Women at War

Women at War - Fact and Fiction by members of “Women and Words” March 2010

Athena Goddess of War Val Horner

My name is Athena. I am known as the Goddess of War. Oh don’t turn away, with that look of disdain tinged with fear, at the thought of a female presiding over the dogs of war, what about Nike, Goddess of Victory, she’s really into the heavy stuff and you don’t seem to mind flashing her name on your trainers! And please don’t think Mrs. Thatcher and the Falklands, it was never quite like that. Look, before you jump to any conclusions, please let me tell you my story and as you creative writers know, that means starting with the family.

So here we go: my dad and goodness what a dad, was Zeus, supreme ruler of all the Gods, believe me, not someone to mess with; he married Metis, she of the surpassing beauty and sublime wisdom.

Now this is not like that other apocryphal story where (remember?) a Goddess like creature named Marilyn suggested to a God inspired genius called Einstein that they combine to produce an amazing child, whereupon he replied: “Oh Marilyn, what if the poor little thing has my looks and your brains?”.

No, in my story Zeus was convinced, that if Metis had a son, the child would without doubt, surpass him in every possible way and eventually usurp him. So to be on the safe side when Metis became pregnant he promptly turned her into a fly (like you do) and swallowed her.

Now very soon, and some said serve him right, Zeus was afflicted by horrendous headaches, so bad that he called Vulcan and asked him to split his head open. Vulcan, who owed him one, complied and lo and behold little me, Athena leapt from the cleft in his head, fully clothed and armed with helmet, shield and spear. Now think about it you ladies whose feminist mothers insisted on yellow or blue, when as a little girl all you longed for was shocking pink, here was me motherless and dressed, not in the latest pink mini tunic, but garbed in full battle gear.

Mind you, once he realised I wasn’t a boy he was a doting dad. I even got to play with his precious thunder bolts. So it is hardly surprising that for a while I was very much daddy’s girl, and maybe here I should get that story out of the way that women always hold against me. I mean the one about the spinning contest with that creep Arachne. It is a story that has been much embellished over the years so suffice it to say that when it looked as if she was going to beat me and win the competition I lit a fire and yes she almost died. But really I was hot headed rather than vicious and remedied the matter to the best of my ability by turning her into a spider. Well come on, all she ever wanted to do was to weave and spin and this way she gets to do that to eternity. Hence the name arachnid for all those eight legged creepy crawlies and I can see why they give you the horrors.

But that was in the days of my thoughtless youth, as I grew I threw away childish things, like those pesky thunderbolts. You could say that as I matured I began to mellow. Remember that Athens, loveliest of cities, honoured me by taking my name when I gave to them the very first olive tree. You see I had begun to grasp the pernicious waste that war entails and to realise that strife can only bring suffering; but I also saw that Gods will be Gods and Boys will be Boys and the best I could do was to try to avoid war, or at least achieve a mitigation of its dire effects; hence my lasting reputation as something of a strategist.

I fought, sorry not the best choice of words for a peace loving Goddess of War. Let’s say I sought to intervene in that notorious mother of all wars between the Trojans and the Greeks; goodness glamorous Helen had a lot to answer for, and when the Trojans thwarted my efforts, I supported the Greeks and became the protector of Ulysses, and go on admit it he’s everyone’s hero. It was after all me who guided him, through his dreams, for ten eventful years, fraught with extraordinary danger, back to Ithaca and into the waiting arms of patient Penelope (another great spinner and weaver) and even then I had to help him sort out all those troublesome suitors; if you don’t believe me take another peep at your Homer.

So, I stand before you, Athena, Goddess of War, mea culpa. But I almost forgot to tell you, silly me, I am also known as Athena Goddess of Wisdom. Thank you for listening to my story.

1942 The World at War – Hot Chocolate Nadine Alvarez

She is alone in the large square stone flagged kitchen of the farmhouse. Her two younger brothers have been sent to bed early. She sits close to the large black range although the fire is dying now.

Some dull red embers remain, fringed with pale ash; they click and settle like a sigh.

Her feet are placed on the rag rug and the odd looking cat merges with the sombre colours. Peace.

Perfect quiet. This is what she looks forward to all day, the last precious hour before she too moves towards the staircase and her cold bedroom.

