Disclaimer: Sam, her father, her Uncle Aubrey, and (as far I can tell) the village of Leavenham, Hampshire, are all the creations of Anthony Horowitz; I have given a name and (I hope) a personality to Sam's mother, a character referred to in canon but never seen or named. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit sought.
Gil Shalos1's wonderful stories on this site inspired me to make Sam a diarist.
The extensive use of italics and underlining in this story is intended to simulate handwriting. The gray line indicates that the date has changed. This revised version contains bits of Downton Abbey and Home Fires crossover for your amusement.
Thursday 31 August
Twenty years old today. Beautiful gift from Aunt Amy and Uncle Michael (they are here 'til Saturday! Huzzah!) – diary for 1940, bound in green Morocco, with my name on the front! Have therefore resolved to make real effort at keeping a diary, i.e. not simply thinking about what I would write if I did keep a diary. Uncle Aubrey telephoned; lovely cards from other uncles. Had nice letter from Laura B. on Tuesday.
Later – Uncle spent all afternoon until tea talking with Dad in D's study. Politics, I think. D very gloomy afterwards, though Uncle in high spirits. Plan for tea in garden scotched due to rain, but very nice anyway, though Mother in bad temper. Doesn't much like Aunt A being here, I think.
Later still – Heard on wireless that blackout regulations to be imposed effective tomorrow - as in last war, Aunt A says. Mother says we still have blackout curtains from then, I am to bring them down from the attic and hang them. Also, Germany claiming Polish attack on wireless station, place called Glyvits.
Friday 1 September
Just heard on wireless Germany invaded Poland this morning. Nothing in papers - probably happened too long after midnight. Will go to village for afternoon paper. But Times has short item about Gleiwitz wireless station. Germany claims Polish spies forced their way in and sent out signal for Poland to attack Germany. Uncle most upset, says is undoubtedly German trick and we should never have let them re-arm after last war.
Almost lunch time – Aunt and Uncle leaving today after lunch rather than tomorrow as planned.
Evening – Unable to go to village due to Mother needing hot compress for sciatica. Wireless to rescue (even though Dad dislikes) – invasion by ground troops just before dawn today, followed by air raids on cities. Absolutely not provoked. We are mobilising along with France; have promised in past to support Poland and will fulfill promise. Dad organizing Vesper service for tomorrow eve.; can hear him on telephone now, asking people in parish to spread the word.
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Braithfield Farm
Fullerton Road
Red Rice, Andover, Hampshire
1 September 1939
My dear Sam,
We have arrived at home within the past hour, and I will write a bread-and-butter letter to your parents momentarily; but before I forget yet again, I must take a moment to share with you the enclosed clippings from The Times that I have been saving for you (that I neglected to bring these with me to Lyminster simply beggars belief!), and to share with you a few thoughts that presented themselves during the trip back to Hampshire.
The situation in which we now find ourselves is without question very grave indeed; but my prayer for you is that it will present you with an opportunity to create some place for yourself in the world, and that you will be able to grasp that opportunity. I am increasingly convinced, and concerned, that this will never happen if you remain at home in Lyminster.
We are all bound by the Lord's commandment to honour our parents, and we owe them duty while they are alive. But the smallness, the isolation and the far-flung character of you father's parish, combined with the physical toll that seems to have been exacted from your mother in bringing you, her only surviving child, into the world, have combined to place you in great danger of remaining forever a shadow of what you might become. No one at all is to blame for this, but it is a problem that must be addressed. If we go to war, as now seems inevitable, you may be able to broaden your horizons – but only if you can wrench yourself free of your home.
You undoubtedly recall that my stepdaughter, Laura, joined the Auxiliary Territorial Services last year and was assigned in January to one of the companies which were made part of the new Women's Auxiliary Air Force in July. This new W.A.A.F. will be looking for drivers, as you will see from the newer of the two articles, which was published on 3 July. It does appear that only a few companies were actively seeking recruits at that time, but matters may have changed since then, or may do so soon, and I would encourage you to enquire.
As you will see from the older clipping, which I blush to say goes back to 13 February, a new service organisation has been formed specifically for women who know how to drive! Aren't you even more glad now that I taught you? Various sorts of related training will be offered, including first aid, which I think you would be very good at, as I have never known you to be squeamish and you have wide experience of attending to your mother's various complaints. Recruits who complete the course may then be eligible for the A.T.S. This does not sound very glamourous, I'll admit, but it might be worth looking into all the same. There is an address to which you can write, as you'll see.
