This book is dedicated to Denis Sheil, my maternal grandmother’s second husband. The real Denis was born to a poor Catholic family in Dublin in 1897. In 1914, he joined the Royal Marines and never returned to Ireland. After the Great War, he worked as an ambulance assistant, a job he did until his death in 1953. I never met Grampy Den, but his story inspired the character of Denis Kavanagh, who also appeared in Time and Tide, and sparked my research into the men and women who drove ambulances during the blitz.
Local history groups provided information about the ambulance station in Mount Pleasant School, but the details of it come from my imagination and the staff mentioned are fictional. Edith Myra Taylor’s memories of working as an ARP ambulance driver on BBC’s World War Two People’s War pages and Deborah Burrows’ Ambulance Girl series were invaluable in setting the scene and learning what these brave men and women endured.
The Luftwaffe bombed Southampton heavily throughout 1940 and 1941. There were fifty-seven air raids, 1,500 air raid warnings, 2,300 bombs, and 30,000 incendiary devices dropped on the town. Approximately 45,000 buildings were damaged or destroyed, six hundred and fifty people lost their lives, and thousands were injured. The worst nights of bombing were in November and December 1940. This story is woven around the tales my mother told me of those air raids and many personal accounts I discovered in Becky Brown’s Blitz Spirit and on the BBC’s World War Two People’s War pages.
The boatyard on William Street and the bomb that hit it are fictional, but every air raid described in the story is based on a real event, thanks to the detailed reports I found on Sotonopedia, the Supermariners, and Southampton Stories websites and many first-hand accounts from local history groups, including Southampton Heritage Photos, Southampton Memories: People and Places and Bevois Mount History. I gleaned details of the blackout from the Historic Southampton website. In particular, the photographs of bomb damage on the Bevois Mount History, Supermariners and Southampton Stories websites and local Facebook groups helped me envision what Winnie, Isobel, and Denis would have seen.
While most bore the chaos of the blackout and the air raids stoically, not everyone was against Adolph Hitler. Oswald Mosley, prominent members of his British Union of Fascists, and other subversives were rounded up and interned on the Isle of Man. Some escaped detection and acted as a fifth column, hidden amongst the people, spying, sending information to the enemy, spreading propaganda and slyly putting up seditious posters. In February 1940, vandals even poured red paint over Palmerston’s statue and the Titanic Engineers Memorial. How many there were and exactly what they would have done if the Germans had invaded remains to be seen.
Ireland remained neutral during the war, but despite being banned in 1935, the IRA declared war on Britain in January 1939 and launched a bombing campaign, codenamed S – or Sabotage on English soil. Over three hundred bombs caused death and fear in towns and cities including London, Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, and Coventry. In April 1939 the former IRA chief of staff, Sean Russell, went to America on a propaganda mission. In May, he arrived in Berlin where he met with the Nazi minister of foreign affairs, Joseph Ribbentrop, and received explosives training from the Abwehr. During his return trip to Ireland on German U Boat U-65, he became ill with a stomach complaint and died. Conspiracy theories quickly spread about his death, and it was widely believed he was either poisoned or shot by a British secret service agent. Encyclopaedia Britannica, Wikipedia and several accounts from Irish newspapers gave me an insight into Russell and the IRA position in 1940.
On the home front, some saw rationing and the blackout as an opportunity. The black market and crime flourished. I read many newspaper articles about looters, some even kitted themselves out as ARP wardens to escape detection. The blackout was also good cover for predators, although the story of the woman dragged into an air raid shelter didn’t happen in Southampton.
Murderers also used the blitz to hide their crimes. The story of the body on the bombsite is fictional, but was inspired by an article I found on Historynet.com and followed up on Murderpedia. In July 1942, Benjamin Marshall, a demolition worker, uncovered a mummified female body in the basement of a bombed-out church in Vauxhall, London. He thought she was a victim of the bombing, but Pathologist, Dr Keith Simpson became suspicious. Thanks to him, the woman was identified as Rachel Dobkin, and her husband, Harry, a former night watchman, was charged with her murder. He’d killed her, and believing one more body wouldn’t be noticed, buried her in the ruins of the bombed church. He hanged in 1943.
