On an outride yesterday , I came across this old Military Base and an Airfield with a control tower.
I served in the SOUTH AFRICAN AIRFORCE for 10 Years and I recalled having landed there some 20 yrs ago,
We landed there with 2 Super Frelon Helicopters .
We did night Flying there and had a lekker braai too.
I had always wonderd where that Airfield was.
I did some investigating on the INTERNET and found out , that the Military Base was actually a Radar Station from the Second World War that was run by Women and that the SAAF and RAF had run the airfield , which were both called Summersfield.
I found this beautiful piece of writing by one of the Ladies that had served there from 1942 and I think it appropriate to post it here in remembrance of all those Ladies long forgotten.
Life on the radar stations:
An operator's view
By Sheilah Lloyd
My nostalgic task is to call back the past - and try to resurrect for you the kind of life we led in the early 'forties, when women began to take over the radar stations, thus releasing men for the battle fronts.
Within a couple of months of South Africa's declaration of war in September 1939, Cape Town - my home town - became an extremely busy port, and its streets thronged with uniforms. Before the end of the year, the aircraft carrier, the Ark Royal, had docked in Table Bay, and during the first half of 1940 troopships had included the Aquitania, and Mauretania and the Queen Mary. When convoys and troopships were in the docks, hospitality was organized on a vast scale by that marvelous band of women, the SAWAS, and I, like hundreds of other Cape Town girls, found myself working hard driving the troops around, making beds, preparing meals and serving them at the Soldiers' Club and the Mayor's Garden Canteen - and then wiping the fish and chips from my fingers and dancing non-stop to hearty tunes like 'Roll out the Barrel' and 'Run, Rabbit, Run' and doing the 'Lambeth Walk'.
There were German, Italian and Japanese submarines in our waters, and as the lights of Cape Town and Durban lit up the silhouettes of ships in harbor, making them easy targets, a blackout was enforced. Street lighting disappeared, windows were covered each night, and only small pin-points of light were allowed to show from car headlights, so that night driving, particularly in the winter rains in Cape Town, was hazardous and difficult. (incidentally, 160 ships were sunk or damaged within 1 000 miles of the coasts of South Africa during the war years.)
In 1941 the Italians capitulated in Abyssinia and South Africa were released from the East African campaign to the desert battle zones. Letters from Egypt included photos of pyramids and camels - and some other local attractions - and we read in the newspapers about the battle of Sidi Rezegh where Springbok troops fought bravely under General Dan Pienaar. We also read of a place called Tobruk, which seemed perpetually under siege, and a new German leader called General Rommel. And then, in June 1942, Tobruk fell to Rommel and thousands of our troops went into prisoner-of-war camps.
By now, the Special Signals Services Unit had come into being; coastal stations were set up, and radar sets installed, all this in the deepest secrecy. Women operators were recruited among university graduates, and at the end of 1942 I joined the SSS, took the oath of secrecy, and, along with four other Cape Town girls, Beryl, Helen, Mary and Barbara, traveled by train to Johannesburg for the start of our training course.
I will just remember briefly of some of the people involved. Kind and motherly Staff-Sergeant Pollock shepherded us from the station to the Services Club in Pritchard Street which became our temporary home. She also conducted us to the Army depot where we were issued with our uniforms: do you remember those greenish-khaki lisle bloomers and stockings, understandably dubbed 'passion klllers'? And our relief on hearing we did not have to wear them but could buy our own! And do you remember the wonderful tailor, Mr Pharboo, to whom we were sent if we wanted to splash out on a tailored uniform for best wear? He was amazingly quick and efficient, and the cost of the finished articles was about three pounds!
Staff-Sergeant Parry taught us squad drill and Morse, and the Wits physical training instructor, a wiry Scot called Mr Ferguson, took us for PT. I have a couple of snapshots of us doing a tortuous exercise of which he was very fond called 'A-sses to the left! A-sses to the right!'
