We Will Remember Them - A Weekend of Remembrance 2023 by Domini Barrett

 10th -12th November 2023

I am known to keep myself busy, but this year’s Remembrance Weekend held more commitments than normal. All very different, but each one an important part of my life as an Army Reservist and National Health Service Nurse.


Friday

I love being a member of the Middle Wallop & Andover Military Wives Choir (the seventh one I have been part of as different postings have taken me to different places). I not only get to sing with a group of like-minded women, wives and those with a military link, but enjoy the camaraderie, friendship and support this gives me as a military wife and Army Reservist.

The choir had a wonderful evening performing a Remembrance Concert at the Army Flying Museum in Middle Wallop. We sang not only songs that are part of our core repertoire; but linked to remembrance, as well as some more lively pieces. We interspersed these with poems, readings and sharing our experiences of being military wives and the challenges this brings especially when your partner is on operations or long military exercises. This includes for me, having had 9 military moves in 14 years and having gone through periods of separation.

The venue was full and we were very well received. A wonderful, memorable and moving evening.

Saturday

As a paediatric nurse working at Salisbury Hospital with long waiting lists we had an additional day of surgery. 15 children needing dental treatment under a general anaesthetic. Working a full and busy 13 hour shift in the Day Surgery Unit it was impossible to observe the Armistice Day, 11 o’clock, 2 minute silence, but I managed to take time and reflect over my lunch break of those who had gone before us and made the ultimate sacrifice. I wore my poppy with pride. I have also just completed a course at the hospital to be an ‘Armed Forces Advocate’. This involves wearing a nice badge (!) and supporting and signposting those who are linked to the Armed Forces, including veterans.



Thankfully I was home in time to watch on television the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance from the Albert Hall. It is always such a special occasion.

Sunday

The choir rehearse every week at the Middle Wallop Station Church in Hampshire - this is one of the bases for the Army Air Corps and is where many learn to fly the Apache Attack Helicopter. Each year therefore, the choir sing in the main hanger at the Service of Remembrance taken by the Station Chaplain for those serving, their families, veterans and guests. This is followed by the Act of Remembrance at the War Memorial close to the camp entrance. This part of the morning included a fly past. It was an emotional and sad time as I reflected on the operational tours I have supported in Afghanistan and those who lost their lives there.

It is an honour though to be involved in this event and I am always so proud to be in uniform to represent the Reserves as a Nursing Officer in the QARANC.

Major Domini Barrett

Memories of being in the Territorial Army - 219 Wessex Field Hospital by Jan Westbury

 Before I joined the regular army I was in the Territorial Army and have fond memories of my colleagues, the drill nights, weekend exercises and two week camps.  In between I took advantage of anything on offer, such as sailing and earning my competent crew certificate.  I think back to camaraderie and fun.  Here we are at the pub for some well earned refreshments!  I seem to have a lot of photos from my army days where I am snapped eating.

As we expanded and developed, in April 1988 we officially became the Gloucester detachment with a grand opening.

On parade prior to the grand opening.  Not everyone had uniform!

With my surgical trolley, scissors at the ready, for the cutting on the ribbon

It was great to be part of a team that won the Nutbeam Shield that year for our military skills.  At that time our colleagues in the regular service did not necessarily appreciate the skills we had and we seemed to be the butt of many jokes, usually called weekend soldiers.

                                                                                                                                                                                           

I like  this photograph of two Captains,  Sally and Elaine, as their marching looks so synchronized. There is something about marching together that makes you feel proud and even better if you have a marching band to help you along.

Happy Days!

Proper War Stories - By Bob Price

Seated with a pint, down at the legion, amidst army veterans of several eras and regiments, you might feel just a tad under gunned when, inevitably, the war stories get rolled out again. Look, if you were armed with a syringe, there are going to be limits on the war stories front aren’t there? You might even feel a different sort of veteran altogether, having been part of the ‘little army’, rather than the ‘big army’, the teeth arms (no, not the dental corp). But in support of you all, keeping the side up I want to assure you that I did once try. Down at the legion I trotted out some of my war stories, about the tour I completed in west Belfast with the Scots Guards. That should impress I thought, you know, the Guards division. 

