dandelion

My mother, by all accounts, had quite the life, especially in her younger years. Though some of what I know I only know from stories my sister told me much later, after my mum passed. What I did get to hear from my mother, firsthand, was how, despite being in a loveless marriage and an arranged marriage at that. And despite still only being a teenager (18), she ran away from home.

Let me tell you I was as surprised as anyone, knowing not only had my mother been married before she met my dad, but that it barely lasted a year before she knew she was suffocating, and left. That’s how she put it. From somewhere deep inside, she found the courage to not only leave a man she didn’t love. But in doing so, defied convention, this was back in the early stage of WWII. A number of women, she told me, were doing the same, signing up for service.

Why? Well, for the obvious, but also, because, at the time, the military were desperately recruiting as many young women as they could into the services. And, like many, my mum knew she wanted a better life. A different life, and one that gave her opportunities. She left to join the WAAFs and trained as an MT driver. Her first posting was to the outer most reaches of Scotland, to Stornoway in the Outer Hebrides. She served as a driver for the aircrew of squadrons patrolling the North Atlantic for U-boats, flying Avro Ansons under Costal Command.

She told me a story about how one night she was called up to drive out to the runway, in the dark, with no lights on, in order to help a troubled aircraft land. She had to guide the plane in by driving, still in the dark, but pumping her breaks to flash out a small red light for the plane to see and follow.

Can you image? I know I can’t fully grasp doing what she did, out there on her own, being guided by people in the tower to effectively slow drive her way up the runway for the plane to know where the runway was. All in the middle of the night in the pitch black of night.

For her, even terrified, she said it was one of the most exhilarating things she’s ever done in her life, and never once regretted escaping her family and marriage to create a life for herself. And for that, I salute her courage.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

I learnt to read at a very early age sat on the knee of my dad as he read his newspaper of an evening. He would read different sections out loud to me and I would mimic him, till, at one point, it was me who was reading the words back to him. I skipped the Janet & John books of my era, and went straight into books for older kids thanks to my father’s patience.

It was my dad who took me on my first outing to the library. A Saturday morning ritual not only to give my mother a moment’s peace and quiet to go shopping by herself. But to keep us kids all out of trouble reading books. We would spend at least two or more hours in the library, which was fine by me, as I got to either sit in a corner and read a whole stack of picture books, or was read to by my dad.

Being the youngest at this point was an advantage. And so, by the time I got to school, I was reading well above my weight, as they say. And more. Thanks to my mother’s diligent prep, also well versed in my letters. I remember fondly sitting at the kitchen table slowly writing out her shopping list for her in pencil, as she dictated what we were going out to buy that day. I felt triumphant at not only being asked to do this responsibility, but at learning to write legibly and clearly. And even today, in a world were we hardly write anything anymore, I’m still proud of my handwriting.

These days I can’t look at a newspaper without thinking of my dad, or smile when I write out a shopping list, remembering those times sitting with my mother. It’s warming to have those memories and know I have a lot to be thankful for.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

I was reading friend’s post about letting go of things, yesterday, and had my own personal rush of childhood memories and a sense of loss at all things I had to let go of as a child as a member of a military family. Any kid who’s grown up in the same situation, whatever the military: army, navy, airforce, will know what I’m about to tell you. That, as a kid, you learn very early on in life how to let go. And how not to bawl your eyes out when your mother tells you in no uncertain terms, ‘no, you can’t take Charlie with you on the plane.’

Charlie being a three foot high stuffed toy chimpanzee, dressed in red shorts and yellow top who was my constant companion for two years. I remember fondly dragging him everywhere with me, and insisting he go with me even to the bathroom when I needed to pee. Even if he were heavier and bigger than I was at the time and probably needed adult help to be carried.

But when I was told at the tender age of 4 that Charlie was going to a new home and wouldn’t be coming with us, yes, I bawled my eyes out and was inconsolable for anywhere between 2 hours and 2 weeks. At that age time had no meaning to me and yes, it could well have been 2 minutes for all I knew. It was at this young impressionable age that I learnt the hard lesson of what it was to be a military brat, and that letting go was going to be a really BIG part of my life for the next 10 years.

I got so that I learnt from my older siblings—only be attached to items that could safely be hidden about my person, in a deep pocket, a matchbox, or a pair of rolled up socks in my suitcase. Items small enough to not make my mother’s keen notice. And certainly nothing as BIG as Charlie that might need its own seat on the plane; something that was definitely not happening, ever!

It was my sister who gave me the best advice, older and wiser than I. She whispered to me to ask my mother one day, when we were all out at a street market, for a little over the shoulder purse. And thus was born my way of hiding even more childish treasure.

Even now, as an adult, I am capable of walking away from just about everything I own without looking back, carrying with me only what I can fit in in my pockets, or my bag. And you?

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

I’ve always viewed being in the military the ‘safe’ option, which, when you really stop to think about it, seems either stupid or naive given what’s required of most personnel in the military. Though it’s true, I worked on what was called a front-line base, meaning our squadrons were considered not defence but an attack option. You’d think we’d be one of the first bases bombed in any invading scenario that involved the Russians, or, as they were at the time, Soviet Union. The wall hadn’t come down while I was still serving.

So you would think that I was less safe on a military base than say living in any city in the UK. But, not so. In terms of violence and crime, assaults on women, and yes, they did happen, even on a military base. We, women and personnel in general, were more protected than most civilians going about their daily lives.

