Stories
Jean Whitehead Wilde
THE WOMEN’S LAND ARMY
1941. For a year I had been a Civil Servant, Cotton Control at Arkwright
House, behind Kendals, Manchester. As the war was in progress I felt the
urge to do something for my Country. I persuaded a friend to think about
volunteering, joining up for the Land Army. The office we were working
in gave their full support.
We enlisted at Dover Street, Manchester and inspected by a doctor to see
if we were fit enough. As I was only 5 ft 2 tractor driving a no, no for
me. Home again, wait for call up, my friend went first, two weeks later
my turn.
Take the train to Grange over Sands. I was to report to a farm called
Hare Hills in Newton-in-Cartmel. I hired a taxi to take me to this
remote place. Now in the farmyard, walked up to the front door and rang
the bell. Oh my, what a fool I was. Glowered at by Mrs Marsden, how dare
I use the front door. Trainees must use the back entrance. A TAXI! Had I
not got two feet? The door slammed in my face, so round the back I walk,
past a barn. Out of the little window my friend’s face looking at me.
She was covered with cold sores, what a sorry sight. Not a promising
start.
Recalling each and every detail is beyond me now, 67 years have passed
by but some things are still with me from that first day. Eight girls
taken into a large field, at one end a midden; told to use buckets and
wheelbarrow, move all of this muck to the other end of this big field.
Such a task, city girls not used to lifting weights. What a sight we
must have made staggering there and back, took us many hours. It was
hot, now and then we were allowed a drink of milkless tea, which tasted
wonderful. Lunchtime, a bagging arrived for each of us, door stop
sandwiches and fruit. We were all so hungry. The job finished, felt
quite pleased with ourselves. Mrs Marsden came to supervise, told us if
we were quick about it, could bring it all back before dark! This was
called training in mind and body. Some girls were crying. Not me! I was
determined whatever they threw at me I would not give her the
satisfaction of beating me. At a later date we found out it was the
toughest farm in the country.
My job was to go out with a farm hand, walk miles and miles up in the
hills, collect the sheep, bring them down into the lower pasture, count
them; 60 in all. I quite enjoyed this, we did it morning and evening.
Sheep are nervous animals, one runs and all follow, knocking down the
dry stonewalls. Which we had to repair.
Soon I was sent alone to do this task, so must have suited Mrs Marsden!
Would collect mushrooms for breakfast and when the sheep were in the
lower pasture an old ram would sit beside me and I would tickle his
head, we were friends from then on.
My friend and I were sent to bring in the cows for milking, we did a
good job of rounding them up. The entrance to the shippen was on a very
steep hill from the field. I mention this as one day the cows were
pushing each other and one came over the wall and was killed.
We fastened up the cows, stood back pleased with ourselves. Oh dear,
what silly girls, said Mrs Marsden, stupid enough to bring in two bulls.
Now we had to unfasten them and get them back into the field. Yes, we
were nervous and felt a couple of fools.
We slept two to a room on camp beds, one blanket, no light. We hung a
torch on a piece of string. After work we were given a large bowl of
water, yes it was hot. Between all of us! So faces first, work our way
down, finish off with our feet. For eight girls this was tough. Put our
towels onto the hedge to dry, next morning all gone. The goats had eaten
them.
Learning how to milk, put onto a cow who knew some tricks, pull hard no
milk. The farmer’s son would sit and out gashed milk. Eventually we got
the hang of it. Push up into the bag with the teat, she would hold onto
her milk. A good way of teaching us the tricks of the trade.
A job we all enjoyed, ditching. Alongside most fields runs a stream,
which gets overgrown with weeds and grass, our job to clear away and get
the water running freely. We would laugh and sing, really enjoying
ourselves. If it rained we went into the garage and cleaned the Bentley
and the sports car.
The uniform - a hat with a badge, breeches, green jumper, cream shirt,
WLA tie, armbands, long socks, brown walking shoes, dungarees, long mac,
wellingtons. One time we went to Preston to join a march, we were
hopeless, our socks kept slipping down. How the ATS and WRENS laughed at
us.