The silence is disturbed by a low tap at the back door. She lifts her head to listen more intently. The cat has risen, stretches his front legs. Now the sound is more urgent and someone is calling her name. “Maggie, it’s me, Bob Lincoln.” Bob Lincoln is the village policeman. Has she allowed light to show from the curtained window? She goes to the door, places her head close to the panel. “Yes?” she says.

“Maggie don’t be frightened, I need to speak to you.” She slides the iron bolt and as she opens the door, the cat streaks out into the dark yard. Bob Lincoln takes off his helmet as he enters, beside him is another man, taller and bulkier than Bob (who is six feet tall). This man removes his cap and stoops to enter the kitchen. Maggie lets out a small gasp; the man with Bob is black as the safety curtains, with hair like new lamb and large shiny boots. In all her fourteen years, Maggie has never seen a black person and her face betrays her fear.

Now Bob is speaking to her. “Maggie, there is a lorry full of young soldier boys outside, it has been separated from a convoy and, because it’s very late, I want these young men to rest up in your orchard until day-break. I’ve contacted the camp that they were headed for, that’s all I can do.”

Bob eyes the low fire. “Can you build up that fire?” he asks Maggie. “These lads could use a hot drink.” It takes a while but eventually a bucket of water is boiled and the Sergeant brings in a steel drum into which he empties several packets of chocolate powder.

A delicious smell fills the kitchen. Maggie’s mouth is watering, she and her family have no luxuries, their life is hard and frugal. Perhaps it is the sweet smell that draws the two young boys back down the stairs to stand and gawp at the scene before them.

The tall Sergeant opens the door and a low murmur of voices can be heard and the scrunching of boots on the gravel. Two at a time tall black young men enter the kitchen, dressed in the uniform of the American Army. They have removed their caps, they do not speak but dip their enamel mugs into the sweet-smelling chocolate. They smile at the two boys and almost with sleight of hand draw something from their pocket and place it on the table. Then they turn and leave the kitchen in long slow steps until all have passed through.

It doesn’t take long. There are about sixteen in all plus the Sergeant. Maggie feels as if she is dreaming. Bob Lincoln is saying, “Well done”. The Sergeant thanks her in a courteous unfamiliar voice. He holds out his hand and she takes it in a friendly way feeling very grown up. She bolts the door behind them and her brothers run to her, drawing attention to the table. A small mound of sweets, chocolate bars and chewing gum is there.

Next morning a low mist like swathes of muslin hangs between the trees in the orchard but the night visitors have moved on.

Olga Kevelos Anne Craven

Women are not, on the whole, warmongers. Of course there have always been exceptions.

Boadicea led her forces against the Romans. Cleopatra was ambitious for the Egyptian empire but was defeated at the battle of Actium, and Mrs Thatcher sent in a task force to the Falklands.

In the face of fighting women are more likely to prescribe the naughty stool than wave flags and discuss tactics. When war is a reality, however, women show their true metal. During the Second World War women kept public transport moving, steel mills and factories rolling and ensured food supplies by tilling the land. We have so many examples of their bravery and tenacity.

Olga Kevelos was nineteen when National Service for women began in 1943. With no boating experience she joined the Inland Waterways – the waterborne equivalent of the Land Girls.

Because of the I.W. on their badges these women were facetiously dubbed the “Idle Women” but there was nothing remotely idle about their task.

Olga and her companions (forty five women in all) manned the barges carrying vital materials along the Grand Union Canal between London and the Midlands. After initial training, the women would take the helm of massive barges transporting Spitfire or machine parts from the London docks to Birmingham; on the return journey they would haul coal from Warwickshire to London.

After a three week round trip they would have the option of a week’s unpaid leave.

As Olga Kevelos discovered, the work was hard, dangerous and unpleasant. She encountered the drowned bodies of unwanted babies and more unexpected hazards including a transsexual colleague who constantly proposed marriage to other crew members. Their cargo was often disguised, with weapons and even gold bars concealed as more innocent freight. The girls worked eighteen to twenty hour days. The living conditions were rough, and the girls were often wet and cold. They did not receive the extra rations enjoyed by the more celebrated Land Girls and were constantly hungry. Olga remembered subsisting on “cocoa with condensed milk, national loaf and peanut butter – I seemed to be hungry all the time”. Olga and her companions kept vital supplies moving until the end of the war.

