Three days later I came home and told my parents I had found a way to go overseas.
Book Two
November 1941–June 1944
7
I opened my eyes to darkness that was blacker than the inside of a black cat, as Dad would say. My bed was tilted to one side. An unpleasant odour of diesel fuel mixed with perfume hung in the air. And what was that thundering sound? A thud, thud, thud like muffled drumbeats from a distant pow-wow.
Then my mind cleared. It was the sound of marching feet. Troops were boarding the ship in Halifax Harbour and I was far below, lying on the upper bunk of a triple-decker bunk bed, crammed with eight other girls into a cabin built for four.
A drowsy voice spoke. “Anybody know what time it is?”
A match flared and a second voice said: “Seven hundred hours. Better get dressed.”
“How long does it take to load fifteen thousand men, anyway? They’ve been at it all night.”
A third voice, shriller than the others: “Fifteen thousand? The notice on the wall says there are only enough lifeboats for three thousand.”
“Well, for once being a woman might do some good, eh?” another voice chimed in. “At least we get first crack at the lifeboats when the torpedo hits!” Suddenly I felt an urgent desire to get upstairs on deck.
We took turns washing in the cubbyhole called a head. Shivering with excitement, I pulled on my Harris Tweed trousers and rooted around in my suitcase until I found the crimson cable-knit cardigan that Mother had knitted as a goodbye gift.
As I buckled on my life preserver, a knock sounded on the steel doorframe. The door itself had been replaced with an army blanket to prevent us being trapped if the ship went down. It was Mrs. Simpson and a burly naval officer who would accompany us everywhere.
“Girls, the men are under orders not to speak to you, or even look at you,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Please behave yourselves, and don’t go anywhere without an escort.”
We ascended to the dining room on slanted stairs. The rhythm of marching feet finally came to a halt as the last man boarded and the ship levelled off.
When we finished our scrambled eggs, we went out on deck, accompanied by our officer, and stood at the rail watching the docks below. Bands were playing, hundreds of brightly dressed women and children were waving and calling, their voices carried away by the salty breeze that burned my cheeks. I had seen dozens of farewell scenes in the last two years, but this time it was different. Finally, I was the one going to war.
The throb of the engines grew louder and vibrated through our feet, the horn sent forth an ear-splitting blast, and the sullen grey water below us heaved as the tugboats pushed the ship away from shore. The crowd waved and wept. One mother picked up her baby’s arm and flapped it back and forth.
I wondered when I would see my beloved country again. My heartstrings felt stretched to the breaking point, as if they were attached to dry land. The hot tears overflowed and trickled down my icy cheeks. Gradually the watery gap widened, the cries grew fainter, and the faces became indistinct. I stayed at the rail, straining my eyes until the shore shrank into a distant black line.
Then a mighty roar sounded overhead as three Sunderlands appeared to port bearing the RCAF insignia. The troops let out a yell, almost trampling each other in their hurry to get to the portside rail, and the women weren’t far behind.
These were the strangest airplanes I had ever seen. Their heavy bellies made them look like pregnant cows with wings. Despite their odd shape, they flew as gracefully as eagles, circling low across the white-capped waves as they searched for the dreaded German wolf packs.
All morning I remained on deck, watching them wheeling and swooping, until my face was numb with cold and my hair was a tangled mass. But eventually they circled the ship one last time and waggled their wings farewell and good luck before turning back to shore.
We had now entered the Atlantic’s black pit, too far for aircraft to reach from either side of the ocean. If the ship went down here, there would be little chance of survival. We were very much alone on the vast sea.
Suddenly there was a tremendous lurch and the deck tilted sharply. The girl next to me screamed and grabbed my arm to keep from falling. “Nothing to worry about,” our officer said. “The captain is just taking evasive action.” A few seconds later, with another jerk, the ship swerved in the opposite direction.
The decks fell quiet while everyone clung to the rail and tried to accustom themselves to the zigzagging motion. I had a funny feeling in the soles of my feet as I imagined a German submarine below the ship, aiming a torpedo at our massive hull. It was the first time that I, Rose Marie Jolliffe, was in personal danger from the enemy. It would take some getting used to.
As I gazed down into the churning wake, unrolling behind us like a length of gigantic white rick-rack while the ship staggered drunkenly from side to side, I remembered how much my parents had wanted me to stay at home.
“But why can’t you join the Canadian air force?” Dad asked me again, as we sat around the kitchen table after supper.
“I don’t want to peel potatoes at some air base in another prairie town just like this one. I want to go overseas and work on a real operational station. Canada might never send women to England, and even if it does, it might take years. But I can’t stay here any longer. I just can’t.”
“My dear girl, are you sure this is how you want to spend your hard-earned money?” Mother asked sorrowfully.
“You know I was saving for university, but that will just have to wait until after the war.”
Dad shook his head. “I still don’t understand how you wangled this.”
“It was the most amazing stroke of luck. The British Women’s Volunteer Force stopped at the train station this afternoon on their trip across Canada, and their leader, Mrs. Simpson, said as long as I pay my own way she’ll arrange my passage to England and let me travel with them. Once I arrive, I’m free to enlist in the British air force.”
“You’re positive the air force wants you?” Dad was persistent.
“I’m a British subject, and besides, they can’t afford to be choosy! Dad, they’re taking every woman over sixteen!
“You’re so lucky, Rose.” Jack broke in. “I’ll be over there myself pretty soon.” Dad and Mother turned to him with a sick expression on their faces, and for a moment I suspected they had forgotten all about me.
“I’ll be perfectly safe,” I repeated. “There’s no danger since the Blitz ended. You know we’re going to win the war — it’s only a question of when. If people like me join up, it’ll be over that much sooner!”
Oxford, England
November 19, 1941
Dear Mother and Dad and Jack,
I arrived here yesterday, imagining myself a world traveller already. The trip across Canada was gorgeous until we reached Ontario, and then it was nothing but huge boulders and huge tree trunks. In Quebec City we stopped for an hour while a party of French Canadian soldiers boarded, and it was so funny to hear our boys in uniform speaking a “foreign” language. We finally arrived in Halifax and saw the ocean for the first time.