We had one day off in the month. Great excitement, getting into our
uniform for the first time, as we had spent all our time in wellies and
overalls. Oh how our shoes hurt. It was a long walk to the bus stop,
mostly downhill. We get into Grange, look at the shops, had our tea in a
cafe. Our return journey - bus ride, long walk uphill. We were lucky
some soldiers passing in a truck took us to the farm. It was so kind of
them. In our day we were all nice to each other. We were tired out, with
blisters on our feet.
My friend and I were sent to another farm to help out cutting wood on a
chain saw without a guard. It was a long walk and on the way we had to
cross a field with two mad horses that would chase us, very frightening.
Yes, we were afraid. Getting to the farm for breakfast, porridge, lovely
with black treacle. Would you like a cup of tea? Yes please, oh poured
into the same bowl. Lunch same again; meat, pots and gravy. Very nice.
Pudding plonked onto the same plate. Rice pudding and gravy. You soon
learned to eat up and clear the plate.
Scything one day, flies all around our faces, the farmer says it’s
because you’re city girls. We all laughed - he had as many as us but
didn’t notice them. All of a sudden a scream. One of the girls had
disturbed a wasp’s nest. They were all in her hair. Poor girl, she was
rushed to the pump, the water drowning the wasps. She was covered with
stings, her face so swollen she could hardly see out of her eyes.
The toilet was a shed raised high over a pit. A two seater, no lock on
the door, so you just had to sing. Just newspaper cut up, and choose
your companion. When emptied all was put under the fruit trees in
trenches, the best fruit you’ve ever tasted.
Time to move on! My friend gone to a chicken farm at Fulwood, near
Preston.
My allotted farm was in Astley Green, just off the East Lancs Road,
belonging to Manchester Collieries Head Office, Walkden.
THAT'S ANOTHER STORY
1941 After a month’s training at a farm in Newton in Cartmel, in the
Lake District, called Hare Hills, it was time for a move to an allotted
farm.
My farm was in Astley Green, just off the East Lanes Road, belonging to
Manchester Collieries head office in Walkden. The farmer, Mr Greensit,
with his wife and daughter Jean ran the farm. They turned out to be such
very nice people. The house was a Monastery and we lived in one half. In
the other half an uncle, aunt and son.
I spent a lot of time down at the other farm, a good walk across the
canal through the fields. On the winter nights and early mornings I took
a storm lantern. This would not be allowed today as I was only a young
girl, but I came to no harm. Thank goodness!
My work there was milking by hand and filling up the churns ready for
collection. Collecting swedes and turnips, and in a large sort of mincer
would cut up the food for the cattle. Mr Greensit then taught me how to
drive the van, he was very strict but fair, he had been an Army Sergeant
in the First World War. He taught me a lot about life and how to look
after myself. He always called me Tim. I was treated as a second
daughter.
My job now was to go out with a horse and cart to deliver milk to the
Collieries. Had to load up with 15-gallon kits, this was heavy work and
I was taught how to lift so as not to harm myself. Moseley Common is the
only one name I remember, the miners were always so helpful.
Then they bought me a lovely milk float with a pony, which I named
Midge. I would have to call at head office in Walkden. We had a lot of
very thick fog; this one occasion, coming down the East Lanes Road, I
could not see a hand in front of me and went straight over the
roundabout. At the same time a tank went the other way. The noise, so
loud, frightened my pony, who bolted. I lost all my empty churns. They
clattered onto the road. I managed to stop the pony and tied him to a
lamppost, retrieved the churns. Phew, what a morning!
I put on a lot of weight, the amount of food we ate was enormous. My
sister and her boyfriend came on a visit, couldn’t believe the meals
they were given.
We would go to church on Sunday. Halfway through the service Mr Greensit
would take me outside for a fag. I laugh when I recall this. The nephew
and I became friends, much to the delight of the family. He was called
up and joined the Army, thought I would wait for him. Sorry, I didn’t
want to get involved, so a move was called for. Many years later I did
go back with Bill, my husband, and the children. We got such a lovely
welcome. How the children enjoyed the farm.
I moved onto another farm at Mawdsley near Chorley. My friend and I
trying to get to the same farm; no luck she was sent to Overton. Eight
girls living in a cottage on the estate. I did all the cooking. All I
had was a paraffin stove and a side oven, so each morning, as we went
out to milk, would put a frying pan of bacon on top of the paraffin
stove, and when we got back for breakfast it was nearly ready to eat.