After the war Olga became the country’s leading motorcyclist and the only woman to win two gold medals in international six-day events. Some years before her death in 2009 Olga Kevelos took part in Mastermind – her chosen subject was Genghis Kahn. She subsequently met the then Prime Minister, Tony Blair, who spent some time discussing her views on Genghis Kahn.

“He probably wanted a few tips on how to invade other people’s countries successfully,” she commented afterwards.

The Ambulance Driver Ann Pugh

Joan was nineteen years old when she applied to become a driver at the start of the 1939/45 World War. Her father, a practising GP in London, had taught her to drive his car when she was seventeen before the need for a driving licence, and her mother had been nursing during the First World War. So her parents encouraged her to contribute to the war effort.

On applying to be an ambulance driver, Joan had to pass strict driver training, which included first aid, driving large vehicles, vehicle maintenance and changing gear without spilling any water from a bucket in the vehicle. Having learnt her way around London with a cabbie in his taxi, she was accepted and started work in 1940 just before the start of the Blitz. She worked alternative 12 hour shifts for £3 per week. Due to a shortage of ambulances in the city, a fleet of American ambulances had been donated by American/Canadian charities, and Joan found herself driving a Chrysler not only in London but all around the country.

Preparations for bomb attacks had been in place from the start of the war with shelters and safe refuges organised by local authorities. She was based in Hammersmith and later the East End so had to learn her way around quickly. Aged only 19 she was soon to experience some of the worst bombings and saw some dreadful sights in very dangerous situations. She remembers how wonderful the Fire Services were in helping the ambulances with the casualties. They would clear ways through the debris and the broken glass to avoid punctures, and help with lifting the casualties. She noticed the different attitudes towards helping the shocked and wounded after a bombing: how willing the friendly East Enders were to give any help, how tea and blankets were provided plentifully whenever requested. But at one grand Belgrave house where she asked the butler for 3 blankets urgently, he replied that he would have to ask her Ladyship. Five minutes later he returned to say that, “Her ladyship said No.” On another occasion a bomb dropped on St George’s Hospital that had failed to explode. This entailed a total evacuation of the entire building and all staff and patients were transported to the country overnight. It was an anxious exercise, but as the last ambulance arrived back empty, the bomb disposal team told them that “It was alright as the bomb was a dud”. So the whole procedure had to be reversed as all the walking wounded and staff were brought back after a long night’s work.

Joan’s own home in Putney was bombed out, but her father had to find another house nearby soon to continue his GP work. After the worst of the Blitz, Joan was sent on missions all over the country. These were journeys requiring special care and transport for the acutely injured, many sick children and the terminally ill to be transferred to specialist hospitals. She was also involved in ferrying young German casualties left behind by their own compatriots during the retreat in France, who had to be taken to Cambridge from off the ships at Harwich. One such casualty spoke to her in broken English, while being driven through the city and seeing the buildings through the ambulance window from his stretcher: “I recognise this place, it looks like Cambridge. I was once a student here.”

She said that in driving between Edinburgh, Cardiff and the south coast, “I must have driven thousands of miles during my war work.”

The more urgent missions often involved men sustaining severe head injuries from the French front. They were flown into RAF Lyneham, where they were collected by ambulance and driven to the Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford for urgent surgery. The crews were proud to say that they

were able to deliver these very ill men off the aircraft and on to the operating table within four hours of leaving the war zone, driving with police outriders hell-for-leather at their top speed of 40 mph down the Oxfordshire lanes. Normal speed was 20 mph. Her mother told her later that it had taken up to five days to get a casualty back to a home hospital from France during the1914/18 War. The women ambulance drivers were an example of how women were able to respond with great courage to the needs of the time, and to adapt and learn quickly the new skills required to do a difficult task efficiently. A real comradeship developed between the women and it often had its hilarious moments. Joan recalls being under her vehicle in her overalls doing some maintenance when loud footsteps approached and a voice hollered a string of expletives about the quality and the speed of the work being done. When she crawled out an Army corporal cried out “Cor blimey, it’s a woman. I’m ever so sorry ma’am”. Things would never be the same again.

Joan was one of over 500 women who volunteered for the ambulance service in the last World War, and her example stands for all those who drove through cities and countryside in the cause of saving lives often under extreme difficulties.