Your Uncle Michael and I are of one mind on the matters I have written about here, as well as in feeling that it would be best if you did not share the contents of this letter with your parents, at least for the time being. There is such a thing as a white lie, and if you need to tell them one, then by all means do so.
I am as ever,
Your most affectionate aunt,
Amy Braithwaite
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Braithfield Farm
Fullerton Road
Red Rice, Andover, Hampshire
1 September 1939
Dear Iain and Emma,
Michael joins me in offering sincere thanks for your hospitality over the past two days; I am sorry that he felt compelled to depart earlier than we had planned. Needless to say he is full of the old bluster, eager to see us go to war against Germany – and probably happier just now than he has been for a couple of years! I am bound to admit that I don't entirely disagree with him. There would probably no point in disagreeing now in any case; we have been listening to the wireless since we arrived and I think that we will hear the declaration very soon indeed.
It does sadden me to think that any family gathering in the foreseeable future will take place in the straightened conditions of wartime, and in all likelihood consist solely of us 'old folk,' as the young people depart for service to the Nation.
Well, must get on with it! No grumbling!
Your affectionate sister,
Aemelia Braithwaite
P.S.: Great excitement here! I was about to fold this and put it into its envelope when our neighbor in Stockbridge Road, Marjorie Tazewell, whom Sam may recall from her visits here, came to summon us to her telephone. My step-daughter, Laura, who as I am sure you remember joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service last year, was on the line; her section was transferred to the new Women's Auxiliary Air Force in July, and she telephoned from Great Dunmow to tell us that they 'have been placed on highest alert,' as she put it, presumably to be sent somewhere or other. She sounded so happy! As for my boys, we are still waiting to hear. Perhaps Michael will now change his mind about getting a telephone line. (At least he doesn't talk about rejoining his regiment, at his age!)
Saturday 2 September 1939
Managed to get into village today at last! Felt as if entire High Street were holding breath. People a bit jittery, too – not surprising, I suppose. Posted notice re Vespers on board outside postal office.
Long article in Times on civil defence – imposition of full blackout, plus air-raid warning system. Factory horns, etc., not to be sounded now except to warn of raid. (Important note: warning is series of short blasts, all clear is single two-minute blast.) Also, plans for food rationing already in place. Horrible.
Evening – Fifty-two people at Vespers. Dad quite pleased, I think! Letter from Aunt A in evening post with newspaper clippings about W.A.A.F. and new group for women: Mechanised Transport Training Corps. Must be able to drive car! Jolly good! Aunt believes I need to leave nest – has been hinting to all concerned for a year or more – thinks this might be the way if war breaks out. (More question of when than if, as Aunt says. Must face facts.)
Sunday 3 September 1939
Woke up quite early this morning but didn't go to Communion as did not fast. Dad says only seven people there. Not surprised – probably no one much feels like giving thanks just now. Went to Matins with Mother – twenty people not including choir, etc.
Dad, of all people, just switched the wireless on! Going downstairs now to listen.
Later – War declared at 11:15 this morning. Mr Chamberlain spoke, followed by the King. Very moving, especially as H.M. is said to loathe giving speeches, but have to say it doesn't feel real.
Except for blackout, of course. And possible rationing. Dad says will recite Great Litany during Vespers this eve. Can't remember ever hearing this outside of Lent
Later still – Church absolutely packed for Vespers! People not expecting G.L., though; saw sour looks on some faces. Still feels like nothing has changed.
Monday 4 September 1939
Mr Simmons in Old Mead Road died early this morning; no real surprise as was nearly 75. Funeral Thursday. Mother in bed with headache most of afternoon. Very ordinary day, much like Friday, Saturday, etc.
Later – Have decided to look into organisation Aunt Amy wrote to me about: Mechanised Transport Training Corps. Also new W.A.A.F., like Laura B.
Tuesday 5 September 1939
Item in Times about M.T.T.C. – they run errands of mercy, care for government cars, need 120 more drivers immediately. Wrote to both them and W.A.A.F. Definitely best to keep quiet about this. Will have to make extra effort for next several days to meet postman before Dad or Mother.
Later - Uncle Desmond telephoned from Manchester to say he plans on rejoining his regiment from the last war - The Duke of Manchester's Own, sounds very romantic - but of course as a chaplain this time.
