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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Elizabeth Perez of Stockport Libraries on behalf of Mary Blood and has been added to the site with her permission. She fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

Mary’s story, together with the war story of her husband, Harry Blood, was transcribed onto a floppy disc by Fred Kennington, thereby saving Stockport Library Service staff an immense amount of work!

Apart from the normal working hours, we had to do duty as ‘duty airwoman’. That meant accompanying an N.C.O., doing whatever she needed you to do, and you were based in the Guardroom. This was in addition to your normal shift, and the frequency depended on the number of W.A.A.Fs. on the station.

After finishing the 0600 shift, you could leave the camp, assuming that the edict for two-thirds of personnel to be available was obeyed. Since Coltishall was only about eight miles from Norwich, you could get in sometimes, by walking across to Scottow Cross and catching a bus. Norwich was a beautiful city, as it was before the 'Baedecker Air Raids' that so devastated the city in 1942. We used to wander round, go to the pictures, or sit on the river-bank when the weather was fine. Another favourite spot was a department store called Bond’s. It had a tea-room just off the furniture department, so we sat near all the elegant furniture. It overlooked the Bus Station in Surrey Street, so there was a bird’s eye view while we waited for the bus. The waitresses were very nice; they got to know us W.A.A.Fs. and they looked after us very well. I think they had a bit of a soft spot for us. It was really a haven of peace. It did not remain that way, being destroyed in those later raids.

We had the usual dances, and there were visits from the ENSA parties. Another was a visit by Ralph Reader’s Gang Show, whose signature tune was ‘We’re riding along on the crest of a wave, etc….’ I had a programme from that with his autograph on, but it got damaged later.

Another short, and not sweet, event was a plague of earwigs at the camp. It must have lasted a couple of months. The M.O. said it was due to hot weather with them coming off the dry grass. Now if you think that earwigs can’t fly and don’t bite then you are wrong. At least, Norfolk-bred earwigs have strong wings and sharp teeth. I had the marks on me! They got in the bed; when you came to draw the mess room curtains, a crowd of them would fall off. In the Mess kitchens, where we did the cooking by steam, the pipes were lagged. The lagging was covered – black – with them, and we had to pull it off to remove them, and get rid of it. Lying in bed at night it was, ‘plop, plop, plop,’ as they fell from the ceiling on to the floor – or you. They even got into the inside of loaves of bread. I have no idea how we got rid of them but we did.

I said earlier that I had a minor brush with an officer at Wittering for failing to wear my gas mask. But gas masks were still felt necessary when I was at Coltishall. There was a series of exercises to represent gas attacks. On one, we had to report at the decontamination section, where we were divided into groups. Some were required to go round the camp with rattles – the kind they used to have at football matches later. Before you could do that, there was a routine. You took your clothes off, replaced them with long johns, a long sleeved vest and socks, then long white fishermen’s socks. Over that you had yellow waterproof trousers and wellies. Over the top you had a yellow jacket and a sou’wester. Another person had to help you don this gear. Then, you had to run round to warn the camp of the gas attack. I may be being unkind to the devisors of this exercise but, by the time you got all this gear on, we could all have succumbed to poison gas! Once you had done your bit, you had to return to the decontamination centre, somebody had to help you out of the gear, and you took a shower. Others followed suit. That was the practice attack. There was also another and more unpleasant procedure. You had to sample the ‘real stuff’. A group of you went to a hut that had a heavy curtain inside the door. The N.C.O. outside said, ‘Right, you, you and you go in’, after which he slung a canister of gas into the hut. You had to make your way to the door at the other end, in total darkness, and come out outside, nose and eyes running, and coughing, having experienced an unpleasant gas.

As time passed, the buildings were completed; we got a wooden hut for our own Mess, near the Married Quarters where we were billeted. More W.A.A.Fs. had arrived; the station was also fully operational by then with many more airmen, too. Things settled down into more of a routine. People tried to make more entertainment. The station had personnel, who could play instruments. Some of them got together and formed a station band; a few more got together to start a concert party, which supplemented what came to the camp by E.N.S.A.

Dancing was very popular. There were camp dances. Before the R.A.F. Regiment was set up, the Army guarded the station. They were based in Coltishall village, and we were always invited to their dances and ‘We’ll provide transport’. We got out to dances in other villages, and some of us got invitations into homes in the area. With fifteen W.A.A.Fs., we could not really have camp dances, but as the number of W.AA.Fs. increased, maybe between 100 and 200, then there was scope. Women were in short supply, so we were always in demand!