Captain Nancy Blue came into our lives - decisive, pretty and impeccably turned out: a perfect example of the way one should look in uniform, but seldom did! Today, when our group visited the Wits campus and the BPI, two members of the first course, Ruth van Tichelen (who was Ruth Gemmel) and Sylvia Goodman (who was Sylvia Newby) placed some flowers below the plaque which has been set up at the BPI commemorating Nancy Blue.
Then there was Colonel Hodges - the brilliant scientist who was O.C. SSS at the time. He lectured to us about cathode rays and other useful things, all of which I have regrettably now forgotten. But I have not forgotten his saying kindly, "It is very important to me that my girls should be happy". Happy I think we all were. For me, life seemed to bloom. Our course was interesting and our off-duty hours filled with pleasant things.
Those of us who wished to qualify for something called a 'U-licence' permitting us to drive military vehicles, underwent a driving test at Joubert Park. Few had driven anything as large as an army truck before, and the poor corporal who had to test us looked pale and shaken by the time my turn arrived, wiping his brow frequently and casting his eyes heavenwards in silent prayer. Doubtless he had been instructed to control his language, since he said as little as possible during the exercise, and that in a low mutter! I was most relieved when he 'passed' me.
Back in Cape Town for the second part of the course, we were stationed at Green Point Barracks, and subjected to proper military discipline, saluting officers left and right and taking our turns with orderly duties in the barracks. The kindly drill instructor we had in Johannesburg was replaced by a fiery little man - Staff-Sergeant Stewart - whose parade-ground voice could have been heard down in the docks. He was fond of roaring "SSS? I'll tell you what that stands for! Soldate Sonder Sense! That's all it means!"
Each day we traveled to our Headquarters in what, before the war, had been the German Club of Cape Town. Some of the lectures we attended were given by a very young Major Frank Hewitt. We found him most agreeable to look at as well as listen to.
Finally came our passing-out parade - and our postings. I had always loved the sea and was delighted to learn that I was among the girls being posted to the stations rather than to the filter room ('Freddy') which was in the city. It was thus a little ironic to discover that I was the only one of my course being posted to an inland station, called 'Somersveld'.
Somersveld
Having said goodbye to everyone, I caught a morning train to Darling - a journey which in those days took almost three hours. I was met at the station by Penny, who was to become a good friend. She had a sparkling personality, greeny-hazel eyes, and a tiny waist which I never ceased to envy. She took me to the ration van, and the driver, a colourful and confident character known as 'Red', entertained us with tales of his desert exploits as we drove along a dry, dusty road to Somersveld.
The layout of all the stations was, I think, fairly standard, with the mess, kitchen and recreation rooms in one block, separate sleeping quarters for men and women, the women's quarters always protected by what was called a 'chastity fence', and the operation Section situated some distance from the living quarters.
Our Officer Commanding, Lt Mrs Hartshorne, was a tall lady with a shock of grey curly hair a rather forbidding expression, which I soon realized cloaked a deep kindness. As befitted the wife of a brigadier, she maintained discipline and kept a firm eye on us, but she had a very genuine concern for our welfare.
That night I did my first shift with Penny and Lil. I can still remember the ride down to the Tech site, standing in the open back of a truck, and climbing down frequently to open and shut gates. The sky, above the flat, empty veld, seemed to blaze with stars. Inside the Tech Hut it was warm and smoky. Most of us smoked in those days - it was almost taken for granted, as a sign of adulthood. I was introduced to the set and was thrilled when I picked up my first echo. Somersveld was not high enough to pick up shipping on the west coast, although we were within the possible range, and ships were therefore covered by another station, Yzerfontein, on the coast. But there was a big air force station nearby, training pilots for both the RAF and the SAAF, and so Somersveld read only on aircraft.
I was taught about our relationship with the filter room, 'Freddy' - who received our readings over the phone and plotted them on a big table from where they were relayed to Combined Operations - so that air and sea traffic was constantly monitored.
