A WAAF's wartime memory
Shropshire, September 1941: as I stood in the cold grey light of dawn in an enormous hangar with my kitbag at my feet, waiting to find out where the RAF was going to send me, the last place in my mind was Wales. As a new member of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF), I had already absorbed Shropshire, which had been unknown to me before my training month of square-bashing, or drill, and in my mind’s eye I had the Kentish corridor, the English channel, the Cinque Ports, the fighter units, the pilots... But Wales – they were going to send me to Wales! All I knew about Wales was some goings-on in Shakespeare’s Henry V and Welsh rarebit. Wait, Emlyn Williams [Welsh dramatist and actor] was Welsh. So were Griffith Jones and Clifford Evans [both actors]. Edith Evans [English actress] wasn’t. I had also sung Men Of Harlech at school and had seen pictures of the Prince of Wales (later the Duke of Windsor) at his investiture at Caernarfon Castle. In fact, to go to Wales seemed something of an adventure.
But, then, all this service business was an adventure, so on to the train I clambered. I found myself with four other WAAFs going to the same station – RAF Penarth, near Cardiff . Three of the girls were Scottish and very unhappy. They had fi rmly believed they would be sent somewhere in Scotland and would be able to go home for short leaves. They were very voluble. (I was already missing London.)
The other girl was dark, beautiful and silent. She had large brown eyes and short curly hair. Her stiff new greatcoat engulfed her and she looked out shyly from under her brand-new cap. She stared at us; we stared at her. She said nothing. The other girls were outgoing and we soon became friends. Isabel Anderson, Nancy McGinlay and Betsy… something… were their names. Finally we found out that Joan Bermingham, the shy one, actually was Welsh, but that her parents were presently living in Bath. She could say that infamous Welsh village name – Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch – and it became her party piece during the year we were together. We never could tackle it.
By the time we got to Cardiff it was dark. We had to change to a local train and had no time to look around the city. Later we were to come to know Cardiff as a hospitable and friendly place, historically interesting and rich in entertainment.
We were bound for the Attestation Section, Penarth. No one knew what attestation meant, and Penarth, when we reached it, was blacked out completely, being on the coast. We were billeted in the Esplanade Hotel, right on the beachfront, the fi ve of us in one large room, long windows overlooking the sea. It must have cost a fortune in peacetime.
During 1941 and 1942 we went through a lot together, we five. We scrubbed our bare floor on Monday – ‘domestic nights’ – and worked hard, often long stretches of overtime, at registering recruits (that’s what attestation meant). I registered my own father when he joined the RAF. This created a sensation at the time. He was the first to be ‘written up’ by me in the morning, then the commanding officer gave us the rest of the day off , on the understanding that we would be back in the section by 5pm so that my father could finish ‘going through the system’.
We went to Cardiff , I remember, he still in civvies, both of us proud of my newly acquired corporal stripes, and we had a beer in a funny little pub, made friends with a pilot and his dog, Chaos, saw a movie, and talked and talked.
We were a talented lot, we attestation wallahs. We put on several variety shows, calling ourselves Adastral Bodies and produced a magazine called ATT/PEN/GEN, lavishly illustrated by AC Bert Scriven. There were several artistes of great merit among us: Lyn ‘Taff y’ Jones, a fantastic pianist; sketch players of great wit and innovation, and Nancy and Joan were wonderful singers, Joan going on to become a professional. I was billed as ‘The Tapping Terror’, because I could tap dance.
Nancy, Joan and Betsy got engaged to RAF types, but Betsy was the only one to stay engaged and get married to her Alfie, as I remember. [I had a loving relationship with a medical type; we lost touch, but he turned up in 1990 in Zimbabwe. Unfortunately he died before we could get together again.]
We joined the fife and drum band, and we explored Wales in the limited free time at our disposal. I remember with aff ection the beaches and little towns and villages along the coast and around Cardiff . I spent several weekends with Joan and her parents in lovely Bath, and we all rejoiced when Nancy married her Scottish childhood sweetheart after all.
A recruitment poster from 1941Now it is 73 years on and we are all old. Large blocks of memory overwhelm me from time to time, and I wonder if any of the others who were in Penarth ever think of the intense lives we led then: the blackouts and the fi rewatching, the air raids and the bombs. I myself have only recently returned to London after 32 years in the United States, and who knows where everyone else is? I did get a phone call from one of the attestation sergeants, who now lives in Reading, and one from the Penarth Sick Quarters Sergeant. He has now gone to live in Johannesburg.
Those of us who are still alive and grateful to the RAF for some of the best days of our lives might be interested to see each other again for one day – an evening, a dinner. If anyone who worked in Attestation Section, Penarth, is reading this and is interested in a reunion, what about it? Please write through The Lady and let me know where and how you are and if you could travel to a reunion in London or elsewhere, perhaps even Penarth. It would be a riot to see the hotels as they should be, with carpets and curtains and proper food.
Many times in my imagination I have travelled around England, visiting the places I was stationed at during the war – Bridgnorth, Penarth, Reading, Harrogate, Skegness, Cardington, Loughborough – the possibilities for a sentimental journey are endless. I have fond memories of even the courses I was sent on to: Kirkham and Wilmslow – the fi rst and last time I ever saw Blackpool!
I wonder if they still serve that frothed-up coff ee on Sunday mornings in our favourite cafe on the front in Penarth, when we got up too late to go to breakfast? Certainly not the scrambled dried eggs and buttered toast we used to eat at lunchtime in the town in preference to trailing down the Dingle to the mess for stew and cabbage, and doorsteps of bread with never enough butter.