My maternal relatives inspired Percy, Laura, and the extended Barfoot family. The other characters are all fictional. Bert Porter and Frank Scorey appeared in my Between the Wars Saga, Isobel was first mentioned in Seventh Daughter, and the story of Norm McCartney and his family begins in The Luck of the Draw.
This book exists thanks to encouragement from wonderful readers who took the time to contact me or leave reviews of my first series of novels, the Between The Wars Saga. You will never understand how much your kind words mean. Thanks, too, to Aleks Kruz and Hayley Yates of Hangar47, who provided the technical know-how. Last but definitely not least, I have to thank my long-suffering husband, Dave Keates, for his patience in listening to the story, believing in me, and giving his feedback. His experience as an aircraft engineer provided invaluable input, especially regarding the aviation fuel used in the 1940s.
This tale is a tribute to all those who lived through the dark days of the Southampton Blitz. They proved that life goes on despite unimaginable hardship and loss, and that good will triumph over evil.
Copyright © 2024 Marie Keates
All rights reserved. ISBN: 979-8-8614-9237-9
1 – Tuesday 13 August 1940
Winnie watched the clock’s hands edge ever closer to the end of her shift and shuddered at the thought of going home to her empty house. Being an only child, she liked solitude, but the place was too quiet since Mum died. At the first aid post, she had people to talk to. They’d been chatting about the Mayor’s plan to start a Spitfire fund. Doris said £5000 seemed an awful lot of money for an aeroplane.
‘You could buy five nice houses for that.’
Isobel said Portsmouth had collected more than double that, and they couldn’t be outdone when the plane’s designer, R. J. Mitchell, lived in Southampton.
Winnie opened her mouth to mention the planes he’d designed for the Schneider Trophy when the undulating wail of the siren cut her off. The three women fell silent and stared at each other. Winnie’s nervous eyes flicked to the nicotine-stained ceiling of their little restroom. Was it for real, or another false alarm?
‘It’ll be a test, I expect.’ Despite the noise, Isobel tucked her lank brown hair behind her ear and continued sorting packets of bandages. ‘They wouldn’t come over in the daytime, would they? Especially not today with so much cloud.’
‘Should we go to the basement, anyway?’ Doris looked jittery. She was a jittery girl — twenty-three years old, painfully thin, and mousey, from her dirty blonde hair to her pointy nose.
‘Don’t be a chump.’ Isobel gave her an exasperated stare and quirked her eyebrows. ‘If it’s a test, there’s no need, and if it’s real, they’ll need us to drive the ambulances, won’t they? It’d be a fine thing if Maurice found us all hiding in the shelter, wouldn’t it? He doesn’t think much of women driving ambulances as it is.’
‘It probably is just a test.’ Doris gave her a nervous smile.
Winnie half hoped it would be a real air raid. They all knew they’d have to deal with one, eventually. She’d rather get it over with. Anything seemed better than sitting around in Mount Pleasant school, waiting. Still, wishing for bombs to fall felt wrong. Then again, what was the point of being an ambulance driver if you did nothing but endless training exercises? The most excitement they got was picking up idiots who’d hurt themselves in the blackout? Winnie heard the drone of planes overhead, followed by something that might have been distant thunder. Doris stopped wittering about going to the shelters. Winnie’s heart raced, not with fear — more anticipation, or maybe first-day nerves.
‘Sounds like the real thing to me.’ Isobel put her bandages on the table and raised a badly pencilled eyebrow. ‘You’re always saying you took this job because the hospital bored you, and you needed some excitement in your life, Winnie. This might be it.’
She had said that, and she’d meant it. Her midwife work had dried up. No one in their right mind wanted to bring a baby into such an uncertain world. If they did, they disappeared into the countryside to do so in safety. Returning to nursing was a logical step, but the regimented life of the wards stifled her, and she struggled to settle. She soon realised she’d become too accustomed to working alone or with a handywoman. Then, a month ago, the first air raid galvanised her into action. It had been out of town, miles away over Redbridge and Millbrook. She’d slept through the whole thing, and there’d been no more until now, but it had made her think. If a bomb could snuff out life in a second, why waste it?