On my first daytime shift I was taught how to take a weather report. One went outside, licked a finer and held it up to determine wind direction, decided what kind of clouds there were, and whether it was hot or cold. If these weather reports were ever of use to anyone, we never knew! There was also the routine of 'taking a visual' whenever a plane showing up on the screen looked as though it was approaching our station. One rushed outside, gazed anxiously up at the sky and returned to report that it was an Anson, a Ventura or a Catalina. I was assured that these were the only three types of planes which crossed the Somersveld skies. However, on one delightful and much remembered occasion, the newest recruit on a shift was sent on one of these recognition sorties without having been properly briefed. Accordingly, she rushed back, wide-eyed, and reported, "It is a bi-plane. It has got a wing on the right and a wing on the left!"
In the evening when we were off-duty, the rec. room became a cosy place, orange curtains drawn against the night, and a fire blazing cheerfully. People gathered around, to read, write letters, play Chinese Checkers, knit or chat, and there was always a bridge table set out. Mrs Hartshorne was a very keen player, and if you did not play bridge before being posted to Somersveld, you certainly did by the time you left! She liked a game every evening, if possible and if a fourth player was lacking, had no compunction about roping in some absolute beginner and teaching her as the game progressed. One person, however, who she never persuaded to learn bridge was our Station Commander, Lt David Davidson. He was a good-looking young man, inevitably nicknamed 'Devastating Dave' by the irrepressible Penny, who had nicknames for everyone. After watching him resist all blandishments with a charming smile, we decided that he had been thoroughly briefed on the pitfalls which lurked for any young, unmarried Station Commander in the Special Signals - for he did not fraternise! On the rare evenings when he was not on duty at the Tech Site, he retreated happily to his own little sitting-room, where he sat in front of his fire, feet up on the mantelpiece, pipe in mouth, and nose in a book. "Such a waste!" was the oft-heard comment on him from the girls, who all competed to take him his tea on those evenings, but could never elicit more than a smile and a brief word of thanks.
At least three people at Somersveld - Meg, Dodo and Paul - loved classical music and struggled sometimes to listen to concerts on the wireless - difficult, in the all-purpose rec.room. Often the ancient gramophone was played. As you will remember, in those far-off days one had to keep winding up those things to keep them going. I can shut my eyes and still hear one particular Chopin Etude which was frequently played at Somersveld, and see Paul standing next to the gramophone, a rapt look on his face and hand outstretched ready to wind it if the record started to run down - while Dodo lay full length on the hearthrug, eyes closed, cigarette in mouth, blowing out peaceful and perfect smoke rings.
Sometimes we were free to accept invitations to dances at the Air Force Camp, or parties at surrounding farms. They were awfully kind to us, those farmers - the Bassons, the Duckitts and others. On a Sunday, they would often drive out to Somersveld and take girls home with them to swim or ride or just enjoy the marvellous farm food. Trips to Darling to collect rations and post also provided some limited opportunities for shopping and refreshment. After the hot dusty drive, a cold beer in one or other of the two hotels was very welcome. The general dealer stocked some goods which had become unobtainable in Cape Town, including Coates embroidery silks, which were discovered with delight by some of the girls. Occasionally we found condensed milk on the shelf - and would buy tins with glee, pierce two holes in the lid and stroll back to the ration van, sucking blissfully at the sweet, sticky liquid. Somehow that memory encapsulates for me the way we were then at Somersveld - young, silly, innocent and happy.
One bit of excitement I recall with some amusement. Our Station Commander was away on pass, the technical staff were on duty at the Tech site, and we girls had already gone to bed, when some sort of bush telegraph buzzed through the sleeping quarters. Very soon the whole lot of us had crept outside, and from a gap in the chastity fence we watched Mrs Hartshorne, who, clad in a thick dressing gown with her army shoes protruding below and her hair in disarray, had taken up a stance under a light at the entrance to the camp. In her right hand she clutched a large army revolver. We could hear the sound of a truck approaching, and in due course it stopped inside the gate and the driver climbed out. He saluted the strange apparition awaiting him, and then, somewhat unceremoniously, bundled out a clearly very drunk member of our technical staff, who fell unhappily in a heap at Mrs Hartshorne's feet.
