"Blitzkrieg"

An Islands Girl

In London

Driving an Ambulance and Awaiting the "Blitzkrieg"

{Copied from a letter written by a Fiji girl to her mother ) DURING the day, London doesn’t se°m much different from peace-time, in spite of gas masks and signs point ing to the nearest air-raid shelter. It is only when the black-out starts that you are fully aware of the war—especially, if you have just run into a lamp post.

You can’t imagine how dark it is in the streets. All you can see are the red pin-points of light marking the islands, or tiny red crosses showing from traffic lights or the rear of vehicles. Otherwise it is as black as the inside of a cow. It takes hours to get anywhere; and when, at last, a bus looms out of the deep cavern of the street, you have to ask the conductor for his number —which is usually not the one you want.

With all the various crises, life, has become rather exciting. Trenches are dug in all the parks, commons and even those lovely little squares tucked away in odd corners of the city. Anti-aircraft guns are narked all over the town, im portant buildings are smothered in sandbags, gas-masks issued, and search lights stabbing the night.

As everybody seemed to volunteer for this or that. I also trundled off one day with the idea of getting something to drive. Which was easier said than done.

First, I looked in at the Women’s Legion, but was so overawed by the spectacle that I made a quick fade-out.

Vast numbers of most efficient-looking women were dashing about, clicking their heels and saluting each other after nearly every second word. And the uni forms—quite the most unbecoming attire the female form could ever get into.

Skirts with the flare in the wrong places, tunics ending painfully right over one’s greatest circumference, and a cap— words fail me! All in the most depress ing shade of khaki and. to put the lid on, you had to pay for it yourself.

Then volunteers were asked for the Women’s Auxiliarv Air Force. I rushed along—to fly is the dream of my life— but the office was already closed. They simply couldn’t cope with all the women wanting to join—not enough machines for the training. Wasn’t it a pity—they had the most snappy uniforms.

SO I tried the Mechanical Transport of the Women’s Legion. This was located in the War Office and. after being asked about 20 times whether I was a British subject. I mutely held up my open passport to further inquirers.

One wanted to know whether I spoke foreign languages and, after admitting a slight acouaintance with French and German I was hauled through offices, passages and staircases until at last somebody—a rather nice man—handed me a form to fill in and sign on the dotted line. Now, dotted lines always rouse my suspicion and, although by that time I felt like a complete black-out. I asked feebly, “Do I get then something to drive?”

“Most certainly not,” said the nice

man. “You will be drafted to the cen sor’s office, translating letters, etc.”

So back I went to the War Office, filled with grim determination to get a lorry, ambulance or fire-engine, if it was the last thing I ever did. After seeing another half-dozen captains and majors, I was finally sent to the Women’s Legion, in Baker Street, and from them to their headquarters in Londonderry House, where at last the right form v/as filled in and signed.

But, if you think that now I had got something to drive, just think again. The next item was an English driving license, though I held one from Fiji. Quite too humiliating, pounding about London in an old Morris with a large red L, when

I had driven for years on the planta tion, over the home-made switchback of a road where, after a few inches of rain had fallen since you left the homestead, half-an-hour ago, you wonder when, where and how you will land at the bottom of the hill, with bus and copra on top of you.

I drove beautifully for my first test, but failed, because I did not stop for a boy on a bicycle to pass by. Conse quently, I was so nervous, for the second, that I made an utter mess of my re versing into a side street. First, I climbed up the kerb, nearly dislocating a lamp post, and next, because you aren’t supposed to touch it at all, fin ished, up four feet away from the kerb.

Yet, this time, they passed me—l still wonder why, SOON, I was dashing all over London on mock air-raids, day or night, with or without gas-masks and pro tective clothing, depending on whether it’s a high explosive, persistent or non persistent gas bomb, picking up “bodies” and whisking them off to the hospital or nearest first-aid post, depending on the severity of their “injuries”.

These ambulances are great fun to drive. You have to double de-clutch up and down, as they have crash gear boxes.

The uniforms, supplied by the London County Council, are not too bad. I just tilt the tin hat at the latest angle and try to forget the black woollen stockings.

The protective clothing, all oilskins and

gum boots, are hideous to look at, but very good. My gum boots'" were size 7, the smallest the L.C.C. had in stock. As I take a 4£, during the first alarm I had to remain firmly rooted to the spot, as they dropped off at every step I tried to take. Not only that, but one hoof cov ered all three pedals in the bus!

Then, overnight, the play became deadly earnest. We assembled at our station, complete with emergency rations for 24 hours. Everything went without a hitch. Everybody was calm, got into protective clothing and stood by for instructions. All the A.R.P. stations re ceive the alarm as soon as enemy machines are sighted; but, unless it is absolutely necessary, the public are not warned now-a-days. When the sirens wailed the first few times, people hurled themselves down into trenches and shel ters, and it took hours after the all clear signal before they got sorted out again.

SINCE then, the, weeks have slipped past, and nothing has happened.

Life consist of 8 hours on and 8 hours off duty, and the strain of being always on tip-toes waiting for signals makes you sleep right through your time off. We have gone out on so many fake raids that we’re positively bored with it, and there seem to be no more ailments we can bandage our “casualties” for. We know every nook and corner of our dis trict and the next, drive about at night with the merest show of a glimmer of light from the headlamps, through autumn fogs, thick and impenetrable snow and frozen sleet, when the old bus skids about so as to make your tin hat stand on end.

The other morning, an alarm called me to the station in the early dawn. It was quite uncanny to see an odd bus or private car pulled up at the side, the streets empty, no lights or people any where. Everything deadly quiet in the half-light of the dawn, almost sinister, like a dead city.

Yet, at night, behind the black-out, life is gayer than ever, night clubs do a roaring trade, and people drop in to see each other more than they used to do.

I think it is due to the fact that they want company at any price.

Personally, I am getting rather tired of this darned war. If it would only start, or finish, or do something—but this state of waiting is really too tedi ous. However, I suppose, one must always remain on the alert, just in case the “Blitzkrieg” should take place.