty.  Maybe they should have talked it over with their parents first… But the deed was done. The wheels were in motion.

Thus, after a few intelligence tests and a full medical, Valerie found herself at an RAF base hidden deep in The New Forest, Hampshire.  Appointed as a medical secretary to the hospital doctor, in an isolated spot, her heart sunk to the tip of her unattractive, black, lace-up shoes, an ugly addition to a smart uniform.  Office work was not what she had envisaged and grave doubts entered her soul.  At this rate, she might as well still be in The Crown Agents.  Where were the dashing airmen in blue?  Where was the excitement of war here? Only the strange quiet of the Nissen hut ward, with poor fellows suffering from diarrhoea and boils, awaited her.  To cap it all, she had no other WAAF girls to chat to and complain with until she got back to her hut. There, it seemed that the other girls were all having a whale of a time talking about their drill marches and breaks in the NAAFI.

Her worries, however, very soon proved ill-founded. She was super good at her work and the doctor treated her with the utmost respect, probably pleased that at least she was slim and pretty and not like the previous battle-axe that bossed HIM around.  Also (and this was a big also) being in the medical corps meant that her meals were taken in the Officers’ Mess which supplied a rather better table than that presented to the other minions.  Shining cruet sets with all the condiments served with a slap-up English breakfast for them every morning; meanwhile, the other WAAF girls had plain old porridge and toast.

Valerie soon grew to adore her job and the wonderful camaraderie of the other girls at the end of the day.  The freedom from home restrictions was blissful as were the plentiful cigarettes on offer, and there was not a bomb to be heard at night.  Just the sighing of the trees and the snort of a New Forest pony.  She was actually safer here than in Putney.  And the dances every weekend were something to look forward to. She thanked her lucky stars that she had left home at last.

With her mind on dancing she and her new friend Eileen, who slept in the next bed, got themselves ready for an evening in the NAAFI.  After the application of red lipstick and doing up of their hair in the fashionable Victory side rolls they made their way through the trees to the big tin hall where there was the usual Saturday night band playing music.  They seated themselves and lit their cigarettes.  This was going to be good…

Except there were only women.  For half an hour or more they waited, making sure that they just sipped on their drink, tapping their toes to the music, toes that were longing to dance.  To be sure the black lace-up shoes were made for marching and they would much rather have been clad in high heels and pretty frocks; something full-skirted which would swing out when they danced. But blessed youth was on their side and that was all that was required really. However, it would seem that none of these thoughts were necessary since there was nobody to dance with anyway.  Lace-ups or high heels, it made no difference. Nobody was looking.  Other WAAFs were in the same predicament.  They scanned each other so hard that, as if by staring alone, at least one or other might metamorphosise into a handsome male. The two young women discussed the very real possibility of dancing together, if for no other reason than to give the band a bit of a reason for living, but that would be to sink too low.  Had they joined the Air Force for this?  Where were the young heroes in blue?  Where were all the smiling faces in their sheepskin jackets and little moustaches, a jaunty fag stuck to their bottom lip? Where were they?  The word went around that they were on a mission; probably a bombing sortie over Germany.  This sobered them up enough to realise an early night shivering in their Nissen hut, “The Last Outpost” as they called it, was preferable to this and so they got up to leave.  Air flying missions always cast a miasma of fear and dread over the camp and it wasn’t until the drone of aircraft was heard, homeward bound, that sleep would finally descend.  Besides they were not in the mood for frivolity anymore.

Valerie barged into the heavy swing doors and as she did so a rush of cold air hit her.  She often told me of how she paused momentarily to catch her breath when she felt a warm hand envelope hers.  “Where are you going?” came a voice.  The speaker instantly had her full attention.  “Back to our billet,” replied Valerie.  “No. No. Please don’t go, stay and dance with me,” the young man countered.  Eileen standing behind leant forward and whispered “it’s The Czech Squadron 311 Valerie.  They’ve arrived.”  Arrived they had and they were like the breath of fresh air she had just felt on her face. Everything became a blur.  The whole group of young men who were behind Josef flooded into the hall, laughing and getting drinks, taking up the many empty seats and lighting up.  My, oh my, they were all so handsome in their uniforms, their smiles and their teeth were especially astounding.  This really was going to be a great evening after all.  The delighted conductor immediately struck up with Glenn Miller’s ‘In The Mood’.  Everyone most certainly was and the dance floor was soon filled with couples. 