Uniform shoes were black, laced and rather heavy. They were not quite suitable for dancing, so a local entrepreneur came to the rescue. He was a cobbler in a nearby village. Having some good black leather, he measured our feet and made us shoes, exactly to the W.A.A.F. pattern, but about a third of the weight. This was the only time I ever had a pair of hand-made shoes, and they weren’t even very dear. Dancing was much easier after that. I carried those shoes with me for the rest of my service life.

By this time many more women had joined the W.A.A.F. and the original six trades were multiplied as personnel were needed. Training had become more organised with some of the skilled trades, such as wireless operators, flight mechanics, etc. getting six-month courses. The women joined the men as mechanics out on the aircraft. Some of them had special rations of milk because they were working with ‘dope’. The world of work was changing rapidly.

Myself, I was still in the Airmen’s Mess, and we were catering for up to a thousand personnel. They were coming and going day-by-day, and on no two days did we have the same numbers. There was also the need to feed staff overnight. Anti-aircraft batteries were in position round the camp manned by soldiers and they had to be fed. They would also take out food in ‘hay boxes’ to feed men on the gun emplacements. When we went to Coltishall, the Mess was manned by men, women taking over from them as far as possible, but still retaining some male cooks and a man, a F/Sgt., in charge. Bear in mind that we had whole sides of beef, etc. to deal with and they were dealt with by the men.

I must have been OK at the job, as I was promoted from ACW2 (Aircraftswoman Grade 2) to ACW1, and, in due course to LACW (Leading Aircraftswoman). Life continued with highlights sometimes and tragedies other times, and the air raids continued. Looking back, I coped well and, in many ways, it was a happy time, and you felt you were doing a good job.

I am not sure if it was 1941 or 1942, but it was the 25th anniversary of the setting up of the W.A.A.F., so it had to be noted. All the girls were given a day off, and we wondered how it should be celebrated. The cookhouse made a cake, and everybody got a piece. The P.T.Is. (Physical Training Instructors) came up with the idea we should do a gymnastic display, and had us training for weeks. I had to lead a group of about thirty girls prancing about a field doing these exercises. In the afternoon we had to play cricket. Now we had practised beforehand using men’s bats. When the day came, we were given women’s bats that were that much shorter. Not having used them before, we were put right off. Anyway, that’s our story! The W.A.A.Fs. challenged the male cookhouse staff to a game of netball. The Flight Sergeant in charge said, ‘That’s a cissy game’, but nevertheless we had the game. He was over six feet tall which reduced our chances of winning, and so, the men won. There was a sting in the tail, or more appropriately, in the ribs. Somebody collided with the F/Sgt. and he ended up with three broken ribs. He was never to regard it as a ‘cissy game’ again.

On a more serious note, I must explain what the procedure was in organising the food for all these personnel. It didn’t happen just by chance. In charge was an officer, the Messing Officer, with a Corporal to help. The F/Sgt was in charge of the cookhouse. The basic rations such as flour, sugar, meat, etc. were delivered from depots in the general area. The depots would have served several R.A.F. stations. The rations themselves were a certain quantity per capita. Over and above that, the Messing Officer received a cash allowance per capita, I think it was about 1/3d, which he could spend as he wished. As we were in a rural area where fresh vegetables, etc. were available from the farms, then the Messing Officer could go out and buy what he wanted. This was excellent for us as the food at Coltishall was always good, better than it would have been had we been in an urban area like Uxbridge. In saying that, it depended, of course, on the competence of the Messing Officer as to how we did.

You couldn’t be catering on the huge scale we did without accidents. There were quite a number and I had a nasty one. I was carrying plates, about thirty of them, and stepped on a tiny drop of gravy splashed on the floor and not wiped up. Down I went, hands on the tiled floor and plates breaking everywhere. I had badly cut hands. I was carted off to sickbay where they stuck both hands in acriflavine. The M.O. looked at it and said, ‘I think it needs stitches’. He added, ‘If this had been before the war in my Harley Street practice, I couldn’t have stitched it for you’. It was hardly reassuring. I had a couple of days off work and then light duties to keep my hands out of water. To this day I’m obsessive about wiping up anything spilt on the floor, and cringe when I see a cup put on the floor.