Should I be sorry if I went back? I regretted going back to Nottingham, where I had lived at the beginning of the war, as the Palais de Danse had become a bingo hall, the famous Black Boy Hotel [where they say Pimm’s was invented] had been razed, and the moving of Player’s cigarette factory to an outlying suburb had turned the district I had lived in into a depressed area.
However, now that Wales has recovered some of her sovereignty, there are several art treasures in Cardiff I want to see. And the sea is always a draw. I wonder…
Former service personnel who served with Sergeant Crozier at Penarth can contact her via The Lady, 39-40 Bedford Street, London WC2E 9ER.
But, then, all this service business was an adventure, so on to the train I clambered. I found myself with four other WAAFs going to the same station – RAF Penarth, near Cardiff . Three of the girls were Scottish and very unhappy. They had fi rmly believed they would be sent somewhere in Scotland and would be able to go home for short leaves. They were very voluble. (I was already missing London.)
The other girl was dark, beautiful and silent. She had large brown eyes and short curly hair. Her stiff new greatcoat engulfed her and she looked out shyly from under her brand-new cap. She stared at us; we stared at her. She said nothing. The other girls were outgoing and we soon became friends. Isabel Anderson, Nancy McGinlay and Betsy… something… were their names. Finally we found out that Joan Bermingham, the shy one, actually was Welsh, but that her parents were presently living in Bath. She could say that infamous Welsh village name – Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch – and it became her party piece during the year we were together. We never could tackle it.
By the time we got to Cardiff it was dark. We had to change to a local train and had no time to look around the city. Later we were to come to know Cardiff as a hospitable and friendly place, historically interesting and rich in entertainment.
We were bound for the Attestation Section, Penarth. No one knew what attestation meant, and Penarth, when we reached it, was blacked out completely, being on the coast. We were billeted in the Esplanade Hotel, right on the beachfront, the fi ve of us in one large room, long windows overlooking the sea. It must have cost a fortune in peacetime.
During 1941 and 1942 we went through a lot together, we five. We scrubbed our bare floor on Monday – ‘domestic nights’ – and worked hard, often long stretches of overtime, at registering recruits (that’s what attestation meant). I registered my own father when he joined the RAF. This created a sensation at the time. He was the first to be ‘written up’ by me in the morning, then the commanding officer gave us the rest of the day off , on the understanding that we would be back in the section by 5pm so that my father could finish ‘going through the system’.
We went to Cardiff , I remember, he still in civvies, both of us proud of my newly acquired corporal stripes, and we had a beer in a funny little pub, made friends with a pilot and his dog, Chaos, saw a movie, and talked and talked.
We were a talented lot, we attestation wallahs. We put on several variety shows, calling ourselves Adastral Bodies and produced a magazine called ATT/PEN/GEN, lavishly illustrated by AC Bert Scriven. There were several artistes of great merit among us: Lyn ‘Taff y’ Jones, a fantastic pianist; sketch players of great wit and innovation, and Nancy and Joan were wonderful singers, Joan going on to become a professional. I was billed as ‘The Tapping Terror’, because I could tap dance.
Nancy, Joan and Betsy got engaged to RAF types, but Betsy was the only one to stay engaged and get married to her Alfie, as I remember. [I had a loving relationship with a medical type; we lost touch, but he turned up in 1990 in Zimbabwe. Unfortunately he died before we could get together again.]
We joined the fife and drum band, and we explored Wales in the limited free time at our disposal. I remember with aff ection the beaches and little towns and villages along the coast and around Cardiff . I spent several weekends with Joan and her parents in lovely Bath, and we all rejoiced when Nancy married her Scottish childhood sweetheart after all.
A recruitment poster from 1941Now it is 73 years on and we are all old. Large blocks of memory overwhelm me from time to time, and I wonder if any of the others who were in Penarth ever think of the intense lives we led then: the blackouts and the fi rewatching, the air raids and the bombs. I myself have only recently returned to London after 32 years in the United States, and who knows where everyone else is? I did get a phone call from one of the attestation sergeants, who now lives in Reading, and one from the Penarth Sick Quarters Sergeant. He has now gone to live in Johannesburg. Those of us who are still alive and grateful to the RAF for some of the best days of our lives might be interested to see each other again for one day – an evening, a dinner. If anyone who worked in Attestation Section, Penarth, is reading this and is interested in a reunion, what about it? Please write through The Lady and let me know where and how you are and if you could travel to a reunion in London or elsewhere, perhaps even Penarth. It would be a riot to see the hotels as they should be, with carpets and curtains and proper food.
Many times in my imagination I have travelled around England, visiting the places I was stationed at during the war – Bridgnorth, Penarth, Reading, Harrogate, Skegness, Cardington, Loughborough – the possibilities for a sentimental journey are endless. I have fond memories of even the courses I was sent on to: Kirkham and Wilmslow – the fi rst and last time I ever saw Blackpool!
I wonder if they still serve that frothed-up coff ee on Sunday mornings in our favourite cafe on the front in Penarth, when we got up too late to go to breakfast? Certainly not the scrambled dried eggs and buttered toast we used to eat at lunchtime in the town in preference to trailing down the Dingle to the mess for stew and cabbage, and doorsteps of bread with never enough butter.
Should I be sorry if I went back? I regretted going back to Nottingham, where I had lived at the beginning of the war, as the Palais de Danse had become a bingo hall, the famous Black Boy Hotel [where they say Pimm’s was invented] had been razed, and the moving of Player’s cigarette factory to an outlying suburb had turned the district I had lived in into a depressed area.
However, now that Wales has recovered some of her sovereignty, there are several art treasures in Cardiff I want to see. And the sea is always a draw. I wonder…
Former service personnel who served with Sergeant Crozier at Penarth can contact her via The Lady, 39-40 Bedford Street, London WC2E 9ER.