It was a cool may evening when the Nazis began the destruction of our city. At first, we thought it was just another plane that had lost its way, and was unloading its bombs. The German war planes had an uneven throbbing sound. I was told it was because their engines were not synchronized. Since the raid of August 27, 1941, there had been 19 raids on the city, damaging houses and stores in the centre near the Cathedral, but to date this beautiful building of white Caen stone had escaped. The last of these minor raids had occurred on April 26, 1942. The bereavement, and loss of their homes, had not daunted the citizens, and on the night of May 4th they were at their posts.
Thirty German bombers, the pilots of some of them having been educated here, it was said, swept over the city in waves, getting through the defences all the way up the coast, and following the silver strip of the river Exe, up to the city. In the period of two hours, they dropped an estimated 160 tons of high explosives, and 10,000 incendiaries. The city was soon ablaze, the flames visible from across the countryside.
Firefighters from all over Devon rushed to the city, all doing valiant work against insurmountable odds. The Nazis machine-gunned them in the light of the fires. The local anti-aircraft barrage was terrific. We watched the planes caught in the search lights, like silver toys. They would suddenly explode when a shell hit them.
There were gallant Polish and Norwegian men fighting alongside the R.A.F. It is difficult to describe the scene that greeted us the next morning. I had witnessed Plymouth’s destruction, but this was home, my own city. The lovely old streets, built originally by the Romans (who called it Isca) were now piles of rubble and stone. Huge fire hoses, like monstrous snakes, lay everywhere. There were no walls, not anywhere. The surrounding country was visible for the first time in centuries!
It was difficult to find any street, because there were no landmarks, except for the majestic towers of the Cathedral, which, fortunately, had taken only one hit, in the "Lady Chapel" at the rear.
Exhausted firemen were still fighting doggedly; some of the flames raged for two days. The gas mains were still burning, the gas holder down by the river had been licked by flames several times, but they were controlled.
My Mother had spent all her nights in a shelter which had been made by converting warehouses on the river bank. Our home was hit by an incendiary bomb, making a hole in the roof of my bedroom. Fortunately it went out spontaneously. My father was out on Fire Watch, only the family dog was at home.
For many weeks, in the hot sun, the stench of decaying bodies permeated the air, along with the odor of burnt flesh. The overcrowded slums of the West Quarter were completely destroyed. The Main Library was a bitter loss; many valuable books and histories were lost. The fire officials decided to sacrifice it in order to save people’s homes. We were thankful to find that the ancient Guildhall was untouched. The City Archives, dating back to the 11th Century, had been removed to the country, also the irreplaceable West Window of the Cathedral. Fourteen hundred homes were destroyed, as well as all the stores and offices.
For many weeks, in the hot sun, digging was being done, and mass graves were dug. Homes were patched up, and many stores opened up in patched-up shells, with scorched paint and ashes, roofs were covered with tarpaulin, and rooms whose walls had been sheared off were patched up for occupancy. It was a long time before any utilities were restored. Unlike some bombed cities, Exeter had no looting; every able person was helping the Army and Marines to clean up the streets.
"A" Company had spent that night caring for the small inhabitants of the Children’s Hospital, which was in the vicinity of Rowancroft. Their building had been hit by incendiary bombs. We were able to get the children down rope ladders and into the slit trenches on our lawn. The trips to and fro were made very unpleasant by the shrapnel tinkling on our helmets. I still have a scar on my left hand as a souvenir of that night!
After this, because there was no water or power, our company was trucked out to the camp at Honiton, the clerks going in every day to work; and they were our only source of news. I was working in the cookhouse where I had taken some trade tests. At Rowancroft they had been able to obtain water from a nearby cemetery, from a pump.
The bus depot was a smouldering ruin; all the traffic was military. Most of the canteens had been destroyed. One had been taken over by the Post Office, because their building was in ruins. The Royal Albert Museum was miraculously untouched, and turned three of its rooms into a recreation area for the military. It was shared by a veritable United Nations of French, Danish, Polish, Norwegian, Canadian and Australian servicemen.
