Doris' Story

My story starts right at the beginning of the war, not a blockbuster, a very ordinary young woman of London. My sweetheart and I decided on a reall ygood night out before he went into the R.A.F. To go all posh. We went to the Hippodrome later becam Talk of the Town, to see a show called Black Velvet. Last posh bit was a taxi home. It was a pea-souper, foggy night. We had an accident at the corner of Warrick Way, Street then, and Wilton Road. Banged into lampost and I landed up in the new Westminster Hopspital opened in 1939. My head had hit the ash-tray rather heavily and I still have got the scar to show for it. By 1940 I had got compensation and we decided to buy a motorbike so that George could get home more quickly and more often from Cirencester where he had been posted.

On 24th August we got married. Everyone goes on about raids starting on 7th September but there was a small one on the afternoon of the 24th and a certain amount of damage done that night. We had arranged to stay that night at the Strand Palace Hotel -- and -- we spent most of it in their Air Raid Shelter! On the 15th September George was killed! I stayed with my parents at 7 Cornwall Street - mostly praying for a bomb or a bit of shrapnel to get me. How selfish can you get? We were bombed out of there, and then out of 38 Lupus Street back to a patched up Cornwall Street (where Pimlico Comprehensive is now) in 1941. In Cornwall I had been darning my stockings and had to clamber about over broken glass without anything on my feet. In Lupus Street my father was blown across the room where he had gone to make a cuppa while it seemed quiet. It did not kill him but affected his lungs so badly it led to his early death, and I can see him now carefully clearing 2 inches of soot from the bowl of sugar (like gold) he had been going to use.

I had joined the Women's Voluntary Service, first did a bit of canteen work, then helping giving out clothes after raids - one lady I had to walk around to measure. Then later was sent to the Gordon Hospital which was then acting as a hostel for the army, where I met Les Terry, who was in the Royal Army Service Corps and at the War Office. No-one knew if they'd be around tomorrow and so things moved swiftly. I joined the W.A.A.F.s and also married Les.

Being in the Services changed us. We were not "daughter of" or "wife of" or "mother of". I was Doris Terry - 2004782 - me. It gave one confidence. For the first time I was a person in my own right. I had the same say as the fellows, my views were listened to, we did the same jobs. This is why things changed when the war ended.

Then after square bashing at Bridgenorth, training as Teleprinter at Cranwell, (lots of excitement, hard times and fun) though at first, there were the difficulties of community service life - an utter change for most of us, things like the FFI (Free From Infection)- an unprintable embarrassment. Then I became a Leading Aircraftswoman - LACW Teleprinter Operator and working on shifts I was able to hitch lifts back to London. You very soon learned to hitch lifts only with lorry drivers - not small cars. The lorry drivers treated you well, even also to a cup of char and a wad (cake), but of course, inevitably, I got caught and A.W.O.L - Absent Without Leave was a serious charge and I had to think quickly. The story I made up - thought I was pregnant and just HAD to see my husband. Of course examination ordered -and I WAS! My discharge came through in August. Les went to Italy , then on to Africa. His ship was hit but he was OK and Michael was born 18th December 1942, a month early, weighing just 4lb, then, that was very dodgy. So I didn't go to any shows or cinemas, I concentrated, with the help of my parents, on keeping this frail little scrap alive and progressing. We had the two top rooms in 7 Cornwall Street, patchy, but a roof. Michael did his best not to take his milk, or later his food and had a lorra lorra chest trouble. At first I wasn't allowed to bath him, just rub gently with oil, take most of the three hours (3 hourly feeds, not 4) to get something dopwn him and cleared ready for next feed. Later when he was being bathed - whatever time I decided to do so to beat the bombs, the warning would go and as best we could we got down to the shelter in the coal shelter under the pavement, which of course had been all cleared out. It was no surprise that his first word was "bang" not "dad", coz of course you tried to laugh as you hurried down, saying like "ooh bang" "what a bang"

You lived for letters. You tried to carry on as normal as possible. Queued and cooked what you could get. I quite liked powdered egg and milk. The radio was a big big help. Before his Dad got home, Michael was in love with Petula Clarke. He claims that his first memory was seeing all our planes going over to the really big raid. You showed your little one photos of his Dad and let him kiss the photo "Goodnight Daddy", but of course he was three years old before his dad did come home. The men who came home, at best, were not the chaps who had gone away, and this was one real problem that many, many experienced. There had been no bonding from birth, the child had had all his Mum's love and attention, the fellow had had it before he went. It certainly wasn't one of the biggest problems of course, just one of the hundreds of ripples that are caused by war, but it lasted and grew, and didn't help one iota to making life good. Tons were worse, where men were disabled physically, or personalities changed completely.

On V.E. night though, I went out - Michael perched on my shoulders with my Mum and Dad to Trafalgar Square, and gradually down the Mall to the Palace, so enormously happy it was over - no thought that our problems certainly were not over by a long chalk. War does NO good.

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