Joyce's War (3 page)

March 19th 1940

I leave 31 Prince’s Drive, Colwyn Bay,
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for the last time I think. Cousin Gwen nobly comes up to London with me. We fearfully approach Millbank
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and I go up to be medically examined. This is a very cursory business and I am passed fit. I am given a sheet of paper on which is an address of my billet, 92 Cromwell Road, SW7. It conveys nothing to me at this time but I become extremely well acquainted with it as the months pass. Gwen and I go to Emlyn Williams’
The Light of Heart
and enjoyed it thoroughly. The next night we see Edith Evans in
Cousin Muriel
and afterwards I see Gwen off at Euston. A dreary spot to farewell anyone, at midnight, among the debris and boxes that always seem to collect there. As it happened it had to be done all over again, some weeks later, but that is another story.

The following five weeks were almost entirely given over to shopping and fitting and altering. Harrods saw us almost every day and must have been as tired of us as we were of them at the end of it all. There were bi-weekly visits to Millbank
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, to report, but in all that time we had nothing definite to do. There were theatres of course and Sadlers Wells – ballet and opera and the Old Vic with Gielgud in
King Lear.

April 28th 1940

We left London for Waterloo and Southampton and went on board at once, but anchored off the Isle of Wight in rather thick fog until we picked up a convoy sometime after midnight. We went to bed on bare mattresses and used our own military blankets and a rug. Next morning found us nearing the French coast and we got into Cherbourg about 10am. This was our first introduction to a real war atmosphere. Many thousands of troops were disembarking, all very cheerful, khaki predominately as to colour, except for a smattering of grey and red, twelve QAIMNS(R) and all – we hoped – bound east. We toured the town, not a very big one, with the usual market square. We even had our coiffures done, which was a treat, considering how little English the French knew and how little French we knew and remembered. We had lunch and dinner at the Casino – omelettes for both meals and the most delicious French bread and butter. We got on our train about 10pm, satisfied that we were actively on the last stages of our journey to Palestine.

But it was not to be so – we were told at about 6pm that we must detrain at Le Mans and remain there about 24 hours, possibly more, as Mussolini had just made a speech which boded ill for the future action of Italy. We left the train at 6.30am and, climbing into a very high motor lorry, we were driven some miles into the town of Le Mans, which was fairly large, with a lovely cathedral and rather nice square with pleasant gardens. We were taken to the best hotel – De Paris – and given coffee and croissants and allotted bedrooms. Bill Williams, my Australian colleague, and I found ourselves on the fourth floor and fell into bed thankfully, sleeping soundly. We soon heard rumours that our stay would be more lengthy than we first thought.
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The weather is perfect, warm and sunny, and the gardens are colourful with laburnum and wisteria and hawthorn blossom and the chestnut trees are ablaze with thousands of candles. We go shopping, buying always unnecessary things as one does in a strange town; we walk out into the country along the quiet roads, passing villagers, farmers and the bright French children who often air their English by greeting us with good morning or afternoon. We are delighted and in turn try out our rusty French on them, often with doubtful success. We managed to procure some cider at one place and drink it at leisure under the chestnut trees in the garden while the flowers drop down into our glasses. We visit the various churches, some of them very old and partially restored. There was one, most lovely, L’Eglise de la Visitation, in the square, quite small and very light inside. We sometimes went in and just sat there, for the peace of it all. Mona and I had a delightful day at Beaumont, about 30 kilometres out of Le Mans. It was just a village with a river and the inevitable bridges, but the sun was shining and we lay in the lush grass on the riverbank and ate our lunch, which consisted of croissant and camembert, gateaux and beer, nothing else liquid being attainable locally. Mona sketched the bridge and the water wheel in the summer afternoon and I read aloud from my anthology called
Peace
: quite a lovely peaceful day. Then the ride back to Le Mans, along the straight poplar lined road, with the apple trees in blossom in the fields and the hawthorn and lilies fragrant in the cottage gardens.