There was very little food in the city. We were ordered to eat our meals in camp, in order to leave any food in restaurants for civilians. One hundred and sixty-five citizens had been killed and 111 seriously injured. The civilian Women’s Volunteer Service did a great job with their mobile canteen, bringing hot food and drink to the exhausted firemen and highway crews. On the morning after the raid, since all communications were destroyed, young boys on bicycles took messages all over the city, to keep the information flowing.
The visit from King George and Queen Elizabeth was a great morale booster to the weary and bereaved people. The Nazis, through Lord Haw Haw, referred to our city’s destruction as a "reprisal raid." Nine churches were razed, along with several schools and two hospitals.
To this battered and crowded city came the first American forces, fresh from their land of peace and plenty. The American Red Cross opened a canteen on the campus of the University of the South West, on the outskirts of the ruined area. The first contingent to arrive was the staff of the 110th Station Hospital, which occupied a vacated mental hospital at nearby Exminster. I was stationed back at the Richmond by then. We were all informed by our platoon officer that we were advised to use discretion in our encounters with the Americans, as they were quite different from our English troops, and it was not encouraged to associate with them!
Gradually, the more adventurous of our people began to associate with these young men in the canteens. The Red Cross introduced us. The first one I met this way was a pleasant young captain from Ohio, billeted in the home of a friend of mine.
Very soon, the city was overwhelmed by an influx of these, our new allies, both Army and Navy. The United States had finally entered the war! The whole social pattern of our lives changed with the advent of these young men. I never saw any American service women. For the first time in our lives we found ourselves being addressed by complete strangers. They were so cheerful and optimistic, and seemed to have no idea of the realities of war! They couldn’t understand the shortages we endured, or the strict rationing. They had plenty of everything! There was a quality about these men, who wouldn’t accept rejection. We had been told not to make dates. They kept on trying, at every opportunity. Unfortunately there were numerous brawls and fistfights among the different services. The worst was the antagonism between the U.S. Navy and the Royal Marines, who had to take the same train to their respective camps. It became a frequent occurrence for these men to be involved in knife duels on the train. The M.P.s, the city police, and the U.S. Shore Patrol had a very busy time trying to keep the peace, especially under the constant cloak of darkness. Some of the U.S. troops were black, and it was a very eerie experience on a dark street to see the eyeballs, teeth and white belt approaching in the tiny light emitted by a flashlight.
As in all wars, the painted women of little virtue, evacuees from the slums of London and the demolished West quarters of this city found a marvelous source of income among all these forces. They were to be seen on the darkened street corners. The American soldiers were a delight to these. They were well paid, lavish with their money and stockings and cigarettes, which were rationed.
During this period of my service, I was sent for training at the Army Gas School at Tregantle, Cornwall. I had to take the crowded and cold train to Plymouth, and there catch a ferry across the river Tamar into the little village of Anthony in Cornwall. As usual, no one met me. I had to walk up a very steep hill, loaded down with steel helmet, respirator, and full kit bag. The fort was a grim, forbidding place of granite walls towering above the Channel. I showed my papers to the sentry and was shown to the Orderly room. From there, I was taken to my quarters; the inside was as dreary as the outside; every room was of stone, cold, with damp from the sea. After classes, the alternative to the so-called recreation room was a visit to the little Cornish village of Anthony, which consisted of the usual pub, church, school and post office, and a few fishermen’s cottages. There were just 12 men and women taking the course. We were given extensive training in dealing with mustard, phosgene, chlorine, and Lewisite gases, and tested with each one, so that we would immediately recognize the odor. Apparently one NCO was being sent there from each company.
