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It wasn't long though before my selfish attitude changed. The first stirring was the sight of a Flying Fortress which had crash landed at one of the aerodromes we passed on the way to work, its nose buried in the ground and its American crew all killed. Then shortly afterwards, after being called to the telephone, one of our companions departed swiftly, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and all we could do was stand silently and watch, unable to find words to express our sorrow at the news that her husband had been killed. The very next week came the news that my own pilot cousin had been killed, and following on its heels, the communication that my own sailor boy friend was missing. In my new found grief I tore all his letters up and pushed them into the dormitory stove and spent the next few weeks regretting it, until I heard that he was safe. At last I could understand the anguish our leader must have felt, until the warden tiptoed down the dormitory in the middle of the night to tell her that her air crew husband was back safely from another operation one less to the end of his tour. And I could sympathise with another friend who had married an American serviceman in haste, and was now repenting at leisure, as he had left her for another girl. I started to realise that it wasn't only in my own little circle that this was happening. It was going on all over the world. Other people were getting telephone calls and opening telegrams. What of the people at home, like my parents, struggling with their meagre rations, making and mending with so much in short supply. Others who had been bombed out of houses, losing all their possessions, but still smiling and making new lives for themselves. And even more praying nightly for their loved ones, their whereabouts unknown. And at last I grew up in the realisation that I was there for a purpose. It may only be a drop in the ocean, but I was also helping the war effort, and it was my responsibility to do the best I could.

When the potato picking was finished there came the carrots. I've never been able to look one in the face since. When the ground was soft and the carrots large, the sacks were soon filled, but on the days when there was frost on the ground, or the carrots small and weedy, it was back breaking work tugging them out of the ground with cold, dirty fingers. On occasions the wholesalers would refuse to accept them if the quality was poor, so we would also have to forfeit our bonus too. Parsnips were even worse, as their long roots would creep along under the earth, and no amount of tugging and pulling with broken finger nails would loosen them, and they would have to be dug out. It was a work of art trying to stuff the elusive vegetables into the sacks, and we would toil until it was too dark to see what we were doing. On the days when it was too wet, or the ground was too frozen for field work, the bailiff for the particular area we were working in would lead us into one of the several large stone barns, where we would climb rickety ladders into the lofts and sort potatoes stored there, the mouldy smell clinging to our fingers and nostrils. This tedious job did have its compensations though, as there was an open fire in the area below and at dinner time we could toast our sandwiches, and a couple of old farm labourers would boil a kettle and make tea for us. Some of the mould and dirt rubbed off our fingers on to our sandwiches, but it didn't appear to bother us.

Then one day, my prayers were answered, and the news came through that I had been assigned a place at a dairy school over the other side of Lincoln. I was to get my wish at last! I reported to the small school with 7 other land girls from other hostels, and I was soon to learn that there was much more to milking a cow than sticking a bucket underneath it. Before we were even allowed near a cow we had to learn the skills of hand milking from charts and diagrams, and even a model cow. We had to learn how to calculate the milk yield and enter it on the Government forms. Buckets and equipment had to be scrubbed and sterilised, and as machine milking was also taught, I would get a mental block trying to assemble the machine, and I always had a few pieces left over! We had to be shown how to soothe a recalcitrant beast and to tie a downright bad tempered one. We were also to learn that feeding played an enormous part, which included carrying the heavy sacks of fodder, bales of hay, and buckets of sliced mangolds into the cow sheds. Mucking out had to be accomplished to such a standard according to our tutor that one could eat off the floor. The cows themselves were rather a mixed bag, as they were long past their best as high yield milkers, and, therefore, all getting on a bit. As a cow will not willingly give its milk to an inexperienced operator, nobody could blame those in authority for not letting us loose on valuable cattle. I shall never forget the first time I milked a cow though the feel of her hairy warmth and I dug my head into her side, the soft crunch of her munching hay, and the occasional low or belch and the sweet smell of the warm milk as it hissed into the bucket. When I had finished, the cow looked round at me as if to say 'Not bad', then promptly had an 'accident' down my milking smock!

Four of us were billeted at an old very old rectory a mile or two up the road from the school. As we had to get up earlier than the other girls based there we were assigned a huge, bare, ground floor room. There were no carpets or rugs on the wooden floor, and the only furniture apart from 4 bunks ranged against one wall, were 2 wooden chairs and a very badly chipped dresser. The windows were enormous and without any blackout, so we were only allowed to use an oil lamp. And what trouble we had with that too! We had no idea how to trim the wick or stop it from smoking, and got more paraffin on ourselves than in the reservoir when we attempted to fill it. We broke so many lamp chimneys that the homely, if rather old fashioned, warden told us that we would have to pay 2/6d. for a new one the next time it happened quite a large sum out of our meagre pay. At night if one of our quartet was out late, we would lie in our bunks in the moonlit room talking about whatever 18 year olds do talk about, and listening to the mice scuffling in the ancient grate, until a soft tap on the window was a sign to open it and help the truant over the window sill. That stopped when a heavy steel tipped Land Army shoe went through the window one night, and the crash of glass brought the hair netted warden hurrying in. The next day we stood before her in the office like naughty schoolchildren, but after a mock angry "Oh, you four again", we were let off with a scolding.