We were afforded a lot more than most. And, having been brought up in the life, I was accustom to that sense of safety. Nonetheless, one day, all that that came crashing down when one alarming incident occurred out on a taxi way in the north side of the camp I was serving on, in Germany.

It happened just outside the restricted American enclosure nestled away from the rest of the base.

I had heard the rumours, we all did on arrival on camp. But I got a little more acquainted with the truth early on, as I was assigned to work in the Ops building, in Flight Operations, when I arrived on base. Part of our night shift routine was to deliver a night time package across the airfield to the north side, where Big Ears, the American listening post had it’s own base of operation. Complete with triple barbed wire fencing with two inner rings. One patrolled by dog handlers, the second inner ring supposedly had landmines. Though I never knew the truth of that rumour, and, I’m sure, no one was ever going to ask.

I did, however, know about the barbed wire fences and dog patrol, first hand. And while we were never allowed beyond the gate where the “package” was signed for every night, I could see enough out the window of the Landrover to know that there were a lot of buildings on site that probably had a lot more to do with secret things, than this place being <i>just</i> a listening post.

After all, my father was a master armourer and, as a kid, I had been to his place of work more than once during my childhood. I knew what hardened bunkers for storing munitions looked like. And was more than familiar with bright yellow and red hazardous material warning signs. Not that I ever said anything about my suspicions to anyone else.

So when we had a secret plane come in, overnight, to sit in the dark on the far side of the airfield, up by Big Ears, for an early morning take off. I knew something was up. The base was on a quiet lockdown, a select crew was on in both Operations and the Tower for this event, hand-picked. And while I was working in Ops that night, we didn’t do our nightly delivery to the north side like we did every night. We were told not to go anywhere near Big Ears that night. And, as it turns out, for good reason.

What was about to take place up there was way above our clearances and pay grade.

What did happen in the wee small hours was myself and my duty corporal did a run up to the tower, just before first light. No one was phoning in notams or the weather. We were told to be off comms. So signals were being ferried all over camp all night long, by hand. Hence our trip to the tower. Something on the north side was going down as we arrived upstairs in the fishbowl, and saw most of the staff stood outside, on the walkway, all looking north through binoculars, including the station Group Captain, not normally up at this hour. The tower was full of officers.

My corporal and I stayed inside, barely able to see what the others were watching, but had no intention of leaving once we realised the secret plane was probably getting geared up for departure. At this point it was only gossip between us about why it was here and exactly what its mission was. But, as the minutes passed and we listened some terse conversations over the radio we got it.

The aircraft was being loaded with something that was, strictly speaking, not allowed on our base.

It was at this point that the world stopped turning and something extraordinary happened that froze the entire world in a moment of sheer terror.

The carrier moving said heavy munitions to the plane toppled in the semi gloom of dawn, and the large weapon of mass destruction rolled off and hit the ground with, apparently, such a force as to make at least two of the four armourers in attendance wet themselves.

The delay between this happening and the people upstairs in the tower’s fishbowl, watching, was seconds. When the incident was relayed, it took a few heartbeats by all to realise we all might about to be blown to kingdom come along with half of the countryside surrounding the base.

I’m not sure what happened next in the tower, as my corporal grabbed my arm and hauled up both back to operations which, I should point out at this juncture, was inside a hardened purpose build shelter supposedly capable of surviving a nuclear blast.

All I can say is, I was glad we didn’t have to put that theory to the test, and find out whether we would, in fact, survive, along with all those inside taking shelter. The bomb in question, while frightening the literal shit out of everyone involved that night, wasn’t armed, and no, didn’t start ticking or anything like that. But the scare nonetheless, brought about a new found awareness of just how dangerous life on camp could be.

To this day I quietly thank the careful diligence of the armourers in charge that day. We all survived to live another day and were told to never speak of the incident, ever.

So … You won’t tell anyone, will you?

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

I was lucky enough or, depending on who you speak to, unlucky enough to meet a few royals during my time in the military. The first time was at RAF Mountbattan, in Plymouth, UK, when I had the chance to see and shake hands with the now Princess Royal, Princess Anne. Who, at the time, was doing a number of royal visits to Plymouth and, as it happened, chose to stop in for afternoon tea with us WRAFs in the women’s block sitting room.

Which, of course, meant that days before the planned event, that was to be only about an hour in length, we all had to clean the entire block, top to bottom. And yes, paint stuff outside that included hydrants, and white boarder stones around the two tiny pieces of front garden. I think I was probably the only person there, other than maybe the two WRAF admin staff excited about the prospect of meeting a royal. I had seen Princess Anne, at a distance, on two other occasions as an air force brat. But to meet her in person? I was kind of in awe.

The prep, however annoying, was worth it in the end. Even though this royal would never see anything beyond the front door, hallway, and our sitting room, which suddenly got decked out with a lot of new plants and flowers. It didn’t matter. Officers will find any excuse to make us all clean something. That aside, the fancy china from the officer’s mess was loaned for the occasion and, along with our WRAF admin officer and corporal, we all lined up outside like something from Downton Abby to greet the pennant flying car as it cruised the 30 yards from the officer’s mess down to our building at the bottom of the hill.

Earl Grey tea was served inside with scones, cream and jam, and finger sandwiches the like of which most of us were unfamiliar with. And to which, Anne, taking a droll moment to break the ice and get us all relaxed and chatting said something along the lines of “why do the always starve us with tiny sandwiches?” Making the room erupt in nervous laughter.

It was a fun hour that stretched into 2 and, by the time this down to earth Princess left, turned into something memorable for all present. I know I still remember this woman for her kindness, droll wit, and arching eyebrow.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