London at this time was off limits to all service personnel, except those required there, or residents on leave; the railway authorities strictly enforced this rule, and all passes had to state the business of the bearer and her destination. On one occasion I was detailed to take an escort and bring back an ATS private who had reached as far as Portsmouth before the MPs picked her up. We spent the night at the MP Barracks, and I was shocked at the devastation in that naval port. When we returned with the deserter, we had to be witnesses at her court martial at the Higher Barracks. There were of course some of us who were never meant to be soldiers! They embarrassed us, especially with their behavior towards the foreign troops in our midst. When we joined the Army in 1938, we had to produce two references to be accepted. It was with disgust that we realized with the advent of the conscripts, our organization had lost the good name that we had worked so hard to establish. The number of charges grew, and the duties of the orderly NCO became increasingly difficult. It was my unpleasant duty on one occasion to put one of my own cooks on neglect of duty and absent without leave charge, she having been gone for two days. The MPs found out she had gone to another town for the weekend with an American soldier.
The camps around Exeter were now filled with the U.S. Army, and we saw very little else on the streets. Even the Higher Barracks, for the first time in its existence, was being used by a foreign service, and Americans were training all over the south of England. There were mock land-sea battles, practice landings; in fact, one village was removed entirely for battle practice! The ATS training camps were running to full capacity; our numbers now exceeded half a million.
My next assignment was to take over at the barracks of "A" Company at a Manston Terrace house, consisting of 50 clerks, two sergeants and the sergeant major. My staff included two cooks and an orderly. This was a very large house, set in a very pleasant garden, and we all enjoyed the pleasure of the shade trees. Among our joys was a ginger cat named Marmalade who dined on numerous mice. The house was farther from the city centre, so we went out in pairs on the dark nights, on a date, so we weren’t alone.
It was becoming increasingly obvious at this time that we were being encouraged to go out with the American troops. The American Red Cross made us very welcome at their canteen, and we made dates there, for different things. We played table tennis, darts, and went to the movies. All this against the wishes of many older people. I was always treated politely by these men. It was said they had low moral standards and were careless of good manners, but I can certainly say that I was always treated with good manners and had no reason to refuse a second date. In my years in the Army, working with men constantly, I feel that I was a good judge of character. There were some stories of rape and even murder, but times were violent, and each of us lived with the possibility of sudden death. I was always treated with courtesy, though the friendships were brief.
The hospital at Exminster changed hands. A new American unit moved in, the 110th Station Hospital. This event, seemingly insignificant at the time, changed my whole life. Among these men was a Pfc. From New York State, a handsome young man with dark hair and gentle brown eyes. We were introduced by a friend in the Elephant Hotel. That evening he walked me back to the barracks in the company of another couple; we all met again to celebrate New Year’s Eve. After that I never made a date with anyone else. We were married a year later, on Dec. 11, 1943. We were both 23 years old.
After a period of duty at Manston, I was sent again to Rowancroft. It seemed throughout my whole service, I was drawn back to this old house. This house bore an air of tension and foreboding at this time. Shortly before my arrival, a member of the company (a "swinger" in today’s idiom) had been murdered there by an American soldier. She had been taking this man for all she could get, though she was married to a British officer who was overseas. The woman kept an apartment in Plymouth, which was open house to many men.
This soldier, following her, stole into the house, and stabbed her to death on the stairs. The terrified NCO on duty found her when she did "rounds" for lights out. She called the MPs, who put her in a bathtub until the ambulance came; the stair carpet was soaked with blood.
Shortly after this, I was chosen for the honour of representing "A" Company at the fifth anniversary of the ATS to be held in London. One or more representatives was sent from every unit in England, Scotland and Northern Ireland. When we reached London, we were billeted in a very large building, which in peacetime had been a hotel for a large store’s employees. It was named Warwickshire House, and was located on Cheney Street, near the Tottenham Court Road. The building had one peculiarity: There was only half – the other half had been sliced off by an air raid! We drilled for many hours a day at the parade ground of the Coldstream Guards at Chelsea Barracks, traveling there every morning by the underground. We had no other duties, and the quarters were excellent, just like a hotel. Since our evenings were free, we visited service clubs, and did some shopping.
