This was written by my Grandma Olive Fryer who worked in the Civil Defence in Sheffield during WWII. We found it in her belongings after her death in 2014 aged 94.
The hands of the clock stood at 3am, an air of hushed expectancy hung over the silent, darkened platforms, faint light came from shaded lamps, and above, the stars glowed with a light never noticed in the city in a time of peace. For this was wartime and blackout, and I, with many other Civil defence workers was awaiting the hospital train which would bring wounded Service Men to Sheffield.
Outside the station, a long line of ambulances stood ready to receive their load of weary men, who had travelled from a distant port. We spoke to one another in hushed voices, or were silent altogether. I thought about the men who were coming nearer and nearer. Would I by chance know any of them, and would I perhaps find my husband or my brother among the many wounded who were to be sent to the various hospitals in the city. I pushed such thoughts from my mind, and mentally checked my ambulance equipment.
In the distance, the sound of an approaching train, brought us all to our posts on the platform, ready to receive walking and stretcher cases. I hardly knew what to expect, but had I had the time, I think I would have wept at the sight of such bravery and fortitude. Badly wounded or only slightly, the men had a joke and a smile for us. So many accents and dialects, but all of them glad to be cared for.
The work of getting them to the hospital went forward in the ordinary way which we had been trained, and some time later when the ambulances had all returned to their various depots, I walked home in the dawn. The sky was paling, and the stars were less bright.
And so I had done my first ‘convoy duty’, the first of several more, but none of them so memorable as this. For I realised that in the midst of pain and suffering, a kind word and a smile (and a silent prayer) help to make a seemingly sad situation somewhat brighter.