Tours was another memorable day. We set off like sardines in a tin, in tiny third-class carriages, with country folk and French hoi polloi and babies tightly jammed together. I stood most of the way and watched the countryside pass by, the eternal poplars and quiet winding roads, sometimes the bed of a river, a chateau – all rather reminiscent of our last summer’s holiday. Then Tours – a large, well set out town with fine buildings. We did ourselves well at lunch at Hotel de l’Univers. Then to the cathedral: 12th century, very fine indeed, with two bell towers. We climbed one tower, over 300 steps, and surveyed the surrounding countryside: the Loire a broad full stream spanned by several bridges, the country rather flat but beautifully green. Chestnuts in flower wherever we looked. We crossed the river later and poked about the old quarter of the town which was most interesting. We went back to Le Mans in the golden evening and, as we approached the town, we saw the large aerodrome floodlit, which struck us as strange when everything was supposed to be blacked out. Everywhere we went we found some change because of the war – patisseries and gateaux were only sold on three days of the week; meat, spirits and cider on other days.

We were allowed Ff35 messing allowance per day, but this didn’t cover our meals. We rarely had breakfast and often had lunch or dinner in our rooms. This usually consisted of rolls or croissant and butter and cheese, followed by gateaux or fruit and assisted by cider or some light wine such as burgundy. The occasional meal, which came to about Ff20, we had at the De Paris or Grubères in the square, or latterly at the Moderne
.
A fortnight passed pleasantly enough, in this fashion, and after many rumours, we had orders to depart in a fortnight. We set out for the station some miles out of town – a siding really – in the closed ambulance. We were two to a carriage affair and fairly comfortable. We were on our way to Marseilles and Palestine – as we hoped this time. It was a delightful journey south and very leisurely. We took two days and two nights, passing through large towns and tiny villages. Tours, Peret-le-Morial and Bourges.

We crawled into Marseilles after an early breakfast – and were taken into the town by bus with our hand luggage and billeted at the hotel Louvre de la Paix, a very superb hotel in the Canabière. We had very pleasant bedrooms and for a while we lived in very luxurious surroundings. The meals were quite nice in the grand French manner; however I got rather tired of them in the last two days – too rich I suppose. We visited Notre Dame, with its superb view over the harbour and town. Palais Longchamps was rather fine – built by Louis Napoleon (I think), that period anyway. St Victor Abbey was most lovely. Part of it dated back BC and was, we were told, the site of a pagan temple. Political prisoners were kept in the underground crypts during the time of the revolution. Small French children were being taught their catechisms in the church itself, with one eye on us and one on the benign old priest.

At the end of the week we had orders to pack up once again and return to England. Since we had arrived in France, Norway had fallen and later Holland and Belgium. The Germans were actually on French soil in the north and the situation, according to what we could glean from translations of the French newspapers, was ‘confused’. Something had apparently gone wrong and we were heading back to England.
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It was not so comfortable on the return journey, four to the carriage instead of two – Williams, Stewart, Walker and I. We tried lying down the first night but reconsidered it the second night and sat up instead. The carriages were fearfully congested and we were all in a thoroughly bad temper with ourselves and everyone else. The meals on the train consisted of bully beef done in various ways – fried for breakfast; stewed for dinner and in sandwiches for supper. The cooks, ordinary Tommies who had probably never boiled an egg in ordinary life, did nobly in the circumstances and usually we did full justice to their efforts.

We pulled into Cherbourg about 10am. How different it was now, from when we left it only a month before. It was a quiet undefended port before, now there were troops everywhere, ammunition dumps, bombs, guns, barbed-wire entanglements, planes in the sky, and ships in the bay. We were taken in a bus under guard to the Casino for breakfast. Everyone looked so sad and subdued – they had seemed so happy before when we passed through on our way south. We ate nearly cold omelettes and coffee and departed for the ship. There were crowds on the wharf: troops, refugees, two QAs, Dutch soldiers; luggage going up at either end, the endless tramp of marching feet, buzzing of planes, army lorries coming and going, endless activity. This went on for probably three hours and then we were underway, with dirty lifebelts strapped under our chins. We had lunch and I went to bed in order to get rid of the headache accumulated over two days of train travelling.

When I awoke we were nearly at Southampton. I am told we were chased by submarines and that we had a spy on board and would not be allowed ashore until morning. It is rather disgusting to be so near England and to have to remain on board. We went through customs in the morning, duly, and were told that we are to go on leave until we hear from the War Office. This piece of news suits us all admirably. I ask Mona to come with me to Wales, and so it is arranged. So strange and unreal to be on the train bound for London again when, only four weeks ago, we felt we had left it for the duration of the war. Mona had sent a wire to her friends to tell them that we were coming. We had our heavy luggage sent to 92 Cromwell Road as of old and, very weary and dirty, we stayed with friends at number 18, where we came in for a good deal of ragging about our frustrated attempts at going east! This was Saturday and on Monday we left for Wales. I had rung Miss John and Mali previously and Mali had insisted on our staying with them in Deganwy. Lovely to be setting off for Cymru once again; I decide to do what I have long meant to do since I first arrived – climb Snowdon. We had ten lovely days in Wales, most of them spent with the Williamses in Deganwy, but we managed to have two days in Ruthin at the end with my cousins Mabel and Bert.