Women Police Officers in Afghanistan Sheila Armstrong

We are all aware from the media, fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan is mainly all about the British, American and other Military Forces, their battles, defeats and regretfully, deaths at the hands of the terrorists; but a small group of extraordinary women are quietly making history in one corner of Afghanistan. Women Afghan National Police recruits in Helmand Province now stand side by side with their male counterparts in their fight against crime and the Taliban terrorists.

A United States MOD female officer deployed to Afghanistan, saw promise in a small group of women recruits sitting in a corner of the Police Headquarters, untrained, unnoticed and without uniform or motivation. These women had initially gone into a firing range to hone their firing skills, something that they had previously not been allowed to do.

On their first time in the firing range they were greeted by men who sneered at them, doubting their ability with a gun, until the first woman got all five shots spot on target. Now after eight weeks training at a police academy, they attend a graduation ceremony officially becoming active duty officers.

Some of the women, who are recruited, work under-cover. Wearing the Burka in these circumstances is useful in disguising their identity. Some only give their first names; unable to speak about their work, even to their husbands and close relatives, they have a constant fear of Taliban reprisals.

Every time they leave their homes they don’t know whether they will return - it’s very dangerous work. The majority of the women report to police headquarters in their Burkas, changing into uniform before accompanying their male colleagues on patrol. The female MOD officer is giving them support and has developed a uniform to enable them to wear a culturally acceptable dress, so that they can wear their rank with pride, feeling valued and encouraging others to join them.

Policewomen are an integral part of being able to conduct door-to-door searches, as the Afghan people are deeply offended when male soldiers or policemen search homes where women are present; women police officers go into compounds first, so they can search the women members of the household.

One particular officer, just months into her job, had to tackle a fighter single-handed. She had caught a man who had narcotics and had grenade bombs strapped to him; he was a known Taliban fighter and she arrested him and he was later sent to prison.

Another woman police officer, a thirty three year old mother of six, was attempting to search women at a checkpoint. Having checked a bus full of people she watched as a woman got off the bus and took something from a man who was standing by the bus. The woman then got back onto the bus and she was searched again. A pistol was found hidden in the neck of her Burka.

The woman fought and punched the woman police officer in the face, smashing her glasses.

This assault did not deter her but made her more resolute.

In another incident, a woman officer stopped two suicide bombers from detonating their devices, with a karate kick expertly aimed at the remote control in the hand of one of the terrorists. For this brave act, she received a reward from the Police Headquarters.

A forty-year-old mother was left widowed when her husband was shot dead alongside his brother at a police checkpoint in Helmand. She said ‘they were sleeping, when the Taliban came in and

shot them. I was two months pregnant at the time and as I was looking after two other children who had been orphaned, I joined the ANP (Afghan national Police.’ as I needed the money.

In December 2009 there were 500 Afghan women active duty officers, compared with 92,500 policemen, most of the women working in relatively safe areas such as Kabul and the Northern Herat Province. Figures from the Internal Ministry of the Government have a target of 5,000 women to serve as officers or civilian police workers by 2014.

At a time when the US is sending an additional 30,000 forces into Afghanistan, Afghan officials and US say policewomen play an essential role in winning the war against insurgents.

In this province where women are to be seen, not heard, what they are doing is truly amazing.

They are literally making history.

Few in number, they are paving the way for Helmand women to have a very different future.

Artemisia in the Graeco Persian War ‐ The Sea Battle of Salamis 480 BC Gillian Ewing History at school was rather bitty: Dates of explorations, battles, kings.

Conning lists, I thought it was a pity Women didn't do historic things.

Studying the war of Greeks v. Persians I would not have found it such a bore If I'd known of you and your diversions, Clever ways you helped Xerxes score.

Halicarnus' Queen and famed for wisdom; Gods, it's said, would aid you in a trice.

As the ruler of the neighbouring kingdom Persia's King relied on your advice.

You were always up in early morning Following the dictates of the moon, But great Xerxes, spurning every warning, Set upon the Athenians much too soon.

You had charge of five great naval vessels When you swiftly ordered the attack, Not upon the Greeks but on your allies Minor Asians had to take the flak.

Wreathed at Salamis in smoke’s confusion, With your cunning ploy you gained the day: Made the Greeks believe in your collusion Then you rammed them as they turned away.