Wednesday 6 September 1939
Wireless reports Germans attempted air raid on east coast of England this morning but turned back before reaching shore, not clear as to why – perhaps scared off by our forces, but perhaps also due to bad weather. Mother quite perturbed by this news, but also seemed excited – very odd.
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MECHANISED TRANSPORT TRAINING CORPS
HEADQUARTERS
33, Leinster Gardens
London, W2
6 September 1939
Miss Samantha Stewart
The Vicarage
Lyminster
West Sussex
Dear Miss Stewart:
In response to your letter of yesterday, Mrs G.M. Cook, Corps Commandant, has directed me to forward to you the enclosed informational pamphlet and application for enlistment. If you are interested in pursuing membership in our organisation please fill in the form and return it to my attention at the above address at your convenience.
I have taken it upon myself to find your location in the gazetteer, and I feel compelled to apprise you of two important facts. First, our closest area command to Lyminster is at Brighton, at least an hour's journey from your home. (Of course this may change in future.) Second, while all training is provided at no charge, our members receive no stipend or wage and must pay all uniform, travel, housing and living expenses out of pocket. The cost of the first of these is currently £14. Amongst our goals is to achieve recognition, and ideally support, from His Majesty's Government, but until that occurs matters are likely to remain as they are now.
If you remain interested we shall look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Pamela Bullock
Pamela Bullock (Mrs)
Corresponding Secretary
enclosures
Thursday 7 September 1939
Disaster! Dad met postman this morning – intercepted letter from M.T.T.C., gave to me with very suspicious look, I thought. In any case M.T.T.C. simply not possible – pays nothing, members must have family support or private incomes. Must wait to hear from W.A.A.F.
Have just heard we must all go to village hall tomorrow to receive ration-books for petrol and food, though no definite date yet to start using latter.
Later – Mr Simmons' funeral. Twenty-two people not counting Daddy and self.
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The Vicarage
Lyminster
West Sussex
7 September 1939
Dear Aunt Amy,
I was so very excited to receive your letter with the clippings. Thank you so much for sending them to me! It seems very odd to think of a war as a gift, but I agree with you, it will be a blessing in disguise for many girls – perhaps including me, though I ought to tell you how things stand here at present.
On Tuesday I wrote to both the W.A.A.F. and the M.T.T.C. I have yet to hear from the W.A.A.F. – perhaps they don't need anyone at present. But the M.T.T.C. must really be looking for recruits, because they replied by return post!
There would be a problem with my joining the M.T.T.C., though. When they say it's a voluntary organisation part of what they mean is that it's private. It's not part of H.M.G. and it's supported by its own members. They are paid nothing at all and they have to pay all their own expenses. So I would have to purchase my uniform, which costs £14, and if I were billeted somewhere I would have to pay rental and board and so on. I don't think that Mother and Dad would co-operate with that, do you? Especially as I'm not yet 21. And the nearest command is in Brighton, so clearly I would have to live there, or go even farther away. So I shall wait to hear from the W.A.A.F., and perhaps also look into the A.T.S. or the W.R.N.S.
Please give my fondest regards to Uncle Michael. I can hardly wait for 1940 when I can start writing in my beautiful new diary, and am practicing by trying hard to keep a diary every day for the rest of this year.
Best love always,
Sam
P.S.: Do you think it will make any difference that I don't have a school certificate? It wasn't my choice to leave school as soon as it was legal for me to so, after all. Also, unfortunately it was Dad who met the postman this morning, so he knows that someone in London sent me a letter with the address typed on the envelope. He gave me a very odd look as he handed it to me and I think that he suspects that something is going on.
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'Your colour is much better today, Mother. Your appetite seems better than yesterday, also.'
'Thank you, Samantha. Your father did cook luncheon, after all.'
Sam decides to change the subject.
'Do you think there will be more air-raids like the one on Wednesday, Mother? That one was a failure, of course, and nowhere near here, but they might try again.'
'Oh, I'm quite sure that they will. People are saying "over by Christmas" – even your dear father seems to think so – but that's what they said the last time. I'm afraid that this is likely to be a long war, perhaps longer even than the last; the Germans bear a grudge against us. We'll never give up, of course, but neither will they, until we force them to do so.'
'Do you think the government will expand conscription?'
'I suppose they might have to do that at some point, although men do seem to be volunteering.'
'It would be better to volunteer than to wait to be called up, wouldn't it?'