The raids on London were very few now. Our Allied forces were keeping the enemy busy everywhere. When we had practiced drill for a week, we were considered fit for the great day. Word came down that we were to pass in review before the Queen. The ATS had its own band, complete with pipes.
The day dawned clear and sunny. We were all very excited. We looked our best. The new tunics fit very well, and our brass was shining. (Before we left Exeter, my officer spotted my fiancé’s American button on my tunic and had me remove it, so I lost a bet!) The parade was very impressive. There were 5,000 of us, all veterans of five years’ service. We marched to several bands besides our own, through all the main streets, on our way to Westminster Abbey, where a Thanksgiving Service was conducted by Canon Rev. Alan Don. I still have the programme. It was the largest parade in which the ATS ever marched together, Oct. 17, 1943.
On my return to Exeter, I was informed that my application for overseas duty was accepted. It had been submitted a long time ago and rejected because I was too young. I was no longer eager to go. I had made plans to be married at the end of the year. As long as my fiancé was in England, I wanted to stay. I was transferred to Nancherrow, another ATS hostel. This was my favourite posting. The house was very near the city centre. By this time, there were other women there engaged to Americans, and we had a lot in common. After my marriage in December, I was allowed sleeping out passes.
For the marriage, there was a great deal of red tape to be negotiated, from both services, before permission to marry was granted; there had to be an investigation of both of our families. Finally everyone was satisfied, and we were married in a simple ceremony at a Registry Office. Even my wedding ring was standard wartime issue; all the gold was needed for the country’s use. I am still wearing it. It won’t come off now.
We were thankful to have some time together before war separated us. We had planned to be married in November, but my husband had appendicitis. Fortunately, I was given a long marriage leave.
Nancherrow was a small mess and easy to run. While I was there we were engaged in an invasion exercise, in cooperation with the other British forces in the area. We felt very conspicuous marching through the streets in all the paraphernalia of war. We set up emergency housing in an old Pay Corps Office block. We built a camp kitchen and fed all the "defenders," and there were gas drills, with planes spraying red "gas." All who were touched by it, we put through complete decontamination procedures.
It was quite an experience, trying to cook a meal on a field kitchen while wearing a respirator.
The last posting I had with the company was at the house on Manston Terrace. I had never really liked the idea of being attached to the Pay Corps, and an incident that occurred during the awful air raid was shocking. A number of those men were detailed to a Fire Picket at the Cathedral, with the ATS, but when the bombs started falling these men ran, and left the women to put out the incendiaries. When the opportunity presented itself, I made the attempt to transfer.
During an inspection of my facilities, a high-ranking officer was impressed, and made a commendation to the Catering Corps at Aldershot. I was soon sent to the Officers School at Camberly in Kent. I was given a test for the corps school at Aldershot. I passed this test and was sent to a huge complex of buildings and barrack blocks which is Aldershot. As usual, no one met me. I had to find my way in the labyrinth of roads that went off in every direction for miles. I had to find someone in authority and report. I was beginning to hate it already. I had heard my father talk of Aldershot, but I had no idea how huge it was. I had grown soft in Exeter; I had forgotten how confusing a large garrison was. This was a terrible start. I feared I would get lost and trudge for miles, dragging all that kit and equipment along with me! I had reached the perimeter, near another camp, and the guard post, where the sentry gave me instructions. I finally found my barrack block, handed in my papers, found the showers, and went to bed. I was too tired to look for a mess hall. Some other people arrived in the night, so we looked for breakfast together.
In the morning we were given an outline of the programme by a Quartermaster Sergeant Instructor (QMSI). The course would be grueling, we were told, and would last six weeks. We would be taught to cook on everything that the Army utilized for the purpose, from the petrol blowers of the desert to the steam and burnell ovens of the modern cookhouse. We were to cover the cooking of everything, in theory and practice, from a 20-pint pail of tea to an officers’ banquet. Some morning we would be required to be on duty at 4 a.m. This was winter, and the mornings were pitch dark. I was miserable. I was the unlucky one to be first to get this detail. I had to light a fire at both ends of a six-oven hollow range, out under the winter sky, and have sufficient heat for breakfast to be ready by 6:30 a.m. The first thing I did was to have a good cry!