More than two millennia have buried Valiant deeds like yours in all but name, Females multi-tasking life unflurried, Amazons who played the waiting game.

Now the plant that bears your name takes vengeance On the men who did not rate your worth.

Bitter wormwood signals their come-uppance.

Women, though, win battles and give birth.

War Mothers Sharon Morgan

Remember when they tucked their small sons into bed and read them stories of giants and battles and kissed the wounded knees from playground tumbles.

But the wounds of war cannot be eased with elastoplast.

And they look back to when their daughters were daddy’s little princess and insisted on wearing mummy’s high heels Those dainty feet were not meant for army kit boots.

And they wait for The Knock At The Door or The Telephone Ring And yesterday it did.

And today they stare at the television screen and hear Queen’s English declaring that the relatives have been informed.

Vera Lynn

Jenny Sunman When the Second World War broke out, Vera Lynn was a singer with the famous Bert Ambrose dance band. Her only ambition was to be the best singer with the best band in the land. Her first thought was, “Oh dear, there goes my career - the band will go off to fight, and I’ll be heading for the munitions factory”. No-one thought entertainment would become essential during the war.

In March 1940, eight members of the band volunteered as a group to sign up, realising this was their best chance to stay together. They became the RAF number 1 dance band, The Squadronaires. Vera’s work became sporadic, so she decided to go solo. She had a unique and easily recognisable voice, and knew that she suited a certain type of song.

She describes her songs as having “The Greeting Card” sentiment, a basic human message that people (particularly the British) find embarrassing to put into words. Her three key songs were: “We’ll Meet Again” - the optimistic song “Yours” - the love song and “The White Cliffs of Dover” - the patriotic song.

She once went to a singing coach who tried to get her to find another voice. Vera knew this wasn’t what her fans would want and that was the end of the coaching.

Radio was the only link between scattered people during the war. Vera asked if she could have a 15 minute request show, and was delighted to be given a 30 minute show. She did this in the form of a letter calling it “Sincerely Yours - To the men of the Forces, a letter in words and music

by Vera Lynn”. She was inundated with mail and started to deliver personal messages. She visited hospitals where servicemen’s wives had just given birth. Vera helped to bridge the gap between the soldiers on the frontline and their loved ones at home.

Vera felt she could do more to entertain the forces than her radio show could offer, and so decided to go out personally to meet them. In order to do so, she had to join ENSA (the Entertainment National Services Association). When considering where to visit, she decided Italy and the Middle East were well catered for entertainment-wise, and requested to go to Burma, to visit the 14th Army. Their battle to recapture Burma from the Japanese was overshadowed by events in Europe, which was why they became known as “the forgotten army”.

She set off for a five month trip totally unaware of what she was letting herself in for. Her only previous trip abroad had been to Holland to perform with the band. She was reported to have travelled with dozens of glamorous outfits, but in fact she was in her ENSA uniform for most of the time and only took one dress which she very rarely wore.

She travelled to Burma stopping off at Gibraltar, Cairo, Basra, Bombay, Calcutta and Chittagong.

Just the first journey to Gibraltar was an ordeal, seven hours of sickness in a Flying Boat rigged out as a troop carrier. The sickness continued throughout her journeys, and she experienced an emergency landing on the Dead Sea during a storm.

Her accommodation was often rough but she didn’t mind. She was there to do a job. Everywhere she went she performed concerts and spoke to as many men as she could. All the time people asked her how things were at home. Although forbidden to write anything down, she did keep a very small diary in which she scribbled some very feint notes.

While in a group, the men appeared to be strong, but would often break down and cry when talking alone to Vera. She was amazed how many were younger than her.

Not everyone appreciated what she was doing. Some in high places claimed the “slush” she was turning out would sap the morale from the fighting men. Her reply was, “My songs reminded the boys of what they were really fighting for. Precious personal things rather than ideologies.”

She performed mainly to large audiences, but on one occasion to only two. These men were too ill to leave their hospital beds. They asked her to sing “We’ll Meet Again” and she knew what they were thinking. One of the men died shortly afterwards, but she did meet the other one again when he appeared on “This is Your Life” when Vera was the subject.

When asked to explain her appeal and why it has endured over the years, Vera can only surmise that “People have always looked at me as one of them; an ordinary girl from an ordinary family, with a voice you can recognise. It’s as simple as that.”