Doris said, ‘Excitement is one thing, but if they’re dropping bombs, people may be dying out there.’
‘Isn’t that the point of us being here?’ Isobel shrugged. ‘We’re first aiders, we can drive, we all want to do our bit for the war effort.’
‘Driving through a raid might be a tad too exciting,’ Winnie said.
Then Helen returned from the lavatory, drying wet hands on her skirt. She could have been pretty if she’d bothered to cover her freckles with a touch of makeup and didn’t insist on wearing her hair short and swept back, like a man. Maurice was hot on her heels with a slip of paper in his hand. His fleshy, wrinkled face bore a serious expression. He knew about war and bombs. He was an ex-army man, maybe in his fifties, with sparse white hair and a large, hawk-like nose. In the last war, he’d been a driver with the Royal Artillery and had somehow come through in one piece.
‘So this is it,’ he said with a nervous tug on one of his plump earlobes. ‘They’re attacking the docks. The railway ambulances are down there. The fire brigade is on the way, but a stray one has hit a warehouse or something on William Street. Sounds like only minor injuries . . .’
Winnie heard William Street and jumped up to snatch the paper from his hand.
‘Steady on, Win,’ Isobel said. ‘If it’s only minor injuries, shouldn’t we let Helen and Doris take it? They’re just first aiders, and you’re a proper nurse. We should probably wait to see if they need us at the docks?’
Percy’s brown-eyed smile and scarred face filled Winnie’s mind. He worked at the William Street Wharf. They might not live together now, but he was still her husband, and she still loved him. After the business with Arthur Fisk, and her confession about the babies, he’d started talking to her again. Secretly, she indulged in the tiniest spark of hope that he would swallow his stubborn pride and forgive her one day. If he got blown up again and died, she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
They followed a fire engine over the Mount Pleasant railway crossing. Ahead, a column of dark smoke spiralled from the vicinity of William Street. A far larger smoke cloud rose from the docks, way off to the right. It seemed to have collapsed under its own weight and then spread out to hang over the town. Winnie heard the throb of engines overhead, the booming anti-aircraft guns, and the whine and thunder of bombs falling, but she put her foot down and careered through the deserted streets. All she could think about was Percy. Nothing else mattered a jot. For all her furious driving, it felt as if they moved in slow motion. When they finally screeched to a halt at the wharf, a scene of complete devastation met her eyes. The firemen were reeling out their hoses, but the big blue boatshed was a burning pile of nothing, and flames licked at a nearby lorry. Was it Percy’s lorry? Winnie jumped from the ambulance and ran into the swirling smoke, eyes darting, desperate to see signs of life. Then she spotted three figures sitting on the quay wall with their heads in their hands. The two smaller ones looked like Bert and Frank. For a brief second, she thought the third, bulkier shape was Percy. Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, the smoke swirled, revealing the flame-red hair of the Irishman, Denis, and her breath caught in her throat. Where was Percy?
2 – Tuesday 13 August 1940
Denis sat on the quay wall and watched his future burning. The boatshed and everything inside it was on fire and flames were licking at the back of the lorry. This job, driving with Percy and working with Bert and Frank was the best he’d ever had. Frank had found him a nice place to lodge in the ferry village and he hadn’t felt so settled and content since he’d left Ireland to go to war back in 1914. He’d been nothing but a boy, but even then, he’d known there would be no going back. Since the war he’d drifted from place to place, job to job but this was the only time he’d ever really fit in and felt at home. Now it was all ashes and flame. Looking at the wreckage he couldn’t see how they could carry on with no lorry and the boatshed in ruins.
They’d done their best with stirrup pumps and buckets of water but there was no putting it out. All that dry wood, the furniture, paint, varnish and wax were bound to burn out of control so he’d known they were pissing in the wind even as they ran about like eejits frantically trying to save it. Beside him, Bert and Frank sat in shocked silence. When the warning went off they’d all been sitting on the quay wall drinking cups of tea. They’d discussed going into the public shelter.