Having peered down at him and established that he was in no state to present any threat to her girls, she put the revolver away in her dressing gown pocket and issued a few firm instructions to the driver, who hauled the unhappy victim to his feet and headed with him to the men's quarters. Shortly after this misdemeanour he was transferred to another station.
Because the train journey to Cape Town was so long and tedious, when going on pass we gladly accepted whatever lifts were offered in Darling, sometimes in very strange conveyances. I remember once Penny and I rode in on the back of a milk lorry, snugly ensconced among great clattering milk cans. On another occasion, three of the girls travelled in the back of a hearse, along with a coffin! They were never sure whether it was empty or not. When we did have to travel by train there was always a long stop at a place called Kalabas Kraal, where the steam engine had to receive water and other attentions. There was a hotel next to the station, and most of the passengers disembarked and streamed across the tracks to the bar. As soon as the engine had been refuelled the driver would give three short blasts on his whistle, and dozens of sailors, soldiers and airmen - and a few SSS girls - would down their last mouthfuls and return to the train. Inevitably there were always a few stragglers, usually sailors joyfully on pass from Saldanha, who delayed their departure from the pub too long, and had to run after the train. However, the driver was very tolerant and chugged along slowly until the last lingerer had been safely dragged aboard.
One cold July evening a movement order came across the lines via Freddy - and five of us, cosy and snug in the Somersveld nest, were instructed to pack our bags and report at headquarters in Cape Town. We had been selected to attend a special course. No-one knew what kind of course - but the rumour circulated, over the phones, that it had something to do with morse. This rumour plunged us into deep gloom, and with despondency Meg, Lore, Margaret, Marge and I said our goodbyes and caught the train for Cape Town.
Robben Island
To our relief, the mysterious course turned out to have nothing to do with morse code. It appeared that about 20 girls from the SSS had been selected to do a coastal artillery course on Robben Island.
I served in the SOUTH AFRICAN AIRFORCE for 10 Years and I recalled having landed there some 20 yrs ago,
We landed there with 2 Super Frelon Helicopters .
We did night Flying there and had a lekker braai too.
I had always wonderd where that Airfield was.
I did some investigating on the INTERNET and found out , that the Military Base was actually a Radar Station from the Second World War that was run by Women and that the SAAF and RAF had run the airfield , which were both called Summersfield.
I found this beautiful piece of writing by one of the Ladies that had served there from 1942 and I think it appropriate to post it here in remembrance of all those Ladies long forgotten.
Life on the radar stations:
An operator's view
By Sheilah Lloyd
My nostalgic task is to call back the past - and try to resurrect for you the kind of life we led in the early 'forties, when women began to take over the radar stations, thus releasing men for the battle fronts.
Within a couple of months of South Africa's declaration of war in September 1939, Cape Town - my home town - became an extremely busy port, and its streets thronged with uniforms. Before the end of the year, the aircraft carrier, the Ark Royal, had docked in Table Bay, and during the first half of 1940 troopships had included the Aquitania, and Mauretania and the Queen Mary. When convoys and troopships were in the docks, hospitality was organized on a vast scale by that marvelous band of women, the SAWAS, and I, like hundreds of other Cape Town girls, found myself working hard driving the troops around, making beds, preparing meals and serving them at the Soldiers' Club and the Mayor's Garden Canteen - and then wiping the fish and chips from my fingers and dancing non-stop to hearty tunes like 'Roll out the Barrel' and 'Run, Rabbit, Run' and doing the 'Lambeth Walk'.
There were German, Italian and Japanese submarines in our waters, and as the lights of Cape Town and Durban lit up the silhouettes of ships in harbor, making them easy targets, a blackout was enforced. Street lighting disappeared, windows were covered each night, and only small pin-points of light were allowed to show from car headlights, so that night driving, particularly in the winter rains in Cape Town, was hazardous and difficult. (incidentally, 160 ships were sunk or damaged within 1 000 miles of the coasts of South Africa during the war years.)