It started very well. The medical team consisting of a very experienced Colour Sergeant who had been with them since they tackled mammoths, a lugubrious Corporal Gibson (Gibbo) and an eager guardsman who had trained up in first aid were in place already. I commanded one Saracen armoured ambulance and the Colour Sergeant the other. Within days I had my first proper casualty. In the ambulance we monitored both the civilian ambulance network and our battalion one. I think we muddled to two up. So, when I heard that there was a major casualty in the White Rock community centre Gibbo and I were straight there. The guy had been knee capped, and I got a tourniquet on the leg where he was bleeding from an artery. Off to the Royal Victoria Hospital we went, quick step, to the applause of onlookers who were astonished to see the army picking up a civilian. Afterwards, I got roasted by the CO. I hadn’t waited to get a platoon in place, to cover our evacuation. He reminded me that (logically) it could have been a trap. But there was a certain kudos afterwards. It was said on the street, that the new battalion couldn’t be such a bad lot, if we showed that amount of compassion for a local. Our guys reckoned in retrospect it was a useful (if ill planned) move. We finished the tour without one soldier being shot in West Belfast. 

Saracen Armoured Ambulance
Curtesy Army Medical Services Museum

Conflict can be dull they say, most of the time, and so it was for us. I completed public health inspections of the various camp canteens and shops and a daily sick parade. Then though (the legion men waited with bated breath) I collected a guardsmen from the basement of a block of flats who had broken his ankle, searching for stashed arms. We reversed the Saracen in, almost beneath the overhang, to limit the risk of being shot at. The casualty retrieved; we were about to move off to the military wing Musgrave Park Hospital when there was an almighty bang! I thought the opposition had shot a shoulder launch missile at us. Travelling at pace down the Falls Road the radio came up, ‘Hello 83 (our call sign) this is 0 ( battalion ops), do you realise that you have a calor gas cooker on your roof?’ They’d dropped it from the top of the flats and the door had caught on the Saracen railings. Now it flapped like a dog’s lop ear as we retreated to hospital. How astonishing were the traffic cameras, that they could tell it was a calor gas model. Must have been the trailing piping. 

Complete blank expressions. I hadn’t moved the veterans a jot! For pete’s sake, what did it take? I’d been under fire, hadn’t I? ‘Cooking on gas?’ one of them asked cynically. Right, I thought, share the camaraderie humour memoire, that will please. It was customs in the guards division for the men (out of direct earshot) to refer to their commanding officer affectionately by his rank and first name. So, our CO was Colonel Johnny. I struggled with it at first, having spent some time working in a venereal disease clinic you see. Anyway, the Colonel was hugely popular, greatly respected, and I thought, goodness, wouldn’t it be good for me to have a nickname used amongst the men? But it wasn’t going to be won checking sweat rashes, was it? Nor would I win it for completing a pre and post interview medical check when the authorities’ interviewed suspects, some of them subsequently very famous. 

Then it happened. By chance I overheard one of the platoon commanders assure his men that ‘Doctor Bob’ and his ambulance would be in close attendance when they went to check out a disused factory building. Doctor Bob….I’d arrived! The men loved me! Gibbo smiled. Yes, he assured me I was popular with the troops. I taught in a ‘weird way’ and I was diligent responding to concerns. I glowed for the rest of the day. That night Gibbo put me straight. ‘You do know sir, where Doctor Bob comes from don’t you?’ I shook my head. ‘He was a mad surgeon in the Muppets and Miss Piggy was the theatre sister.’ 

You’d better get the next round in mate,’ said one of the proper veterans at last. Look, I tried, I really did. 

Bob Price did one RMO(A) tour in Northern Ireland, some of you did many more. Yet he ventures that such tours made a real difference, to health, morale, as well as humour.

