displeasure; to be ticked off by a Wren who used all the vigour and language of a petty officer was intimidating, and there was a certain feminine ruthlessness about her that made them feel she would not hesitate to implement her threats.
I felt something of the same quality in her when I spent the Sunday with her and Bill, at Lymington, in April 1944. There was a forthrightness about her, a directness of speech and community of experience that was infinitely restful to men strained to the limit in those weeks before the invasion. She was obviously very good for Bill. He didn't have to put on an act for her, She would have laughed and been embarrassed if he had given her flowers, and by then he was too tired and preoccupied with his trips over to the other side to think of giving anything to anybody. It was she who produced the motor boat that day for our run down the river to the Solent. It was a little grey painted Naval boat fifteen or sixteen feet long, a fishing boat that had been taken over by the Navy, I should think. She had it at the quay by the Ship Inn when I got back from Beaulieu aerodrome at about half past ten. The WAAF driver took me to the quay and there was Bill in battledress and gumboots with his dog, and Janet Prentice in rather dirty blue serge
73
slacks, and gumboots, and a blue jersey, and a greasy duffel coat. I dismissed my car and went down to the boat.
Bill introduced me, and I shook hands with the girl. She looked me up and down smiling. 'Bill's got an oily for you' she said, 'but I don't know about your clothes. I'm afraid this boat's in a bit of a muck.' There was a pad of dirty cotton waste upon the engine casing by her side, and she wiped the thwart with it.
The uniform that I was wearing was my oldest, threadbare with much cleaning and still marked with oil stains that would not come out. 'I'll be right' I said. 'Don't bother about me.'
'I'm afraid you'll get that lovely uniform all dirty' she said. Put on the oily anyway; it may be a bit wet outside, if we go round to Keyhaven.'
'Tide's flooding and there's not much wind' Bill said. 'It won't be bad.'
She turned to crank the engine. I offered to do it for her, but she refused, making me feel that I had done the wrong thing. 'She kicks back if you're not careful' she said. 'One of the ratings broke his arm on her the other day, but she's all right when you know her. I'll do her myself.' She tickled the old carburettor, bent to the handle, and gave the heavy flywheel a vigorous heave over; she was evidently a very powerful girl. The engine began thumping away beneath the box, and she moved to the stern and cast the stern rope off and drew it in, dripping with sea water, and coiled it expertly. Bill cast off from the bow and the girl took the tiller, kicked the lever forward with her foot, and we moved off down the river.
There were no civilian boats or yachts afloat upon the South Coast at that time, but the river was full of landing craft, box-like grey, painted things of steel with ramps to let down at the bow, with diesel engines thumping away inside them to charge batteries as they lay moored bow and stern to the buoys, with soiled white ensigns drooping at the stern, with bored ratings fishing over the side and staring at us as we threaded our way past. I did not know the function or the name of any of these ships, but Janet and Bill knew them all and told me shortly what they were, and what they were
74
to do, as we chugged past. This, was the LCT Mark 4, the standard tank landing craft, British built and the most common of the lot. This, was the Mark 5, American designed and built and shipped to England on the decks of ships, an unpleasant and relatively unseaworthy little craft that would go in first in the assault, bearing the Sherman tanks that were to swim ashore, and the work tanks, the armoured vehicles RE that were to clear the beach of obstacles so that the landing craft could come in safely, and detonate the mines,
I felt something of the same quality in her when I spent the Sunday with her and Bill, at Lymington, in April 1944. There was a forthrightness about her, a directness of speech and community of experience that was infinitely restful to men strained to the limit in those weeks before the invasion. She was obviously very good for Bill. He didn't have to put on an act for her, She would have laughed and been embarrassed if he had given her flowers, and by then he was too tired and preoccupied with his trips over to the other side to think of giving anything to anybody. It was she who produced the motor boat that day for our run down the river to the Solent. It was a little grey painted Naval boat fifteen or sixteen feet long, a fishing boat that had been taken over by the Navy, I should think. She had it at the quay by the Ship Inn when I got back from Beaulieu aerodrome at about half past ten. The WAAF driver took me to the quay and there was Bill in battledress and gumboots with his dog, and Janet Prentice in rather dirty blue serge
73
slacks, and gumboots, and a blue jersey, and a greasy duffel coat. I dismissed my car and went down to the boat.
Bill introduced me, and I shook hands with the girl. She looked me up and down smiling. 'Bill's got an oily for you' she said, 'but I don't know about your clothes. I'm afraid this boat's in a bit of a muck.' There was a pad of dirty cotton waste upon the engine casing by her side, and she wiped the thwart with it.
The uniform that I was wearing was my oldest, threadbare with much cleaning and still marked with oil stains that would not come out. 'I'll be right' I said. 'Don't bother about me.'
'I'm afraid you'll get that lovely uniform all dirty' she said. Put on the oily anyway; it may be a bit wet outside, if we go round to Keyhaven.'
'Tide's flooding and there's not much wind' Bill said. 'It won't be bad.'
She turned to crank the engine. I offered to do it for her, but she refused, making me feel that I had done the wrong thing. 'She kicks back if you're not careful' she said. 'One of the ratings broke his arm on her the other day, but she's all right when you know her. I'll do her myself.' She tickled the old carburettor, bent to the handle, and gave the heavy flywheel a vigorous heave over; she was evidently a very powerful girl. The engine began thumping away beneath the box, and she moved to the stern and cast the stern rope off and drew it in, dripping with sea water, and coiled it expertly. Bill cast off from the bow and the girl took the tiller, kicked the lever forward with her foot, and we moved off down the river.
There were no civilian boats or yachts afloat upon the South Coast at that time, but the river was full of landing craft, box-like grey, painted things of steel with ramps to let down at the bow, with diesel engines thumping away inside them to charge batteries as they lay moored bow and stern to the buoys, with soiled white ensigns drooping at the stern, with bored ratings fishing over the side and staring at us as we threaded our way past. I did not know the function or the name of any of these ships, but Janet and Bill knew them all and told me shortly what they were, and what they were
74
to do, as we chugged past. This, was the LCT Mark 4, the standard tank landing craft, British built and the most common of the lot. This, was the Mark 5, American designed and built and shipped to England on the decks of ships, an unpleasant and relatively unseaworthy little craft that would go in first in the assault, bearing the Sherman tanks that were to swim ashore, and the work tanks, the armoured vehicles RE that were to clear the beach of obstacles so that the landing craft could come in safely, and detonate the mines,
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