Would phone my mother; she would tell me how to make a rice pudding and
casserole, these in the side oven. I was allowed a morning off to go a
long walk to the only shop. How I got back I do not remember, or who
paid for the food.
I was taught to drive the tractor and how to plough; also taught to
harness Shire horses to go out alone again to harrow. The first time I
spent ages and finished up with the harrow between me and the horses.
Oh, how they laughed at me. It was a big farm. We were all in a 40-acre
field, with a flat-bottomed trailer loaded up with lime; given the
instructions: ‘work on this side and get burnt, work that side to be
safe.’ At least half the girls took the wrong side and got burnt.
Down to another farm belonging to another son, for threshing. What a
dirty job. I was put on the chaff, the worst job of all. It was dusty,
itchy work. A farmhand put a nest of baby mice down my neck, pink
squiggly things, one had to learn to be a sport and laugh or they would
tease you all the more. Next job! Move the bales into a circle around
the machine. We all had pitch forks to catch the rats which ran out as
we closed in. Horrible!
In the evening girls and farmhands would walk to Great Eccleston, in a
shed we were shown films, it was a long walk in pitch dark, had lots of
laughs; enjoyed the night off. Also walked to Rufford, caught a train to
Preston to go dancing. On the return journey we were tired out, but it
was worth it.
One morning loaded up onto a wagon, taken to Ince Blundle to work with
the Italian prisoners of war. It was a good day out, good food. The
weather was kind to us as we were working in the fields.
Another son called Hugh took me to market in a 5 ton truck, which I
drove. At the market would climb on top of the sacks of potatoes and
other produce. A chap said: ‘Throw us some rhubarb Blondie.’ Then I was
sent into the room to get a brew, it was full of market men. Oh how I
was kidded, I learnt just to laugh at them. We next went to the fish and
chip shops with potatoes, had some good lunches.
One day, with yet another son, working just the two of us; muck
spreading. We stood back to back working away from each other, all at
once he moved and my pitchfork went through his arm. I can’t remember,
must have run up to the farm. He was taken to hospital. This was not my
fault and I was never told off or blamed.
Many years later, I was married with children, read in the paper how a
farmer had died after being dragged off the tractor. It was the old man
I had worked for. We all set off to visit and say how sorry we were,
invited in but no they did not remember me; they had had so many Land
Girls. Even my name Jean Adams. All at once the son rolled up his shirt
sleeve, and there was the scar from the pitch fork. We had tea with them
the children so enjoyed running about the farm.
When I had first arrived at this farm, my father and sister took me in
the car. They were made welcome and must stay for lunch, given a boiled
egg each with nowhere to put it. My sister so nonplussed, just a deal
table no egg cup, she was then shown what to do, just bang the egg and
it would stand up on the flat bottom. I believe she cried on their way
home, she did not like leaving me to rough it. I was as happy as a
Sandboy.
We were charged for the eggs we ate, one day a hen laid her eggs just
outside our door. In no time they were in a pan for our tea, next day we
collected them they were awful, as we had thrown out our kipper bits
onto to grass and the hen had eaten them. We had fishy eggs, it served
us right.
What a lot I learned. How to pick strawberries, also the backbreaking
work of picking potatoes; these put into sacks, which we had to carry on
our backs, hundred weights. Now we were working like the men we were
here for. How we looked forward to a Black and Tan down at the pub. Not
long after this work I had to go home. I had strained my stomach
muscles; attend Hospital for diathermy treatment. What a treat to have a
rest.
Change of farm, at last managed to get to the same farm as my friend.
Taveners Farm owned by a gentleman farmer, with two public school boys;
one in his late twenties, one in late teens. A daughter, Molly, with a
husband. Molly worked so hard doing all the washing, ironing and
cooking, she must have hated it.