Squadrons changed about every six weeks or so to give those on active service a rest. Early in 1942 we got the first Polish and Czech squadrons at Coltishall and, of course, different aircraft types. The Czech pilots had mainly Beaufighters. One night we were getting ready for bed when we heard a crash. Going out, a fighter had crashed in front of the W.A.A.F. Officers’ Mess. There was nothing anybody could do, as live ammunition was shooting in all directions. We went to bed more than shaken at the sight. About the same time, another pilot, this one Polish, crashed nearby. Within a couple of weeks, we had two military funerals and had to parade for them. The funerals were attended by the respective Presidents of Poland and Czechoslovakia, General Sikorski, and Edouard Beneš. General Sikorski died not long after in a helicopter crash. The Beaufighters had an unfortunate reputation. If you were unlucky enough to crash, then it was a considerable problem to escape from the aircraft such were the cockpit arrangements. That reputation gave them the name ‘flying coffins’.

I have mentioned many times the air raids on the camp. Coltishall was not alone in that respect. Norfolk had many air bases, targets for the Luftwaffe. The first air raid in Norfolk was in May 1940, when R.A.F. West Raynham was bombed. It was quickly followed by raids on the others. Norwich and Yarmouth were under the flight paths for these raids and had constant ‘alerts’. Those towns would not escape the raids. Norwich had its first air raid on 9th July 1940, before even London. On that occasion the Boulton & Paul aircraft factory was the target. Records tell that there were over 260 raids in 1940 alone.

Worse was to come. British bombers did considerable damage on a raid on the German city of Lűbeck. This so incensed Hitler that he ordered what became to be known as the ‘Baedecker Raids', made of British towns of historical importance. Canterbury, Exeter, Bath, York and Norwich were the targets. Norwich received its raid on 27th April 1942. The next evening there was an exodus from the city, the people taking with them a few belongings to sleep out in the country. This became known as ‘trekking’ and was frowned upon by the Government. However it happened in many provincial towns subjected to raids. Some years after the war, I visited Lűbeck with Harry, my husband. It had by then been rebuilt after the bomb damage and it was a beautiful city.

Now when the big ‘Baedecker Raid' took place, I was home on leave. The morning after the raid, I returned to camp, coming by train from Peterborough to Norwich. It is a day I remember vividly. Thorpe Station in Norwich is some distance from city centre, the opposite side to the Bus Station; it must be about a mile away. The station had been badly damaged in the air raid, and the city centre devastated, but the cathedral, with its tall spire, still stood over the city. I had to pick my way up Prince of Wales Road through the rubble, go past the castle and through more rubble to reach the Bus Station. I had to stop on the way to visit a toilet that was reasonably intact. There was a notice there to say that all water must be boiled. Nearing the Bus Station, I came to my favourite department store and tearoom, or rather, what was left of it. It had taken a direct hit and was a smouldering ruin. The Bus Station, normally busy, was absolutely heaving. Masses of people there, some carrying blankets, etc. I did manage to get on a Coltishall-bound bus, packed to the gunnels. About four or five miles outside the city, most of these people and blankets left the bus. They were going out into the country to sleep. After that the bus quietened down and I got off as usual at Scottow Cross. That night I went to bed very grateful for having a bed to go to. I knew nothing about the name ‘trekkers’ but I had been in the middle of them.

There was the occasional romance at the station. We had a couple who worked in the Airmen’s Mess who took up with each other. They married there when they were just under twenty-one. In those days, parental permission had to be given before ‘minors’ could marry. John had not been in touch with his father for a long time, and he had great difficulty in getting in touch with him. Right up to the morning of the wedding, no permission had arrived. It came more or less when they were at the church, and the wedding took place as planned. They rented a small cottage in the village. They had a son after Eileen had been discharged, and she moved to the Bristol area. That would have been the end of it for me until, much later, I had been posted to Brussels. I went into the Airmen’s Mess there and – who should serve me but John. I kept in touch with Eileen until she died, aged 80.

So much for my days at Coltishall. Late in 1942 I was told to go to the Orderly Room to be told I was posted to R.A.F. Kirton Lindsey. ‘Take your clearance chit round’. I was sorry to leave Coltishall, although there was the benefit that Kirton was in Lincolnshire and not far from my family in Lincoln itself.

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