After the war, the comedian Harry Secombe, was only half joking when he said, “Churchill didn't beat the Nazis. Vera sang them to death.”

Voices of Women during World War 2 Carole Cunningham

The impact of war made huge economic demands on women. Where the need for a powerful workforce was evident, many women who would normally have remained within the boundaries of domesticity, escaped from their gender-defined roles. For some unskilled women, this provided a realisation of independence, socialisation and a stronger sense of personal fulfilment than had those war years not intervened. Running parallel to the new ‘work culture’, family life became an upheaval, as children were evacuated to rural areas, husbands and sons being called upon to fight for their country, and for many, sharing homes with complete strangers becoming the norm.

Many middle-aged housewives took to working at the WVS. ‘Keeping busy’ became an important coping mechanism, to allay the stresses of war. Fundraising at the centre provided wool to knit blankets for the sailors. Crowds of women eagerly joined the industrious band. Bustling with energy, they vigorously worked their needles to knit socks, gloves and balaclavas for soldiers and sailors.

One lady, records in her diary, ‘I sometimes want to scream when I think of my boy going away.

I’ve just got to keep busy so that I don’t give way to that cold feeling that goes right through my body when I think of what might happen. Work at the centre helps to keep me from thinking’.

‘In the evenings, I work with my sewing machine, and as I listen to the whirring sound, my mind becomes captivated by the rhythm, which helps to keep my thoughts straying from the present’.

7th May 1940 Surrender of Norway: German troops invade Holland, Belgium and Luxemburg – threatening France.

‘Today, I unpicked a mattress I had been given. After I washed and dried the cover, I stuffed it with scraps of winceyette and flannel. These I cut into small pieces and mixed them with flocks.

If shaken, I thought this would provide a soft surface for someone to lie on. Poor soul, it might be their last night on earth.’

‘Tonight I took aspirin a lot. There was an air raid. I made tea for people in the shelter, handing out aspirin for everyone.’

February 1941 All women between the ages of 16 and 49 years were registered as mobile. The government allocated areas of work for them on a compulsory basis.

By this date, women had to live with permanent, inescapable factors, such as increased bombing, night blackouts causing an important factor of discomfort, scarcity of household commodities and the danger and hardship of doing men’s jobs. Labour shortages became serious and 500,000 women were called upon to work in munitions factories.

Edna reflected on her experiences at the age of 25 years, where she worked in a Leeds factory.

‘We weren’t given any choice of what we could do. Just given a time and date and told to report to Bray’s factory. They couldn’t do anything else. They couldn’t wait for volunteers. I was three

months pregnant when I began working there. I had to pull a heavy lever, and found this rather tiring working from Monday to Friday, eight o’clock until five o’clock. I asked if I could have lighter work, so then went on to checking metal parts. I don’t remember what they were. All I do remember was that they were covered in heavy oil which caused me to suffer from terrible dermatitis. I couldn’t do anything about it. I just had to get on with it. It was very monotonous.

Often I was very tired if the air raids had kept me awake all night. Our food was rationed, so you had to make things out of what you had. At nights we went into an Anderson shelter in the garden. We had to sit outside below the ground in the freezing cold for hours. There were lots of insects crawling about, and I had to take my baby down there. Sometimes I stayed in the kitchen, and sat under the table with my baby and my dog, terrified to go down into the shelter on my own’.

Olivia Crockett was an executive civil servant in her mid twenties. Living on the outskirts, and working in central London, she vividly describes her difficulties and discomforts from the point of sharing sleeping accommodation at work with nineteen people, mostly consisting of men, to putting out an incendiary bomb in the street single-handed. Her attitude is one of ‘Getting on with life’, despite the horror of the blitz. ‘I now live my life constantly on the alert, listening to the news in Russian, German and English on a daily basis.’

‘At night London is aflame with searchlights, bursting shells, floating flames, bangs, pops, screams and wardens’ whistles. Flashes through curtains like endless lightening and the purring overhead of those beastly planes.’