When we weren't milking or working in the cow sheds or dairy, we had other chores to do the most tiring was hoeing beet. Those interminable rows when to relieve the boredom we would tell each other plots of films we had seen or books we had read, and what we couldn't remember we made up. The most exhausting job though was when three of us were sent to fetch 3 cows, which were passed their prime, from a farm a few miles away, to add to our ill assorted herd. It didn't take long to get there on our bicycles, but getting back was an entirely different matter, as the poor old cows must have been very comfortable where they were, thank you very much, and they just didn't want to come back with us! We would just get them together and fan out round them pushing our bicycles, when one would break free and lumber back, then by the time we had persuaded her to go in the same direction as us, the other 2 had wandered off in different directions, and we had to start all over again. This went on for hours with the obstinate creatures trespassing into the gardens, wandering down the banks of streams, or persisting in going back home. It was never like this in the Western films we had seen, where cowboys rounded up thousands of steers. Such were our thoughts as we got hotter and thirstier, and more and more frustrated. Finally, one disappeared altogether, and the sun was almost setting when, dropping with fatigue, we arrived back with 2 equally fed up cows. We expected trouble, but our tutor met us speechless with laughter, and I suppose we did look a sorry sight. We had lost a cow, missed our dinner, and even worse, were about 4 hours late for milking! We were to discover though that the missing cow had preceded us by a couple of hours, in a horse box driven by its previous owner, our quota of milking had been shared by the other girls, and oh joy our dinner had been kept hot for us. We slept well that night!

I spent a lot of my spare time with Dick, an old retired cart horse, who lived on a farm near the school. He was a dear old boy and would let me do anything with him. I would scramble on his back and we would plod slowly round the lanes, his ears twitching as I chatted to him. Unfortunately, he had a habit of leaning on me if I was leading him, or standing with him in the farmyard. If I was close to a building or a wall, I often narrowly escaped being crushed. I was returning to the farm on Dick's back as dusk was falling on 7th. May, 1945, when the farmer shouted to me that the war was over, and he was going to the village pub to celebrate. I thought he was joking, but when I arrived back at the rectory, and the excited chatter of the other girls, I was convinced that it was true, and we spent the evening crowded around the radio to catch any crumb of news. We got very little sleep that night, and the next morning those girls who were not trainees were allowed to go home for a couple of days to celebrate the peace with their families. However, after milking, we were told that hurried arrangements had been made to cover the evening milking, and we were free for the rest of the day. We went wild! Grabbing our bikes we raced through the lanes and villages, whooping, singing and shouting and calling out to everybody we saw. Passing the gates of an aerodrome, we
stopped to talk to four Air Force boys, who invited us to their mess to celebrate. Now, apart from the odd sherry at Christmas, I had never touched alcohol, but allowed myself to be persuaded that cider wouldn't do me any harm! Oh dear, how wrong they were. I have a hazy recollection of the four of us, and our bikes, being driven back to the rectory in some sort of truck, but more than that has disappeared into oblivion. What I did learn the next morning was that I had invited the four boys to dinner at the rectory the next day and that they had accepted. I was very subdued milking my group of cows, wondering how on earth I was going to explain to the warden when the lads turned up on the doorstep. We finally concocted a rather flimsy story that one of them was a cousin I had bumped into, and as it was such a special occasion, we thought it would be acceptable to invite them to a meal. It was obvious the warden didn't believe us, but because the four of us had been unable to go on leave with the others, she consented. And she really did us proud and laid on a slap up meal, albeit, now and again with a mischievous grin, she would ask my 'cousin' about 'our' family background!

The following Sunday a Victory parade was to take place through the streets of Lincoln, and we were invited to join the Land Army contingent. Since we had been on our milking course we had not had an opportunity to go into the town, so we agreed with alacrity. Resplendent in our best breeches and sweaters, our shoes carefully polished and our hair well brushed, we presented ourselves at our assembly point close to the Cathedral, together with other Land Girls and members of the armed forces. We were pushed and pulled into some semblance of order, and after a few false starts we commenced our march down the hill into the town. We were surprised to find the pavements crammed with people shouting and cheering and waving Union Jacks, the youngsters at the kerb edge jumping up and down, caught up in the fever of excitement, even though they didn't realise what it was all about. Now it was a very windy day and as I was badly in need of a hair cut I found that I required to hold my hat on, but as I couldn't do this and march with the arms swinging at the same time, my hat kept blowing off into the crowd, and I had to keep dashing after it. This amused the watching crowd, but brought scowls and rude remarks from the other Land Girls, much to my embarrassment. After my hat, covered in dust by now, had been retrieved for the umpteenth time, a man in the crowd said "Never mind ducks, you are doing a fine job all of you", I no longer felt self conscious, but very proud, and marched with my head held high and my arms swinging but my hat clutched safely in my hand! We drew the loudest applause from the crowd, which confirmed that despite the fact that we weren't recognised as part of the armed forces, we had no gratuities or other perks to look forward to, we were doing a good job, and it wasn't only Lady Violet Bonham Carter and a few others who championed us there were all these people too. I shall never forget the following lines which appeared in a Sunday newspaper shortly afterwards. I think it was A. J. P. Taylor who wrote them

We called them Army, gave them uniform,
They fought to feed us - the dark, the dirt, the storm,
Are we now to deny the soldier his due?
No, no, Britannia this is not like you.
They gave their all these ladies of the loam,
Pray let them take a little harvest home.

the words still bring tears to my eyes.

Continued ...

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