My job, bring in the cows, milk them, bottle up, in for breakfast. Molly
always made a lovely one. Bacon, fried potatoes. Out again to load up
the van, crates and crates of bottles for my milk round in Heysham and
Morecambe. The van was a Commer with no brakes, given a brick; have gone
into many a garden wall. I got to know some of my customers but most at
work. Would stop for a break, eat a whole Swiss roll and a pint of milk,
always so hungry, finish the job and back to the farm in time for lunch.
Sometimes we helped out on the farm in the afternoon, once a week I
drove to Lancaster to collect pig swill. On one of these journeys I had
quite an adventure. It was a tidal road; the sea well in. A lorry driver
stuck in the middle, he had rolled up his trouser legs and was wading
around. All I could do was shout to him: ‘I will tell someone, reverse
out if you can.’ Then I had a long drive round. This road goes past the
Golden Ball pub which is well known.
One day my father called to see me. He stood in the kitchen, could not
believe how we lived, and the home life we had given up to do our bit
for the War Effort.
As we collected the cows, would pick blackberries, get a big bowl full,
hand them to Molly who would cook them, make a Junket in a very large
bowl. These we ate for our lunch, they were lovely. We smoked in those
days, could get cheap cigs as Molly’s husband worked on the docks at
Heysham.
We had a lot of fun on our time off. Would go down to Morecambe, always
on our bikes, dance at the Winter Gardens, visit the Theatre, also the
Cinema, Then the long ride back. Up early each morning about 5 am. I
sometimes overslept, would get shouted at; into the shippen, laughing
and singing, oh this did annoy all of them. I made it up as I was a good
worker.
We made friends with some of the soldiers at the camp, would go up to
their dances and play Housey, Housey; one memory which stays with me a
crowd of soldiers and us dancing and singing along the Prom. Oh to be
young and carefree.
Michael, Frank and Alex were good friends, when their wives came on a
visit we all still went out together. One night riding up to camp, a
road up. I went to the left my friend to the right; trust me to take the
wrong way, landed in a hole with water at the bottom, finished up in the
Sergeants’ mess drying out. Oh how we laughed!
I started to have a lot of pain in one of my fingers, every time I
changed gear caught it on the dashboard it was so painful. Had to visit
a doctor who told me that I had a Whitlow. This was my swan song, had to
return home. The danger of Tetanus. Saw my own doctor, who lanced it.
She was an Irish RC, full of fun, always said: ‘Go on Jean, teach me
those swear words you have learned in the Land Army.’
Back to tell you some snippets. When we came in at night from out time
out, would open the kitchen door, could not walk across the floor
without treading on the cockroaches. The whole room was black with them.
Thank goodness our supper was in a tin for us.
Back from my milk round one day wet through, it had poured all morning,
Molly says: ‘There’s a mustard bath for you Jean.’ Oh how lovely, not
too hot but very welcome. After, find out that the farmer, and my
friend, had been in before me. That’s war for you, only allowed 5 inches
of water.
Coming back off leave I was on a train, the fog was so thick when we got
into the station, no way of getting back to the farm. As luck will have
it a girl in the same carriage says: ‘Come home with me.’ Back to her
house, she gave me a drink, I slept on the floor. This was the spirit
during the war, always ready to help one another. They came from the
farm to collect me in the morning, my guardian angel at work again.
Back to the Whitlow. On and on it went, still so painful, had it lanced
again but no, it was in need of hospital treatment. Admitted into
Crumpsall Hospital, full operation, socks and hat on, told afterwards
when it was cut the puss shot all over the place had to wait a few days
and then the gauze padding had to be pulled out, this had done the
trick. A tiny piece of infected glass from a milk bottle whilst washing
up in the dairy. All this had taken twelve months, as I had to attend
each day for dressings.
Another memory, we worked overtime hay making for a month and guess
what, we got a pound each, our wages were 26 shillings a week. One more
thing, on my milk round in Heysham, up a very steep hill, my clutch
went. With no brakes came backwards across the main road. Lucky for me
an army convey passing at the time. They shout: ‘It’s Jean.’ Saved
again! I wonder how many of my nine lives I’ve used up?
Directed Labour decided my future. I was sent to Ferranti’s in New
Moston. It was a wonderful life wouldn’t have missed it for anything.
by Jean
Whitehead Wilde
The Women's Land Army BBC site click here
Army
A Dry Stone Wall click here wall