Grimly determined, I got paper, and dry twigs, and small pieces of coal. I kept lighting and lighting until the twigs caught. I kept carrying torch-like twigs to the other end, finally lighting the coals, which I pushed up through the hollow ovens, with a long poker, until the fire was the whole length.
Of course, my fatigue dress was black, and so were my face and hands, with a mixture of coal dust and tears. By the time the others came to cook breakfast, I was exasperated, almost to the point of hysteria, but I had a hot range. The absence of the usual stokers, the QMSI said, was to teach us independence.
The course could easily have been termed an endurance test, and the discipline was very rigid. At the end of the first week, we were given the opportunity to resign; if we decided to stay, we must finish the whole course. I resigned.
The town of Aldershot seemed much like an extension of the garrison. Everywhere was overcrowded with khaki; even some of the civilians worked in the camps. I was not interested in forming any attachments. The one time I did visit the town, I was afraid of getting lost and missing the truck back. The penalties for returning late were very stiff. On a training programme, there was no rank considered. We were on detached service, and liable for a pay stoppage or general punishment.
I was relieved to be on the train, and hoped I had seen the last of Aldershot. After the journey back to Exeter, I discovered that the transfer which I had once applied for had been processed. There was an opening for my rank at Bulford, also on Salisbury Plain. I was sent for medical inspection, which is customary when leaving a company permanently. I also went through a kit inspection, and received replacement clothing, including a new uniform. I was then issued new orders. Before going to Bulford, I was to report to Watchet, in Somerset, for temporary replacement duty at an ack ack station on the Bristol Channel. I arrived at the tiny station, with no one in sight. I asked directions to the camp from a porter, who then discovered that my kit had been left on the train. Actually, I was glad I didn’t have to carry it all the two miles to the camp. I finally arrived on the base; there being no sentry at the gate, I had to search for the ATS quarters. When I finally found the Orderly officer, to whom I reported, she seemed quite vague; apparently they weren’t expecting me!
This was the most disorganized camp I had ever seen. There was an acute shortage of cooks. The personnel were all ack ack technicians. I had been sent to replace the corporal running the sergeants’ mess, 60 strong, mixed sexes, of course, as all ack ack units were. We were quartered in comfortable furnished nissen huts. There were even curtains at the windows. I found my roommates very friendly; they even lent me everything I needed until my kit came.
It was the first time I had eaten in a mixed mess. It was very noisy. I had NCO duty the next night. I protested that I was unfamiliar with the camp, knew no other NCO or the officers, nor even where the fire posts were. I was assured there was no need to worry, NCO duty was a joint operation here! I found my male counterpart, who was quite helpful (in the artillery, a corporal is called a bombardier). To me, the location of the different huts were unfamiliar. I could easily have found myself in the men’s huts for bed check! Fortunately, there was no trouble that night. One private was obviously absent. I noted it on my report, but I heard nothing regarding a charge. A most unusual chapter.
My duty at this camp was, fortunately, of short duration. I took the opportunity to take the truck into Taunton. Some friends came from Exeter to visit me. There were U.S. troops at the barracks there, where long ago I had had a trade test. The village of Watchet was still recovering from an influx of troops. These people didn’t even like the summer visitors, and there was very little in the way of entertainment there: a small canteen, up a steep flight of wooden stairs, run by the church; the inevitable pub; and a muddy beach.