POSTINGS (tongue in cheek) by Bob Price

There came a moment the other day, over the marmalade and toast don’t you know, when I pondered postings. You might naturally recommend that I get out more, but bear with me. Stop to recollect this process, that which shaped many of our memories of service. Postings are sometimes how we catalogue the remembered career. We had good postings and bad postings. There were better places to be posted and terrible places to be sent. Taken quite literally it can make you feel as if you’re something passed inelegantly through the Royal Mail entrails. It started with the posting order, probably handed over to you with a smile or a look of grim determination. I remember after qualifying as a nurse (yes, a product of our own system) in 1975, I was sent off to the Military Wing Musgrave Park Hospital, Belfast and for two years. Initially, that seemed like an invite to the trenches. I arrived there as a wet behind the ears staff nurse cynically received by an established team who weren’t sure that they needed me thank you very much. I wonder if you ever harboured the thought that postings were sometimes handed over with a sense of glee?

Your next memory might relate to the MFO box. Nearly everything you owned went into that. It sounds like a joke about remembered poverty, doesn’t it? ‘When I was young, I lived in a two up two down hovel’. ‘Oh, that’s nothing, I lived in a bed sit’. Trump it all with the MFO box. I (or at least all my worldly possessions) existed in an MFO box. There came the day in BMH Rinteln where colleagues had to pack their MFO boxes to go off to the war in Iraq. As you weren’t allowed to include opened bottles of alcohol within the box, we had a goodbye drinks party. There was this bottle of Tequila (truly vile stuff), ‘fat wallet’ the civilian hospital accounts manager, my future wife and I who made the final of the slamming competition. The next morning it felt as though my head had Moved Forward Overseas.

I suspect something happens when you live and work within a system where you can be readily posted. There is a perverse mix of eager anticipation and horror as you anticipate imminent change. Here’s how I think it works. On the upside you think of the new posting in terms of locale. Clearly, Hong Kong (back then), Cyprus and exotica places like Brunei had much to commend them. You flick through the holiday brochures that link to the favoured new locale. But then, inevitably, you realise that postings were never just about locations, they were about people. Someone in MOD was playing a crazy game of reassemble the village community. It was as if you were injected into a long running series of the Archers, and whether you liked it or not you would live with Peggy, Jazzer, Dan and the rest. For goodness sake, when I was posted to one of our hospitals, no one advertised it as a Pyjama Dash exercises resort, that designed to counter the IRA, everyone drawn up on the car park at midnight, in your pyjamas, with your teddy bear in hand. Postings were about people, and you landed amongst the joys, suspicions and tensions that existed there. Was there really a witch in the attic, and if so, did you really wish to be posted there?

This is the point, isn’t it? Really, we were all victims, subjects in a social mix experiment. You were probably a victim weren’t you- just think about it. How many others, in different walks of life, get ‘posted’. In sharp contrasts to battalions (who were sometimes posted together, with the familiar comrades, as a family) we were posted individually. You might as well have been issued with a gas mask, a label describing your name rank and number, a consoling bar of chocolate and sent off to the countryside whilst the war carried on. No one explained the slightly bizarre family that you were about to be inserted into, the one that had a dozen grates to clean.

If you were lucky though, if you were very fortunate, you landed in a wonderful place and amidst some astonishing people. One such was the Army Medical Services School of Nursing. Oddly, it wasn’t one location (though the brochures about Woolwich on Thames were entirely beguiling). 

The school comprised a group of people, with significant talent and a clear commitment to training some of the very best nurses, those who went on to forge considerable careers in the Corps, and civilian life. People who worked here offered the most astonishing humour (‘Price, there is only one problem you face, you suffer from delusions of adequacy’).  

Gestetner machine for producing
 copies of handouts

They helped the neophyte teacher to plan education that was not only professionally sound and workable, but which seemed enjoyable to learn as well. For goodness sake, they taught me how to work the gestetner handout machine and the overhead projector. I won’t name names, you know who you are, and many others knew who you were. Of all the mats that a package could land upon, after traversing the system, this was surely a great one.

Bob Price served in the AMS between 1972 and 1990. He taught nurses in the Cambridge Military Hospital, Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital and in BAOR. The habit persisted afterwards, at the Royal Marsden Hospital, the RCN and the Open University. He is now making more toast, the last went cold.