In 1941 the Italians capitulated in Abyssinia and South Africa were released from the East African campaign to the desert battle zones. Letters from Egypt included photos of pyramids and camels - and some other local attractions - and we read in the newspapers about the battle of Sidi Rezegh where Springbok troops fought bravely under General Dan Pienaar. We also read of a place called Tobruk, which seemed perpetually under siege, and a new German leader called General Rommel. And then, in June 1942, Tobruk fell to Rommel and thousands of our troops went into prisoner-of-war camps.
By now, the Special Signals Services Unit had come into being; coastal stations were set up, and radar sets installed, all this in the deepest secrecy. Women operators were recruited among university graduates, and at the end of 1942 I joined the SSS, took the oath of secrecy, and, along with four other Cape Town girls, Beryl, Helen, Mary and Barbara, traveled by train to Johannesburg for the start of our training course.
I will just remember briefly of some of the people involved. Kind and motherly Staff-Sergeant Pollock shepherded us from the station to the Services Club in Pritchard Street which became our temporary home. She also conducted us to the Army depot where we were issued with our uniforms: do you remember those greenish-khaki lisle bloomers and stockings, understandably dubbed 'passion klllers'? And our relief on hearing we did not have to wear them but could buy our own! And do you remember the wonderful tailor, Mr Pharboo, to whom we were sent if we wanted to splash out on a tailored uniform for best wear? He was amazingly quick and efficient, and the cost of the finished articles was about three pounds!
Staff-Sergeant Parry taught us squad drill and Morse, and the Wits physical training instructor, a wiry Scot called Mr Ferguson, took us for PT. I have a couple of snapshots of us doing a tortuous exercise of which he was very fond called 'A-sses to the left! A-sses to the right!'
Captain Nancy Blue came into our lives - decisive, pretty and impeccably turned out: a perfect example of the way one should look in uniform, but seldom did! Today, when our group visited the Wits campus and the BPI, two members of the first course, Ruth van Tichelen (who was Ruth Gemmel) and Sylvia Goodman (who was Sylvia Newby) placed some flowers below the plaque which has been set up at the BPI commemorating Nancy Blue.
Then there was Colonel Hodges - the brilliant scientist who was O.C. SSS at the time. He lectured to us about cathode rays and other useful things, all of which I have regrettably now forgotten. But I have not forgotten his saying kindly, "It is very important to me that my girls should be happy". Happy I think we all were. For me, life seemed to bloom. Our course was interesting and our off-duty hours filled with pleasant things.
Those of us who wished to qualify for something called a 'U-licence' permitting us to drive military vehicles, underwent a driving test at Joubert Park. Few had driven anything as large as an army truck before, and the poor corporal who had to test us looked pale and shaken by the time my turn arrived, wiping his brow frequently and casting his eyes heavenwards in silent prayer. Doubtless he had been instructed to control his language, since he said as little as possible during the exercise, and that in a low mutter! I was most relieved when he 'passed' me.
Back in Cape Town for the second part of the course, we were stationed at Green Point Barracks, and subjected to proper military discipline, saluting officers left and right and taking our turns with orderly duties in the barracks. The kindly drill instructor we had in Johannesburg was replaced by a fiery little man - Staff-Sergeant Stewart - whose parade-ground voice could have been heard down in the docks. He was fond of roaring "SSS? I'll tell you what that stands for! Soldate Sonder Sense! That's all it means!"
Each day we traveled to our Headquarters in what, before the war, had been the German Club of Cape Town. Some of the lectures we attended were given by a very young Major Frank Hewitt. We found him most agreeable to look at as well as listen to.
Finally came our passing-out parade - and our postings. I had always loved the sea and was delighted to learn that I was among the girls being posted to the stations rather than to the filter room ('Freddy') which was in the city. It was thus a little ironic to discover that I was the only one of my course being posted to an inland station, called 'Somersveld'.