‘If it’s got our name on it it’ll get us anyway,’ Bert had laughed. ‘Besides, if it really is a raid, it’ll be the docks or the aircraft factory they’re aiming at.’
He’d hardly finished speaking before the shrill wine of a falling bomb and the ear splitting explosion blew them off the wall and into the water. It was a good job the tide wasn’t out really.
Now Bert sat grim faced and uncommunicative watching his livelihood go up in smoke. His leathery skin was covered in cuts and grazes but he said he wasn’t hurt. It was hard to say if he was telling the truth or not. If his arms and legs were hanging off, Bert would probably deny he was injured. It was the way he was. Even after Dunkirk, when he’d been shot and his lung was filling up with blood he’d been more worried about his boat than anything, and he’d refused to stay in the hospital. Today, it had been all Denis and Frank could do to stop him from dashing into the wreck of the boatshed to try to rescue things. He’d managed to drag the big toolbox out but that was about the extent of it.
So the three of them sat mutely and watched, two small wiry gypsy men with greying hair and thick dark eyebrows and him, a big lump of a red haired Irish man, more muscle than brain. By the time the fire engine arrived they’d all given up hope. The sound of bombs dropping somewhere to the south, probably on the docks, told Denis that the bomb that had fallen on them was more of an off target mistake than anything personal. For once his Irish luck had run out, or maybe it hadn’t because they were all still alive.
An ambulance squealed around the corner right behind the fire engine and two women got out wearing dark blue uniforms and tin hats with an A on the front. The shorter of the two came running across the shingle towards them. As she got closer he noticed the platinum blonde curls peeking out from under her helmet and recognised the face of Percy’s ex wife.
‘Where’s Percy,’ she said breathlessly.
‘He left me to watch Bert. He was after helping at the docks,’ Denis told her. The look of horror on her face said she still loved her husband no matter how ex he was.
‘He wasn’t hurt then?’
‘Not at all.’
‘What about you?’ she looked him over with a professional eye.
‘Nothing of any consequence,’ he shrugged. While she and the dark haired ambulance woman tended to their superficial cuts and grazes they watched the firemen make short work of the remains of the boatshed and the lorry. The flames were soon out but it was clear there was nothing left worth salvaging amongst the steaming ruins. Bert still hadn’t said a word but Denis could see the pain of the loss in his dark eyes as clearly as he’d seen the fear in Winnie’s sky blue ones. Neither would ever admit to it though. The English were strange like that.
3 – Tuesday 13 August 1940
When they got to the wharf Winnie was obviously rattled. She’d been pretty rattled from the minute Maurice had come in with the job but Isobel had put that down to excitement. With the sound of planes overhead, the thump of anti aircraft fire and the whistle and boom of bombs, Isobel was pretty frightened herself, although she’d never have admitted it. She’d taken this job because she wanted to do her part for the war effort and it looked as if it would be more interesting than sitting in an office typing all day. There’d been no bombs falling back then though and she’d imagined it would be mostly driving wounded soldiers about, not going out in the middle of air raids.
Of all of them, Winnie was the bravest so her fear seemed odd. She was forty-one, the oldest unless you counted Maurice who was positively ancient. She was a trained nurse and midwife and she could handle an ambulance better than any of the other drivers. It wasn’t until Isobel heard her talking to the big Irishman that she figured it out. This wharf was where Winnie’s husband worked. She never said much about him but Isobel knew he was the one who’d taught her to drive. She also knew they were estranged. She had no idea why. Although Winnie talked a lot it was rarely about herself. She was clearly worried about him though.
They soon patched up the little dark gypsy looking men who owned the boatyard, and tended to a small cut on the Irishman’s head that he hadn’t even noticed. By this time it was coming up to five o’clock. They should have handed over to the late shift at four. The noise of the bombs had stopped and the sound of planes was now a distant hum but the sky was filled with smoke and the smell of a damp bonfire night. Carefully, they sloshed back to the ambulance through rivulets of the firemen’s water. The men were reeling in their hoses and preparing to leave too.