Remembering the Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital by Tom Barry

 I started my career as a CMT from 1983 at 1 AFA then 19 Fd Amb. In July 87 (shortly after completing my CMT 1 course) I started nurse training at the QE. Absolutely loved my time at Woolwich and met my wife while there (she also did her nurse training at the CMH / QE). I qualified as a registered nurse in 1990 then did a tour of NI followed by a stint on St Kilda. I finished off my time in the army with a couple of years at BMH Iserlohn before leaving in 1994 for life as a civilian.

I recently returned to the former Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital (QEMH) to have a look round. It had been opened as a military hospital by the late Queen Mother in 1978, but closed in 1995, due to defence cuts and changes to army medical services. The main hospital was rebuilt and opened by Queen Elizabeth ll in 2001 as an NHS hospital. 

However, there were still many of the old buildings in the photos below that brought back many memories.

The Old Accommodation Blocks

The Old Officers Mess (tall building) with School of Nursing Opposite

Remember nights out?

By Tom Barry

The QARANC Association Jurassic Coast Branch on a Day Out 2023

 

The Branch members had a great day out at the Sculpture By The Lakes in Dorset June 2023.   A well organised day (as always) arranged by our Chair, Marjorie Bandy and her committee.  It started with the usual gathering and chat before the most delicious lunch, using local produce.  

After our long leisurely lunch we realised we wouldn't get to see the Sculpture Park if we didn't stop talking!  A QA get together is always lively and our Branch is friendly and welcoming and perhaps why we are growing in numbers.  As regular, reserved and retired QA's we have a special connection.

The Sculpture Park is really the most amazing place to walk around on the flat, with sculptures everywhere amongst the grounds and lakes.  Very peaceful and tranquil.  Mindful of this Marjorie advised we all went round in small groups  so as not to disturb the other visitors and no doubt the wildlife!  With so much space it felt as though there were not many visitors there, it felt as though we had the grounds very much to ourselves. 

2023 King Charles III Coronation by Jan Westbury

 

The blog this month had to reflect on the momentous occasion of the Coronation.  What an event the Coronation turned out to be on May 6th 2023, together with the preparations before and the events after over an extended holiday weekend.  It goes without saying that a highlight was seeing our military personnel in their uniforms and playing their part in the Coronation parade.  It made us proud to be British.

Of course, as a former army nurse I was particularly proud to see the photographs of our QARANC marching contingent of 27.  The Association website reports the next Gazette will provide stories of the day.

On a personal note I was invited with my husband to the Kings Coronation Garden Party.   This was a huge honour and we were very lucky to have a lovely sunny day.  I wasn't sure what afternoon tea would be like, but it was delicious!   I met so many amazing people, volunteers who had been invited in recognition of their contribution.  There were quite a few military personnel there too, at the garden party but also on duty.  Two military bands played all afternoon. There is always a connection between those who have served.  I met a 6'8" Guardsman who was to carry the Commonwealth Flag in the parade.  We had our photograph taken, but at 5'4" I looked tiny beside him, but unfortunately I did not seek his permission to publish.  Such a memorable day.

Jan Westbury - former QARANC Captain

Joining the QA’s in 1956 by Diane Welsh

I’m 85 now and joined the QAs to train as a state registered nurse when I was 18 in 1956, leaving a small village near Salisbury. From the age of 7 I had wanted to be a nurse and I imagined myself like Florence Nightingale; I wanted to join to nurse the soldiers.

We started off at Hindhead for 2 weeks, just the new QA’s collecting uniform, before we went to Elizabeth Barracks in Aldershot for the next 3 months . The training was a mix of army and nursing training. We wore khaki, learnt to march and go on parade, and then in the classroom we had lessons on map reading and nursing. We were 2 in a room and had to be up at 0630 to clean our room before breakfast, followed by parade and general tidying before starting lessons. At 12md we marched; lunch 12md – 1300; more lessons until 1700 when we had tea; then back in the classroom until 2100, five days a week. There was a free hour spent in the NAAFI with the medical corps, before we had to be in at 2200, when the doors were locked and in bed by 2300. It was very strict. We were allowed 2 late passes every month and taught to write a letter “Dear Ma’am, I have the honour to submit this, my application…..” We worked 5 days a week until 9pm at night. After passing our basic examinations we were sent to hospitals and I was posted to Catterick.