I was relieved when I received orders to proceed to Bulford. To my surprise, I had been posted to the Salisbury Plain District H.Q., the Generals’ Mess. This is one of the showplaces of the Army. It had previously been used as the training school for Officers’ Mess cooks. The Mess was run by a QMSI, who was my immediate superior. I had two assistant cooks, and two male orderlies. The kitchen, prep rooms and stores were all white tile with stainless steel. The floor was of smooth red brick. The menus were as imaginative as in any good hotel. It was a pleasure to cook with the newest equipment available. The staff worked in two shifts. I took charge of one and the QMSI the other. Having been a chef in a London hotel, she could be quite a tyrant. The staff was fortunate enough to take meals in the mess, and it was a revelation. Sometimes there were strawberries and grapefruit, a pre-war memory. Of course the officers’ mess bills were tremendous, so much was bought from their PRI Fund that they all paid into. This was the mess where all officers of the Supreme Command met, also the top generals.
The ATS administration company was spread all over the base. The platoon to which I belonged was quartered in the former married quarters, quite near the mess, and some were living in barracks across the road. The ATS officers were there too, at Haig House. I also worked there sometimes as a relief NCO. There was just a NAFFI (Navy Army and Air Force Institute) canteen at the Main Gate; these were to be found at most bases.
I spent my leisure hours at the quarters of an R.E. sergeant and his wife, who was an ATS corporal. Bulford was a permanent garrison, like many on the Plain, and had for its neighbours Tidworth, Larkhill, Aldershot, and the RAF station at Amesbury. The bus service was good into Salisbury, so we went in to the movies. The lovely Cathedral as we visited was very impressive, having the tallest spire in England. The city, although surrounded by military bases, was never hit. The entertainment facilities were crowded by troops of all the Allies. My roommate and I visited Stonehenge, those mysterious stones, said to be of Druid origin, where they conducted many rites at the Solstice and Equinox. The atmosphere around the lichen covered altar stones is forbidding. One can imagine the human sacrifices done there.
Although we were in the midst of war, it was possible to enjoy nature’s beauty there on the plain. The morning and evening were loud with the song of the famous larks, and evenings with their gorgeous sunsets were a pleasure free for all to enjoy. On my walk to my friend’s home in the evening, I would watch the tiny birds, singing as they winged their way upwards into infinity. The time was early summer, and it seemed in that peaceful place that nothing could be wrong with our world, up here among the rolling plains. The worst air raids had been stopped in the cities. Our forces were keeping the enemy busy elsewhere. The Buzz Bombs had stopped spreading their misery by then. The V1 and V2 rockets were meant to terrorize the population, but the Nazi bases had now been destroyed. It was estimated that 300 V1s fell on England in two months, most of them on London, Dover and the Kentish farmlands, where all the market gardens were. These rockets were unique in their flight; they came chugging along through the sky; only when they became silent did the danger begin. They fell immediately and exploded, killing and maiming.
By this time the news reels were showing the horrors of the concentration camps discovered by the Allies; unbelievable atrocities were revealed. My husband was among the liberation forces. The only communications between us were long delayed, and censored. He had been transferred to the 134th Infantry, as a medic, and went through the whole campaign with them. He was at Bastogne during that terrible December of 1944 and was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge, where the regiment was foundering in the deep snow. The dogged determination of these men to hold their position was written up in Yank magazine at the time.
A large percentage of everything we ate and used was brought across the seas, at very great risk to the convoys, which were constantly attacked by German U Boats. The brave men of the Navy and Merchant Marine fought valiantly to keep the supply lines open. My cousin who had been here on leave was lost in the Java sea when his ship, HMS Neptune, was torpedoed. He was only 21, and his parents’ only child. For several months after his death, our grief was periodically renewed by the arrival of letters he had written.
On a more cheerful note, we celebrated VE Day in May 1945, when the war finally ended. There was dancing in the streets, and flags flying everywhere; long tables were set up in the streets of our ruined cities, laden with more food than many had seen in one place for years. Even the black marketeers dug out some goodies for the children, who had been so long away from their homes. People who were complete strangers ate and laughed and cried together. The churches were full of people giving thanks. Every kind of uniform was seen, and the World War I veterans brought out their medals. With great pleasure, people made huge bonfires of the blackout curtains and gas masks. It was a time of parades, and band concerts, and rejoicing.