Instead of turning back towards the school, Winnie headed towards the docks. Isobel gave her a puzzled look.
‘There’s no point wasting time going back to hand over when we’re here,’ Winnie explained. ‘It’s pretty obvious the docks have been hit and maybe the bottom of town too. We’ve got an empty ambulance, we might as well see if there’s anything we can do to help.’
It made sense but Isobel had an idea Winnie’s keenness was more about checking up on her husband than anything. The Irishman had told her he’d gone up there.
The closer they got to the docks the thicker the smoke became. It was like driving through foul smelling fog. Even with the windows closed it seeped into the cab and caught at their throats. It was a most peculiar smell, as if someone had burned a very large roast dinner. When they got to the dock gate an A.R.P. man stopped them. His tired face was streaked with black smuts.
‘The cold store has bought it,’ he shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was telling them. ‘The whole place has gone up in flames and there’s melted butter running out with the water and tons of meat burning up. Some poor bugger is trapped on the roof and they’re trying to get him down with a crane but there’s plenty of docks ambulances on standby and hundred’s of firemen. It’ll take a month of Sundays to put it out I should think. They might need some help on the High Street though, a few bombs have fallen there.’
‘You haven’t seen Percy Barfoot have you?’ Winnie asked with her hand over her nose to keep out the cloying smell. ‘Big chap, scar on his face.’
‘Yeah, I know Percy,’ the man smiled. ‘He came along earlier but he’s gone up to the High Street to see if he can help there.’
They reached the High Street just as the steady wail of the all clear sounded. It was a devastating and disorienting sight. Where there had once been rows of familiar shop and office fronts there was now a mass of rubble, broken glass and thick smoke that made it seem like dusk rather than just after five o’clock. The streets were running with water and firemen’s hoses were draped everywhere. There was nothing to show what businesses any of the teetering piles of bricks and shattered windows had once been although Isobel was certain one of them had been the Pickford’s furniture store. Firemen were playing their hoses on the wreckage, men in tin hats were frantically digging and the walking wounded were wandering around or sitting amongst the debris looking stunned.
There was no time to take it all in or think about it. They stopped, got out of the ambulance and got stuck in bandaging up cuts from flying glass, splinting broken limbs and loading shocked, silent people into the ambulance until they could fit no more. Winnie was distracted, constantly looking around for her husband. Isobel heard her ask the same question again and again.
‘Have you seen a tall chap, scar down the side of his face, Percy Barfoot?’
Plenty had seen him, some even said they knew him, but no one could point out where he was now.
As they set off to the hospital with their load of wounded Isobel felt strangely elated. Partly it was relief to be getting away from the chaos of rubble, teetering buildings and the choking smoke and brick dust. There was also an element of pride in a job well done. They’d been tested and not found wanting. Winnie had been right about excitement too. No one wanted the bombs to fall but dashing into the turmoil, seeing first hand the things that others would only read about in the newspaper and actually putting all their training to use was thrilling in a strange way. She turned and looked at Winnie’s dirt streaked face. It was a mask of concentration and worry.
Isobel understood Winnie’s concern. If she’d thought her Jack had been amongst all the devastation she’d be worried about him too. Thankfully, Jack would be at work in the shipyard on the other side of the river now. His A.R.P. duties didn’t start until the evening. It was a bind because her strange shifts at the first aid post and his three nights a week on air raid duties put a real dampener on their courtship and she knew she wouldn’t see him tonight because he was on duty. Still, she was lucky to have a handsome man like Jack, even if she couldn’t work out what he saw in a plain Jane like her. She might not get to see him as often as she liked but he worked in a reserved occupation so she did get to see him. If he’d been a serviceman he’d be stationed at barracks somewhere and would only get home occasionally when he got leave. Sooner or later he’d be sent off somewhere to fight with no choice about when, or where. Tomorrow she’d see Jack and she’d be able to tell him all about her daring adventure.
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