I was at Catterick for 2 years working on the wards and undertaking block training with the Sister Tutor and loved it. The hospital and accommodation were very old and I was in a billet of 10 of us with a coke fire in the middle of the room. We worked 6 days a week and I cannot remember if we had ½ day off or one day, but do remember being told that in the army it was 24 hours a day and 7 days a week! I do remember the long hours from 0800 -1700 or more commonly split shifts from 0800 – 1400 and back from 1700 – 2200. Our routine was usually to clean the wards when we came on duty, pulling out the beds into the middle of the room, wash down the floors, followed by the bumper machines to polish the floor. At 1000 we started the treatments for the patients. One day I had just finished my 0800-1700 shift when matron saw me and said “Nurse Willmot, I need you back on night duty tonight to do a special”, then another time I was on a ½ day off and laying on my bed when deputy matron appeared to tell me I was babysitting that night for the Commanding Officer. There was no choice. Can you imagine nurses doing that today? During my time at Catterick there was a huge outbreak of influenza in the country and this was hard work, but there was great camaraderie, perhaps like it was in the recent COVID pandemic.

We still had a bed time and were locked in at Catterick. One night I was in the NAAFI, as I enjoyed dancing, a friend and I were locked out as we were so late. We had to climb though a window, but were caught. Deputy matron made us scrub the lavatory walls down as a punishment.

For meals we had a QA section, that separated us from the men from the medical corps, by a huge board. They would make comments as we walked through and then occasionally they would throw something over the board, like a rock cake. It was all with a sense of fun.

I was posted to a hospital in Germany and that was very different. The hospital was very small and modern, with just 8 QAs and lots of medics, located out in the country. I was based on the gynaecological ward and we carried on with block training with a Sister Tutor. Here I had my own room and we shared a maid who did all our cleaning for us. There was no NAAFI club, but a small NAAFI, where the men had formed a band and that was great fun. We were not allowed out of camp and still had to be in. The only parts of Germany I saw were when we had transport to a shopping centre on a Saturday and when I travelled on the train home for my leave. I used to do a lot of nights where we worked 3 weeks on then had a week off, so I used my travel warrant to go on the train to the Hook of Holland to catch the ferry to Harwich. There were always others to travel with.

It was in Germany I met my husband. I was in the NAAFI at the Juke Box and I saw this man looking at me. The next day one of the QAs who worked in the operating theatre gave me a note from him asking to meet me. Well, that was that. He was shortly to be demobbed after two years on National Service with a one-year extension and as I was going to marry him I had to leave the QAs. This meant I did not take my final examinations to be an SRN as I left just before.

Looking back, I loved my time, it was a good life and I made lots of friends, particularly from our time in the NAAFI.

Formerly Private Diane Willmot QARANC

1. NAAFI The Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes, who provide bars and clubs (and more) for socialising across the world for the Forces community.

Thoughts and feelings on becoming a QA! by Rod Eldridge

 

I joined the RAMC as qualified mental health nurse (RMN) in 1986 and always aspired to become a general nurse or as some might say a proper nurse! My elder brother Malcolm was a serving general nurse (SRN) in the RAMC, and he was enjoying a varied and successful career, he was very much a role model to me in the early days of my army career.

In 1989 following a 2yr tour of Northern Ireland as a Cpl, I was successful in securing a place for my general nurse training being seconded to a civilian hospital namely St Peters Chertsey. I qualified in 1991 and went to work at QEMH on various wards and depts, I also did short stint in Belize C.A. with the FST. Later that year having been recommended I applied for my commission, it was at this time, the talk on the corridors of the QEMH about the changes to the nursing Cadre was rife with the notion that all nurses irrespective of gender were having to transfer to or join, the QARANC. This was mentioned many times in the interviews and panels during my commissioning process.