'Well... I suppose that from a moral viewpoint, yes, it would be. Unless it were a case of a man being his family's only support, or some other mitigating circumstance. We hardly need worry about that in your case, however.'
'It might be better to worry now rather than later.'
'What ever do you mean? Samantha, the glare from that lamp is giving me a headache. Put it out, will you, please?'
'You never talk about what you did during the last war,' Sam continues, after doing that.
'I'd already been married to your father for several years when the last war began.'
Oh, yes, of course, Sam thinks. And constantly either with child or burying the ones who didn't thrive. How dreadful to have to think of that.
But she cannot bring herself to change the subject again.
'What about during the South African War?'
'I was still a child then, Samantha.'
It's no good, Sam thinks. I shall have to simply ask her right out. 'What do you think would be the best sort of war service for me to do, Mother?'
'Oh. Well, I suppose we should discuss that at some point. I have to say, though, that I don't like the idea that you would be sent away somewhere. That's what seems to be happening to many of these girls.'
'Like Laura! Uncle Michael doesn't seem to mind.'
'Laura is older than you are, and has had more experience of life.'
That, Sam feels, is a bit much.
'Well, of course she has! She has an Advanced School Certificate, and a university degree!'
'You're right,' her mother says after a moment. 'I apologise, Samantha, dear. That was unkind of me. It must seem to you that I have missed a great adventure in life,' she goes on. 'Perhaps you are right about that, as well, but it was simply never my row to hoe. Seeing the harm that the last war inflicted on so many of those who survived it, I actually felt quite blessed, in a way, to have been relegated to the sidelines, despite my own troubles during those years.'
'Do you think this war will be worse than the last in that way, Mother?'
'I don't see how it couldn't be. Not that I wouldn't describe this as a just war. Far from it – it's much more so than the last one was. And I will concede, Samantha, that all hands are likely to be needed to bring us through it. We will talk with your father about some sort of appropriate service that you can perform. But I've yet to be convinced that girls like Laura won't be... damaged in some way by their experience. I take it,' Mrs Stewart continues, 'that you feel compelled to look elsewhere for an opportunity to serve.'
'The thing of it is, Mother,' Sam replies after a moment's silence, 'Lyminster is such a small place that there won't be much need for war workers here, or much opportunity. I would probably have to go away somewhere.'
'That is precisely what worries me. Who will look after me when I'm unwell? Far more importantly, who will look after you?'
'I'm almost never ill, Mother.'
'I wasn't thinking of illness, Samantha.'
Sam looks out of the window. She can't think of anything more to say.
Author's notes:
No end of thanks to OxfordKivrin for feedback on an early draft of this story; to rosalindfan for insight into the economic issues that will begin to come up in chapter 2; and to both rosalindfan and artichokeheart, whose own stories have given me the courage to follow my instincts and write the conversational sections of this story in the present tense.
Making Sam as young as I have made her here seems to create a conflict with "Fifty Ships" (September 1940) in which Sam describes her billet-mate Jenny Wentworth as being a year her senior at 23. She does this in the immediate aftermath of a traumatic incident and on insufficient sleep, so let's suppose that she is simply confused at that moment.
There is a truly mind-boggling lack of information available regarding the history of the Mechanised Transport Corps. It was founded early in 1939 as the Mechanised Transport Training Corps; the third word of the original name was dropped by May 1940. All of the items from The Times and The Sunday Times that I've referred to in this story are genuine, as is Mrs. Cook, the founder and original Corps Commandant (I invented Mrs. Bullock); through the digitized archives of those and other British papers, I've learned that members originally had to pay all of their own expenses, a situation that didn't change until November 1941, when the M.T.C. came under the aegis of the newly-established Ministry of War Transport.
The minimum age for leaving school in England and Wales was 14 from 1918 until 1945, when it was raised to 15. Those who stayed until age 15 with an acceptable academic record were awarded a School Certificate (the equivalent of today's O-levels). I have been unable to discover the minimum educational requirement for enlisting in the A.T.S., W.A.A.F., or W.R.N.S. (or the M.T.C., for that matter); but Sam states in "The German Woman" that she wanted to be in the W.A.A.F. but ended up in the M.T.C., and it seems plausible that a lack of formal education was what led to this.
Red Rice, Andover, is an actual place in Hampshire, although it appears that in reality there was no freehold farming there until the 1960s.