Somersveld
Having said goodbye to everyone, I caught a morning train to Darling - a journey which in those days took almost three hours. I was met at the station by Penny, who was to become a good friend. She had a sparkling personality, greeny-hazel eyes, and a tiny waist which I never ceased to envy. She took me to the ration van, and the driver, a colourful and confident character known as 'Red', entertained us with tales of his desert exploits as we drove along a dry, dusty road to Somersveld.
The layout of all the stations was, I think, fairly standard, with the mess, kitchen and recreation rooms in one block, separate sleeping quarters for men and women, the women's quarters always protected by what was called a 'chastity fence', and the operation Section situated some distance from the living quarters.
Our Officer Commanding, Lt Mrs Hartshorne, was a tall lady with a shock of grey curly hair a rather forbidding expression, which I soon realized cloaked a deep kindness. As befitted the wife of a brigadier, she maintained discipline and kept a firm eye on us, but she had a very genuine concern for our welfare.
That night I did my first shift with Penny and Lil. I can still remember the ride down to the Tech site, standing in the open back of a truck, and climbing down frequently to open and shut gates. The sky, above the flat, empty veld, seemed to blaze with stars. Inside the Tech Hut it was warm and smoky. Most of us smoked in those days - it was almost taken for granted, as a sign of adulthood. I was introduced to the set and was thrilled when I picked up my first echo. Somersveld was not high enough to pick up shipping on the west coast, although we were within the possible range, and ships were therefore covered by another station, Yzerfontein, on the coast. But there was a big air force station nearby, training pilots for both the RAF and the SAAF, and so Somersveld read only on aircraft.
I was taught about our relationship with the filter room, 'Freddy' - who received our readings over the phone and plotted them on a big table from where they were relayed to Combined Operations - so that air and sea traffic was constantly monitored.
On my first daytime shift I was taught how to take a weather report. One went outside, licked a finer and held it up to determine wind direction, decided what kind of clouds there were, and whether it was hot or cold. If these weather reports were ever of use to anyone, we never knew! There was also the routine of 'taking a visual' whenever a plane showing up on the screen looked as though it was approaching our station. One rushed outside, gazed anxiously up at the sky and returned to report that it was an Anson, a Ventura or a Catalina. I was assured that these were the only three types of planes which crossed the Somersveld skies. However, on one delightful and much remembered occasion, the newest recruit on a shift was sent on one of these recognition sorties without having been properly briefed. Accordingly, she rushed back, wide-eyed, and reported, "It is a bi-plane. It has got a wing on the right and a wing on the left!"
In the evening when we were off-duty, the rec. room became a cosy place, orange curtains drawn against the night, and a fire blazing cheerfully. People gathered around, to read, write letters, play Chinese Checkers, knit or chat, and there was always a bridge table set out. Mrs Hartshorne was a very keen player, and if you did not play bridge before being posted to Somersveld, you certainly did by the time you left! She liked a game every evening, if possible and if a fourth player was lacking, had no compunction about roping in some absolute beginner and teaching her as the game progressed. One person, however, who she never persuaded to learn bridge was our Station Commander, Lt David Davidson. He was a good-looking young man, inevitably nicknamed 'Devastating Dave' by the irrepressible Penny, who had nicknames for everyone. After watching him resist all blandishments with a charming smile, we decided that he had been thoroughly briefed on the pitfalls which lurked for any young, unmarried Station Commander in the Special Signals - for he did not fraternise! On the rare evenings when he was not on duty at the Tech Site, he retreated happily to his own little sitting-room, where he sat in front of his fire, feet up on the mantelpiece, pipe in mouth, and nose in a book. "Such a waste!" was the oft-heard comment on him from the girls, who all competed to take him his tea on those evenings, but could never elicit more than a smile and a brief word of thanks.