I shan’t write any details here except that we climbed Snowdon – Mali, Gwerfyl, Mona and I – and saw that enchanting panorama of hills and lakes and valleys at our feet, in unforgettable grandeur. We went to Bodnant one afternoon which was most lovely with azaleas, rhododendrons, laburnum and wisteria – all at their best. One day in Ruthin stood out – Mona and I left early, taking lunch with us, walked up the Bwlch and over to the hills towards Llanarmon. We lay there for hours; it was so entirely remote and peaceful. The Vale of Clwyd will always remain one of the loveliest spots on earth to me. Then there were two visits to Port Meirion, one with Gwen and Mona on a wet and dreary afternoon and the other in blazing sunshine, the tide in, and then a mad dash through the mountains, Aberglaslyn, Llyn Cwellyn, Beddgelert, in the too glorious evening to catch the bus to Caernarfon. But this is another story …

June 5th 1940

We are bound for London once again, having had orders to report to Millbank. The orders infer that we shall be leaving very shortly for the Middle East. We hastily re-pack our trunks and then as the days and weeks go by, we gradually have almost everything out of them again and, because it is so hot in London and we are so tired of wearing our grey suits, we thankfully get back into mufti again. Nothing very interesting occurs as war continues sporadically; we find ourselves down in the front hall one night, as the result of an air raid signal, but not again. There are the usual theatres:
The Tempest
, very beautifully done at the Old Vic, and some more opera and ballet at Sadlers Wells.

The predominating feeling of all these weeks is lack of pay, which continues despite our efforts at composing missives to the paymaster, in turn cajoling, pleading, and threatening. We are at last given two months’ pay, and that pacifies us temporarily, but this soon goes and we get restive and sit down and write again to the paymaster. Before further combined and rather seething communications, the gentleman is moved to pay £11/7/- into my account. No one has any idea why as he owes me quite £7 in allowances. It became increasingly intriguing to us to consider how their minds work. Everyone is paid a different sum – when they are paid at all – and for no apparent reason, as we are all supposed to be either sisters or staff nurses. So it goes on, week after week. Our views on the War Office are unprintable. We occasionally agree and condescend to have tea with some misguided soul who thinks she is doing her bit for her country by entertaining his Majesty’s overseas troops and nurses. Once we rose so high as to have tea with the Countess of Clarendon and another day with the Duchess of Devonshire, which was all very illuminating one way or another. Mostly the other. All this time no letters from home at all (14 weeks). I hear through Auntie Clara that Mother has been very ill and is in hospital and so I send a cable to ask how she is and am very relieved to hear in about three days that she is almost better. With deadly monotony we report bi-weekly at Millbank, say, ‘Yes Matron’ when she calls our names and as quickly depart. We repeatedly hear rumours that we shall be going soon but ten weeks go by before anything does eventuate and then it is the same rush all over again, repacking and half the things we meant to do and buy, remain undone.

August 12th 1940

So now we pick up the threads from the start of this journal after a brief recap. I am writing on deck, on the port side, a lovely breezy morning. The sea is a deep blue, inclined to silver where the sun strikes the waves. The other ships of the convoy seem scarcely to be moving at all, but they stay with us faithfully. The only cruiser left with us goes nobly on ahead. One afternoon – I was sleeping in my cabin – before the other cruisers and destroyers left us, there was a great deal of excitement about a suspected submarine. It seems one destroyer suddenly dashed off, full steam ahead, and then dropped several depth charges. This is the only excitement so far, fortunately. The officers gave a dance on Saturday night and invited the nurses. I went to bed instead – it was too sticky inside. There was a church service yesterday afternoon. The troops stood outside in the blazing sun and listened most politely – as far as one could tell – to one of the worst sermons I’ve ever listened to. Blah! Last night there was a concert afterwards and community singing; usually the Scots element predominates at these functions because there are so many Scots on board – Scots Guards, Black Watch and so on.