Olivia painfully records how her social life has shrunk. ‘I now constantly share my space with people I would not necessarily choose to be with. At home, every room is filled with relatives taking shelter from the bombs, and at work I sometimes visit the pub for a couple of pints of beer with male colleagues.’ As time progresses, Olivia describes her feelings having become ‘numbed’ after the constant fear of bombs falling within ducking distance. She states, ‘I’m not afraid anymore and have become less careful with people’s feelings.’ When faced with an incident at work where she felt her ‘boss’ was treating her inconsiderately, she retaliates with a degree of force. ‘If a blasted incendiary bomb didn’t frighten me, why should I be afraid of him?’.

At night in her crowded dormitory, Olivia’s survival tactics are to take a ‘composure’ tablet, prescribed by the doctor, light a fag, and look at a magazine, before having a wash and going to bed. How different from her previous interests of attending classical music evenings and theatrical events with friends.

Teachers were given the task of measuring and fitting gas masks. One lady writes about the chaotic conditions in a community hall where people gather to obtain their masks. ‘The possibility of a sinister chemical leaking through the atmosphere is a dreaded thought, and triggers panic responses as people are being fitted. People with babies, are refusing to be protected if their offspring cannot be offered the same help. Elderly people are frightened, complaining of headaches from the Izal fumes which fill the room. Each mask has to be disinfected as they are applied. Every session becomes a nightmare, with people fainting, and becoming claustrophobic.

Children are mostly terrified, and think the smell of the disinfectant is gas. How we come through these sessions, I will never know.’

British women were spared the torture of an invasion, as so many of their European counterparts had to face. Most learned to live with risk, gaining new confidence to confront stressful times.

For some, the war gave a higher degree of independence, while exploring new aspects of womanhood.

The Queen and the Embroideress Mary Callan

THE CONQUEROR'S WIFE (Matilda of Flanders) I hope England's a quick learner: I had to be.

There's no resisting a man like my William, So you might as well learn to love him.

He threw me to the ground and pulled my pigtails, (That's the polite version) Because I refused him: A street mongrel like you Isn't fit to marry a lady of my pedigree, I'd told him.

Not just the personal ancestry, Great-great, great-great, great-great, grand-daughter Of the great king Alfred.

But the political status: Flanders, a great commercial power by land and sea, The hub of Europe; Normandy? Where's Normandy?

Except for William, no reason why anyone's ever heard of the place: Overrun by a few Vikings Who landed on the wrong shore of the Channel.

King of England, he was obsessed about it, But there's many a poor fellow shut away in the care of the monks Who's quite sure he's the king of England, Or emperor of the moon!

When I realised he had every intention of Throwing that rebellious island on its back And pulling its pigtails, I thought: He'll do it.

All I can do is make sure he does it quickly, Less damage for everyone, So I commissioned and fitted out a ship To see him arrive in regal splendour.

He's been a faithful husband, A successful ruler, A good and wise father.

England, I hope you learn to love him: Like me, you've no choice.

THE EMBROIDERER'S TALE I'd love to see it again.

- There's never been a more wonderful piece of embroidery; - But they've taken it back to Normandy.

They tell me they've moved it into the cathedral, There, at Bayeux, Bishop Odo's cathedral.

It doesn't belong in a cathedral any more than Bishop Odo does.

Churchman he may be but he'll never be a man of God. No-one can see it properly, high up, where they've hung it.

I suppose it's a sign of the times: England has been pacified; William their Conqueror has shown there's no other choice, So that gorgeous embroidered story has done its work, Along with lance and mace and population clearances.

I can't do embroidery now; My eyesight's not up to it.

Weaving, I can still manage, And plaiting cords and belts: Once you've got the rhythm, you can do them in the dark; Embroidery, though: You need the best light if you're going to do good work.

There was a whole team of us, Stitching for months on end.

William vs Harold, that was the story, From their first meeting on the French coast, Through King Edward's illness and death, Harold's coronation, William's campaign, And the great battle, With a flag from the pope, And the comet that frightened everyone that year, As though even heaven and earth Were squabbling over England.

More than two years we worked on it While England wriggled like a landed fish Trying to shake off the conqueror: Uprisings here, there and everywhere And an armed campaign up and down the kingdom, While we embroidered from dawn till dusk, Every hour we could see.

It's a wonderful piece of work: He could certainly draw, our designer.

He certainly loved horses, and ships; And he knew all the trades From ship-building to field-cookery, As well as fighting men and all their armour and weapons.

But only four women in the whole length!

William and his troops fought up and down the land, While we sewed that embroidery!