Those of us in the Army were looking at the Order boards every day to welcome the news of our discharge dates. It didn’t seem possible that I had been in uniform for seven years. After that length of service, I had been given the choice of discharge or reenlistment. I did not want to work in a factory or on the land, so I reenlisted. In the beginning of June my rotation number was posted; the Army tried to persuade me to sign on for two more years, to the Occupation Force, but the war in Europe was over and my husband’s 35th Division had returned to England. We were waiting to see if he would be sent home for discharge, or to the Pacific. Fortunately he was given leave until he would be sailing on the Queen Mary. He was therefore able to accompany me when I was sent to Taunton to receive my discharge June 23, 1945. We were given lunch at this camp, and I was issued with a civilian ration book and clothing coupons. I was also given my pay, and a book to present at the Post Office, where I was to receive weekly payments for two months after discharge. The feeling was strange, to be a civilian again, after so long. I knew I would miss the Army’s uncomplicated existence once the novelty had worn off. For the civilians every phase of existence was involved with queues, everything was in short supply, and I found it difficult to adjust.
Financially I was secure, living on my U.S. Army allotment. My husband sailed for New York, and I had to wait for space to be available for me to follow him.
Last year, we returned together to England. It was our fortieth wedding anniversary (1973). We decided on the anniversary of D-Day, we would visit some of the places where we had served.
At Rowancroft, I found a new dormitory for students of the University. The old house was still in use, but all the trees and shady walks were gone; now it was rolling lawns and tennis courts. Manston Terrace was also changed; the house we used had been annexed to the Exeter School, a private school for boys. Nencherrow was again a private home, and the Richmond Hotel was an apartment house.
Exeter had been rebuilt on modern lines. Fortunately the ancient buildings that had survived had been carefully preserved. One of the attractive old Tudor houses had been carefully relocated, to enable a street to be rebuilt; also exposed now were sections of the old sandstone city wall. They also discovered the first bridge over the river Exe, hidden before under a church. The white stone of the glorious Cathedral had been carefully cleaned, and stood out again, white in the moonlight.
I was able to visit most of the cities which had been badly damaged in the "spite" raids. In Canterbury the ancient city wall had been exposed, but the centre of town was dominated by a McDonald’s! The ancient Cathedral was still beautiful; a class from Oxford was holding their graduation ceremony there, in the lofty nave.
The rebuilt sea front at Dover was a pleasant sight, with its majestic white cliff and the invincible castle to reassure us. There was a beautiful flower garden where the ambulances had met the brave men returning, in defeat, from Dunkirk. There is a very impressive monument marking the spot where the ships sailed on that futile mission; and many successful ones.
My husband and I also visited Blenheim Castle, and saw the room in which Churchill was born, and visited his grave, at Bladen churchyard. At Tavistock we climbed the steep hill to the house that was Southern Command H.Q., now a private home. We also bought fruit at the old Pannier market.
The camp at Plympton, where I helped feed hundreds, is now a depot of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps; no ghosts are there in disorder and chaos as we saw all those years ago. There are no uniforms seen on Exeter’s streets now. There is now the Women’s Royal Army Corps, only stationed at permanent bases. No troops are stationed at Exeter. The Devonshire Regiment no longer exists; it is now amalgamated with the Dorsets. The Regimental Museum was well worth a visit, though. It contains battle flags of the ages, drums, trophies, citations, and the uniforms through the ages. Relics of its centuries of service in India; its cap badge was the star of India. These beautiful examples of the silversmiths, through the ages, are relics of a proud service for centuries keeping watch over the Empire.
The very idea of a female soldier would have been blasphemous to these men. But our school books taught us the story of Queen Boadicea, of the Icini tribe of Ancient Britons. This indomitable lady rallied the tribes of East Anglia in A.D. 61, and cut the crack Roman Legions down, killing thousands, at Londondinium, which we now call London.
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Stories 
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