Stella L. Beckett

In 1943, I was eighteen years old, bored with my job, and with a boyfriend in faraway places, serving with the R.A.F. My eldest sister had joined the Women’s Land Army a year earlier, and my other sister was still at school, being four years younger than I was. Looking back, I can hardly believe what I did at that time, because it was not typical of me. I had become fascinated by a poster I had seen in the city centre, showing a member of the Women’s Royal Naval Service. She was at sea in a motor-torpedo boat. It all looked so exciting and colourful that, without much thought, and without discussing it at home, I decided to ‘sign up’.

After about two weeks, I received an acceptance form and a railway pass to Leeds on a certain date. I was lucky to meet a kindred spirit on Leeds railway station, and together, we made our way to the depot. It was not quite what we had expected; we were not given a smart, navy-blue uniform, but washed-out overalls were issued to us instead. The work was to be hard and unremitting for a full fortnight, during which time we had a choice of whether to leave or stay. We scrubbed the floors, we polished brasses, we attended seemingly endless lectures on naval tradition and discipline, and something called, enigmatically, ‘King’s Regulations’. There were intelligence and aptitude tests to be undergone, as we were gradually assessed before being drafted to our various stations. The food at the training depot was edible, but not good, and living areas and dormitories were very basic. However, by that time, nothing could have dragged me away.

Eventually, we were given our uniforms and our postings. My new friend and I were lucky to be posted together to a station called Eastcote, in Middlesex. We gradually realised that Eastcote was one of the six outstations of Bletchley Park, and that the results of our work would be transmitted there by teleprinter. I had no idea, at that point, what our work entailed, but we were all made to sign the Official Secrets Act, and from that day on, we were programmed to secrecy, even though we didn’t know, at that point, the reason why. We did realise, however, that we were to be trained as decoders, and that it was to do with German codes. We were instructed that our families and friends were not told anything about our work, beyond “Special Duties”. Our hatbands bore only the letters H.M.S. instead of H.M.S. plus the ship or establishment to which we were attached (e.g. H.M.S. Victory). We were billeted, along with many other Wrens, in large huts in the grounds of Eastcote outstation. We had bunk beds, of course, and a small amount of living space, which was shared with one other Wren. Each of us had a small chest of drawers and a hanging fitment. Our working days were concerned with learning about the large machines called ‘bombes’ and how to operate them. For an eight-hour ‘watch’ each day, two of us worked on our allotted machine. The first thing we had to do, on going on watch, was to examine minutely each of the drums, to see that no wires were touching, as these would have caused a short-circuit. The drums were then set to the alphabetical order given on the ‘menu’, and the bombe was started up.

The bombe was a large electrical machine, containing a series of rotating drums. It was designed to run through all the possibilities at high speed. The operators were provided with a ‘menu’ and the information was fed into the bombe. Each time the machine found a possible match and stopped, it was tested to see if it produced German text. If it did, it was passed on to the cryptanalysts. To hear the words: ‘Job up’ meant that that particular code had been broken. Of course, these complicated machines often needed maintenance and adjustments, so a group of R.A.F. technicians were always on hand in each ‘bay’, to deal with any mechanical difficulties that arose. The work had to go on for twenty-four hours a day, so operators worked in three watches of eight hours. Day watch was from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., then the next group of operators came on duty and worked from 4 p.m. till midnight, followed by the night workers, from midnight to 8 a.m. After a full week of night duty, we were given a sleeping-out pass and a train pass, which meant we could go home for the weekend.

As I said, we worked alongside the R.A.F., so many friendships and romances came about quite naturally. The R.A.F. boys held regular dances in their Mess with the Eastcote decoders, but although we were allowed to meet them off-duty, our work areas, as I remember, were quite separate.
The Wrens, being attached to the Royal Navy, were allowed a regular tot of rum. I never wanted mine, but I accepted it and gave it to one of the men. We also had an allowance of cheap cigarettes, and though I didn’t smoke, I used to get mine, to give away.
The Wrens were expected to wear their hats at all times when outside, even though one’s working hut and living hut might have been very close together. One day, I took a chance, but was espied by an officer and put on a charge. My punishment was to clear up all the litter in the site. It was very ignominious, and taught me a lesson.

Daily Life at Eastcote

The huts in which we worked were bays containing the bombes, each of which had its own name. The bays themselves were also known by name and these were usually of towns in one of the allied countries. I remember particularly the ceaseless noise of the many bombes in each bay. Somewhere, in one of his books, the author, Robert Harris described it as being like the sound of many huge knitting machines.
The worst watch was midnight until 8 a.m., chiefly because it was extremely difficult to sleep in the daytime, because of the noise of Wrens on other watches coming and going in the dormitories. I remember vividly that one’s lowest point on night watch seemed to come between the hours of 3 a.m. and 4 a.m., when the rhythmical sound of the drums clicking brought on a huge desire for sleep, but concentration had to be maintained. Fortunately, about this time, we would hear the welcome sound of the tea trolley approaching. Oh, what joy! A large urn of stewed tea, mugs, and a jug of Carnation Milk came into view. How we enjoyed that ‘orange’ tea, made that colour, I suppose, by the use of Carnation Milk!

Running the Gramophone club

How I got this coveted job, I really can’t remember. As a lover of classical music, it was a delight to be given access to a library of records, and to arrange weekly programmes. The concerts were attended by anyone interested in music. I remember once inviting the music critic of the ‘News Chronicle’ newspaper to come to talk to us. His name was Scott Goddard, and he said that one should never describe to another person any ‘picture’ that was conjured up for the listener by a certain piece of music. I think he was right.

Wartime Food

I remember the food as quite adequate, but of course, we had ‘rations’ like everyone else. This meant margarine for all of the week, butter just at weekends, and also, I think, one egg. We had (like everyone else in Britain at that time) so many ‘points’ per week for sweets and chocolate. It was lovely to go to the canteen to collect a small bar of chocolate! I used to eat mine all in one day, which makes me shudder now, but then, chocolate was a great treat. Our evening meals, as I recall, were not very sustaining, and many of use used to dash to the nearby W.V.S. canteen, to buy crusty cheese rolls, which were very filling, but no doubt very bad for our figures.

The end of the war, and afterwards

This was our way of life until the end of the war, when we felt real sadness to see our bombes being dismantled, on the instruction from the Prime Minister at the time, Winston Churchill. Our work had come to an end, and now we had to await our next posting; mine was to Portsmouth. However, the thirty years of secrecy about B.P. was a real commitment for us, and we observed it assiduously.

Looking back, those were the happiest years of my early life. When I visited Bletchley Park last July, I was moved to tears – it all felt so good, so natural, to be back and to renew my memories of those times. It was especially touching to see the magnificent slate sculpture of Alan Turing, and, of course, the reconstructed bombe.
I am now the owner of two medals – one from Bletchley Park, and one from the Government. How strange it seems, to receive accolades for something I so much enjoyed doing all those years ago.