At least three people at Somersveld - Meg, Dodo and Paul - loved classical music and struggled sometimes to listen to concerts on the wireless - difficult, in the all-purpose rec.room. Often the ancient gramophone was played. As you will remember, in those far-off days one had to keep winding up those things to keep them going. I can shut my eyes and still hear one particular Chopin Etude which was frequently played at Somersveld, and see Paul standing next to the gramophone, a rapt look on his face and hand outstretched ready to wind it if the record started to run down - while Dodo lay full length on the hearthrug, eyes closed, cigarette in mouth, blowing out peaceful and perfect smoke rings.
Sometimes we were free to accept invitations to dances at the Air Force Camp, or parties at surrounding farms. They were awfully kind to us, those farmers - the Bassons, the Duckitts and others. On a Sunday, they would often drive out to Somersveld and take girls home with them to swim or ride or just enjoy the marvellous farm food. Trips to Darling to collect rations and post also provided some limited opportunities for shopping and refreshment. After the hot dusty drive, a cold beer in one or other of the two hotels was very welcome. The general dealer stocked some goods which had become unobtainable in Cape Town, including Coates embroidery silks, which were discovered with delight by some of the girls. Occasionally we found condensed milk on the shelf - and would buy tins with glee, pierce two holes in the lid and stroll back to the ration van, sucking blissfully at the sweet, sticky liquid. Somehow that memory encapsulates for me the way we were then at Somersveld - young, silly, innocent and happy.
One bit of excitement I recall with some amusement. Our Station Commander was away on pass, the technical staff were on duty at the Tech site, and we girls had already gone to bed, when some sort of bush telegraph buzzed through the sleeping quarters. Very soon the whole lot of us had crept outside, and from a gap in the chastity fence we watched Mrs Hartshorne, who, clad in a thick dressing gown with her army shoes protruding below and her hair in disarray, had taken up a stance under a light at the entrance to the camp. In her right hand she clutched a large army revolver. We could hear the sound of a truck approaching, and in due course it stopped inside the gate and the driver climbed out. He saluted the strange apparition awaiting him, and then, somewhat unceremoniously, bundled out a clearly very drunk member of our technical staff, who fell unhappily in a heap at Mrs Hartshorne's feet.
Having peered down at him and established that he was in no state to present any threat to her girls, she put the revolver away in her dressing gown pocket and issued a few firm instructions to the driver, who hauled the unhappy victim to his feet and headed with him to the men's quarters. Shortly after this misdemeanour he was transferred to another station.
Because the train journey to Cape Town was so long and tedious, when going on pass we gladly accepted whatever lifts were offered in Darling, sometimes in very strange conveyances. I remember once Penny and I rode in on the back of a milk lorry, snugly ensconced among great clattering milk cans. On another occasion, three of the girls travelled in the back of a hearse, along with a coffin! They were never sure whether it was empty or not. When we did have to travel by train there was always a long stop at a place called Kalabas Kraal, where the steam engine had to receive water and other attentions. There was a hotel next to the station, and most of the passengers disembarked and streamed across the tracks to the bar. As soon as the engine had been refuelled the driver would give three short blasts on his whistle, and dozens of sailors, soldiers and airmen - and a few SSS girls - would down their last mouthfuls and return to the train. Inevitably there were always a few stragglers, usually sailors joyfully on pass from Saldanha, who delayed their departure from the pub too long, and had to run after the train. However, the driver was very tolerant and chugged along slowly until the last lingerer had been safely dragged aboard.
One cold July evening a movement order came across the lines via Freddy - and five of us, cosy and snug in the Somersveld nest, were instructed to pack our bags and report at headquarters in Cape Town. We had been selected to attend a special course. No-one knew what kind of course - but the rumour circulated, over the phones, that it had something to do with morse. This rumour plunged us into deep gloom, and with despondency Meg, Lore, Margaret, Marge and I said our goodbyes and caught the train for Cape Town.
Robben Island
To our relief, the mysterious course turned out to have nothing to do with morse code. It appeared that about 20 girls from the SSS had been selected to do a coastal artillery course on Robben Island.