The Czech Bomber Squadron 311 were an experienced unit. And what was more, a handsome bunch. Very mannered too.  They actually seemed to click their heels when they kissed your hand (and yes, they actually kissed your hand.) It was all very alluring.    Josef Novotný was not a pilot but a ground crew engineer.  He was one of those guys that scramble all over the plane as soon as it lands and was responsible for checking every part; every nut, screw and bolt, ensuring it was safe and worthy for another flight.  Very respected and challenging work especially as Squadron 311 was in short supply of such fully trained aircraft mechanics. He rose quickly through the ranks to the top and was later honoured posthumously for his impeccable record.  But at this time, on this night, with his friends and plenty of young girls around he and his pals were in a relaxed mood and were making sure every WAAF in the NAAFI had a partner. Every WAAF was in heaven.

Josef and Valerie were madly in love, immediately, totally and forever from that first moment on.  Bowled over by their feelings they said as much to each other before the evening was over.  But I ask myself, how easy was it for them to feel this way? What was not to love?  He was as handsome as she was pretty.  They were thrown together in the romantic surroundings of the New Forest.  There was a war going on and one might be dead tomorrow.  Caution and practicalities were thrown to the wind.  Make the best of it they would.  And a courtship in the New Forest was not to be sniffed at.  I pause now with a sigh.  Oh, how I would love to add that it was here, amongst the damp ferns, the wild mushrooms, the bracken and doe-eyed deer, that I was conceived but alas no, that was not the case, not on the soft woodland floor beneath a cornucopia of trees, nothing as romantic as that for the making of me.

The happy couple had travelled from Beaulieu to London to speak to Valerie’s parents.  Josef wanted to ask for permission to marry their daughter in a formal way. It would soften the blow if they presented themselves as a couple.  Their request would be hard to resist.  Dressed in full uniform, tall, slim and young, an aura of doing their duty for king and country, hung about them and a touch of defiance that said, “we are grabbing what we can from life whilst we can.”  It would take a hard heart indeed to deny them their wish to marry.

My grandparents immediately liked Josef and his open, easy-going charm and affable politeness, but they begged caution and told them it would be more sensible to wait until the war was over and when Josef admitted he would be returning to Czechoslovakia with Valerie as soon as he could. This added further to their misgivings.  The beloved daughter they had invested so much in would live in a country hardly known to them and they may never get to see any grandchildren that may be born.    With that thought in their minds, they were all interrupted by a news message on the radio.  There was an alert out to expect a big onslaught from Germany that very night.  The couple said a quick goodbye and made haste to catch their train back to camp.  But as fate would have it, they found themselves barred at the platform entrance. Everything was cancelled.  For the likes of those caught in such circumstances, the Air Force provided some sort of hostel accommodation in Bedford Square WC18 and it was to this place that Valerie and Josef sought refuge.  Tall adjoining buildings, one for women and one for men stood side by side.  They could do no more than kiss one another goodnight and find their quarters.  Valerie was allocated the topmost little room in one building and Josef had a better room on the middle floor in the adjoining building.  The place was jam-packed with members of the RAF and WAAF especially the bar area and even though everyone seemed in high, defiant spirits, Valerie went straight to bed.  Not so Josef for he had spotted a couple of his colleagues at the bar and naturally, he joined them for a nightcap. 

During the night the Luftwaffe droned in.  Plane after plane, dropping bomb after bomb from the heavens.  The sky alight with arc lamps crisscrossing and roaring fires alike.  In her topmost little quarters, Valerie was terrified.  The room was as light as day and from the window, she could see what was happening.  The next bomb would surely hit her building.   She threw on her uniform, grabbed her shoulder bag and ran blindly into the hallway; there was no way she was going to die in that miserable room.  No way she was going to die alone. Not if she could help it.  Throwing open another door, she found herself running straight into Josef’s arms. Surely this was a sign? They were just meant to be together.  Knowing she would be scared stiff, Josef had come to comfort her.  They headed to find an air-raid shelter, but, as the occupants poured from the two hotels on to the pavement running for cover, Josef and Valerie returned instead to his empty room.

Need I say more?  That night whilst Hitler sought annihilation I sought my very existence.  Not on a bed of soft fern in the New Forest but a miserable little single bed in a hostel with the Germans above on a killing spree.  When all is said and done, however, I admit to being always immensely proud that not only am I a ‘love child’ but I am a defiant one at that.  Even Hitler had not stopped me.  The only thing being that I am ever so slightly mortified that my moment of conception was in a place so aptly named, Bedford Square when a fern-covered forest floor would have been much more romantic and a beautiful setting for the making of new life.