Anne Frank

Jackie Abendstern

Most people have heard about Anne’s famous diary and I expect many of you have read it. I read the diary many years ago and when I read the entry for June 6th, 1944, I was inspired to write a poem about it. Over the years I have amended this poem many times until last year, 2009, I decided I had reached the final version.

It was at just about the same time that I met, purely by chance, Elizabeth Mansfield, a young woman engaged in rehearsals for a multimedia performance of music, text and song entitled “Souvenir d’Anne Frank”. I mentioned my poem and Elizabeth asked me to send her a copy. I did and she liked it. Hopefully it will be printed in their programme. The company is called “Ensemble”. It was formed in 2001, its aim being to create and tour exciting, beautiful and thought-provoking work alongside educational programmes for young people. They worked in co-production with York Theatre Royal in the autumn of 2004 in “A Cloud in Trousers”, a play portraying the turbulent life of Vladimir Mayakovsky celebrated as the greatest Russian poet of the 20th century.

In her last letter Elizabeth reminded me of the words in the Anne Frank Declaration for the New Millennium that, “…her life warns us about the dangers of intolerance…Wars now, more than ever before, claim the lives of the young… We all have a moral and spiritual obligation to keep our world safe for the generations to come…”

June 6th 1944 The wireless crackled, spluttered, but the message was clear the Allies had landed in Normandy.

Now Victory could be near.

Summer term drawing to its end and I walked, carefree, (as you should have done) schoolwards with bosomfriend.

For us war was a distant thing - normality, bland daily round a taken-for-granted birthright untouched by Brutality.

Hidden in an annexe, you heard on the same day (and in the same way) that information.

Faith, hope, thoughts of Salvation.

It was not to be.

And you were my age!

Often I wonder about you had you lived - mother, grandmother, famous writer even.

There’s never an end to outrage. Yet endless too our highest hopes of Heaven…….

Rumours from a Cold Front “ ...and wild stories going round about women fighter pilots in World War II ... “ Ex-Flying Officer, RAF Museum, Hendon Jenny Argante How did they do it, those young ones - don such powerful disguises, get access to the midnight circuit & descent of fire?

Was there complicity, some trade between a bargain struck that bought a swift exchange?

Learning began with imposture, back-slapping, heart stopping; learning that included coarser words, a bolder manner, plus all that routine magic of flying up, up and away Assimilation & advisory whispers the open mandate; process & progress until the hand curved firmly round the flexible rod.

Eyes made meaning out of massed dials, spread clouds, a lone glimmer.

Ears & brains recorded messages, storing up when where how the necessary act here now ignoring desperate stutter of guns, tracery of a bullet’s wild retort Did they ever confess they felt the terror of having so much power, so many rights of planned intrusion and the fatal pursuit; felt the terror, not in their guts, not in a stomach-wrenching heave (as the men wryly admitted to) but in their clean and empty roundnesses that lay, like bombs, housed within each stalwart voyager, open to danger, to a new beginning, when having out-faced destruction and its grim ambivalence they must appear to unlock all the secrets, unlock the wife and mother they’d subdued, return, sighing, diminished, to more accustomed roles How could they do it? How could they find in ordinary living enough to satisfy them?

Perhaps forever their dreams would be disturbed making of sleep a penance and a pause; and, in the morning light, they’d turn to home, not as before, victorious landfall, but as the cross spread out for them to cling to.

(Jenny Argante was the founder of Women and Words in 1998. Jenny now lives in New Zealand.)

London Women Gillian Ewing

They said that she was charming and we know that she was rich: She had palaces and castles as befits Every royal Windsor lady, be she saint or be she bitch, And she visited the East End in the Blitz.

We saw her in the papers and the mags and on TV Where her hats and dresses had my kids in fits, But she never wore the same thing twice as far as we could see, And she visited the East End in the Blitz She travelled in the necessary style for any queen, The only way that protocol permits, Not by bus or tram or subway but by chauffeured limousine When she visited the East End in the Blitz.

I had a dear grandmother with a similar small fault Though I'd hardly say the two of them were quits, For Gran got pissed on porter, not on g & t or malt And she perished in the East End in the Blitz.

The contents of this anthology were written for the “Women and Words� event in the 2010 York Literature Festival.

In all cases, copyright remains with the author.