Letter From a Fiji Girl in Wartime England

WE are still patiently awaiting the invasion, which I am convinced will never come. The raids are very mild —no “blitz” for ages.

Odd bombs continue to be dropped here and there, but no one pays much at tention. “Oh yes,” they say, “Chesham Place got it.” Or “they tried to get Lam beth Bridge, but missed it”; and so on.

It’s vaguely irritating, that’s all.

Extraordinary how one’s mental atti tude changes. How one used to get stewed up over the devastated East End. for instance, though houses there are built of matchwood and fifth-rate brickwork, and the slightest bit of blast pushes them all into the street. Now, as long as nothing actually drops near me or the people who matter to me, I don’t give a damn.

Sounds callous, but that’s life, in war time. By the time you have seen a few bits and pieces of what were living people, you just don’t care.

Something came over to-day and did some dive-bombing. I gazed out of the window, thinking it was one of ours, un til I saw some swastikas around, so I withdrew hurriedly.

AFTER eighteen months in an under ground ambulance station, my eyes began to trouble me; and, with the war in London temporarily at a stand still, I got myself a job as transport driver at an aerodrome of the ATA (Air Transport Auxiliary).

I stayed at the ambulance station until it was time to catch the train; when, suddenly, I remembered something left behind in the flat. That very morning, the RE’s had started digging out a 11ton delayed-action bomb nearby (it had been there 6 months already).

An immense area was roped off. It was too maddening. Every time I thought I had evaded the policemen, they would just catch me, plant themselves in the middle of the road and say: “You can’t do that there ’ere, miss!”

At last, I found one who was more sympathetic and, after much explaining and much fluttering of eyelashes, he said: “Alright, miss, I haven’t seen you—if anyone stops you, remember, haven’t seen you!”

The work of the AT A consists of de livering completed aircraft from the factories to the RAF operational aero dromes. Our “taxi” aircraft fill up with pilots in the a.m., and dump them one by one at the x various factory airfields, where they pick up the new machines to fly them to their ultimate destination.

The pilots are then collected again by the “taxi”; and if anyone gets stranded not far from , or the “taxi” is full, I leap in my hearse and fetch them. In this way I have to remain at the aero drome until the last pilot is in. Then I am driven in turn by the other driver (male) to my billet in the village.

My uniform (if it comes—l filled in the forms four weeks ago and now live in hopes) is quite smart. Dark blue coat cut like a man’s military tunic, and skirt and pale blue shirt and tie. I am not entitled to wear wings, so had to content myself with ATA in gold on pocket and forage cap—otherwise I fear I might look too much like a French railway porter.

AT first, there was too little to do; but now I like it better. In addition to being driver, I have been appointed assistant medical orderly. My first case was an engineer, with three fingers

broken by a propeller blade. I had to splint and tie it up—everything went with a swing and he is doing fine. I am also in charge of the bar—l can pour a pretty glass of ale but never take anything myself.

Then the manageress of the pilots’ mess resigned, and I took over until a new one is found. There are over 50 people to cater for, which with every thing rationed and nothing obtainable in this town, takes some doing. There are not many vegetables, no tinned or dried fruit (fresh fruit has been long non existent) so puddings are a headache.

People here have to queue up, the scarcity of food being more due to lack of distribution, I think, as there is al ways plenty of everything in London, though it’s expensive. And just when our staff is being doubled the meat ration is reduced by two-thirds. I shall have my job cut out to feed our brave bird-men.

AT times it’s quite amusing, the re quests and questions with which the pilots come to me. One asks if I could put some fresh elastic in his flying helmet, the old one being perished? Yes, I could.

Another has left his ration-book some where —could I ring up and have it send to him? I’ll do that.

Someone else wants his fiancee to visit him; can she spend the day at the aerodrome whilst he is out flying? No, certainly not! Sort of universal aunt— what? But I enjoy it.

However, on the whole, I don’t feel that I do very much useful work, although transport drivers are necessary and the boys have to be fed.

To-day, for instance, was really more play than work. It was lovely and sunny

and warm and, my uniform still not de livered, I put on a red and white pinafore frock, and sailed up to the aerodrome.

My first job was to drive some one to , a vast RAF station. The only women there are WAAF’s with their dreary uniforms, so you can imagine the chaos I created in my scarlet and white outfit.

The guards on duty nearly lost their eyes, the parachutists forgot all about their ’chutes, and senior officers had to inspect the car and be introduced. Even my fare got quite flirtatious and talked about taking a picnic basket and picking primroses on the way back!

I sat in a deckchair, in the sun, after our return, watching the boys play foot ball—a most agreeable way of serving one’s country at war!

IHAVE just returned from a visit to the metropolis. The moon was nearly full and, in anticipation of an air raid, I signed on as part-time driver at my old ambulance station, just for the night, as it’s the safest place I know of!

However, nothing happened and I shopped, lunched, dined, drank and danced for three days without stopping and then returned here, quite exhausted, but feeling it was worth it.

I now think it's time I went abroad.

When in London next, I am going to the HQ of the WAAF’s to see can they send me out to the Far East or some where. Then, should peace break out, I would be more than half-way home to Fiji!