My answer was partly playing the game as it would be foolish to go against the decision which on the face of made entire sense as it was logical to put all nurses in one Corps, especially if I wanted to gain my commission. There was a bit of me which was sad to say goodbye to the RAMC, but we all serve side by side in the AMS and as nurses irrespective of our individual Corps histories, badges, and accoutrements, we still do the same job, a nurse is a nurse! I was asked how we should deal with the diehards, and I said, those currently opposed to the transfer should be listened to, acknowledging their concerns, recognising that it is difficult to adapt to change and correct any misunderstandings and reinforce the positives in terms of career progression etc.

Jokes about the QARANC nurses were abundant and strong and at times angry opinions were voiced from some loyal and long serving RAMC male nurses. I’m sure this significant change happened on 1st April 1992 which either was to reflect the new tax year or April Fool’s Day!

I heard stories of RAMC nurses handing in their old cap badges to the hospital CO and collecting a QARANC cap badge from the Matron, I think this was at CMH. I guess if true this a way of was marking the occasion.

I was successful in gaining my commission and the rest is history as they, I believe I personally benefitted from this change, as I had full and rewarding career. That said I did have a little bottom lip quiver when I was handed my AMS full rugby colours and it came with QARANC blazer badge (see pic)!

Lt Col (Rtd)  Rodney Eldridge 

A QARANC tale about what went bump in the night by Lynne Jones

I was born in Scotland in the early 1950’s and raised in both the UK & Canada. In 1971, at age 19 and at loose ends, I left Vancouver for Scotland with no particular plan in mind.

I was told about the QARANC: full pay as a Private; no costs; world travel; paid holiday trips back to Scotland; a paid trip back to Canada every 2 years; army officer in 4 years. Who could resist? I signed up. 13 of us travelled from Aldershot to the Queen Alexandra Military Hospital in London, located around the corner from the Tate. In addition to functioning as a military hospital, it also specialized in providing medical and nursing care for British soldiers and (women) spouses worldwide, who required the cancer treatments offered in London civilian hospitals. As such, we were learned of rare forms of cancer and their treatments.

There were intakes of new SRN (State Registered Nurse) students every 3 months; the hospital was primarily staffed by these students, with a nursing sister and a staff nurse on each ward. After 6 weeks of basic training, we were fully integrated into the wards. The training & experience were excellent; every student nurse senior to you was responsible for your performance, and there wasn’t a chance that they were going to be disciplined because of your error! Over nights we worked 14 x 12 hour shifts in a row, with 7 days off following. After 6 months, I was ‘night special’ for the entire hospital and not concerned or afraid. That is how good the training was. You might conclude – she must have completed it! The answer is that I did not; I will get back to that.

All of the single student nurses lived in sex segregated barracks. We 13 lived in a large old Victorian house in Pimlico, where we shared bedrooms. The house was staffed by a civilian housekeeper, with a WRAC Sergeant whose job it was (on her off time from work) to maintain military order, which included the exertion of control over aspects of our personal lives. As such, there was no love lost between us and the Sergeant; I will also get back to that.

What was it like to be a 19 year old Scottish/Canadian student nurse in the QA’s in the early 1970’s? I was most certainly a product of my times both as a young woman socialized in the 1950/60’s, and my dual experience as a Scot and a Canadian. How did it show itself? In two ways: one specific to my dual upbringing, and one common to young women of that era.

First off, apparently from the perspective of the army nursing instructor, I was a “a big mouth from the colonies” who did not know her place whatsoever. Then again, perhaps my reaction to learning that the QA student nurses had a curfew while the RAMC student nurses did not, had something to do with her opinion? When I brazenly expressed my disbelief and shock, the Major responded “Well Lynn, when British parents send their daughters to the QARANC, they expect them to be kept safe”. My 19 years old colonial self responded, “Then they should keep them at home!”. This was not deemed to be an acceptable response from a Private to a Major, and it set myself and the Major on a rocky interpersonal road. Nonetheless, she was a consummate professional, and our ongoing interpersonal dynamic did not impact my training, nor her positive reviews of my nursing practice.

Second, I was most definitely a product of the times, which for girls and women meant a pink collar ‘service to others’ job, with the requisite laser focus on romance and then marriage, as the GOAL. How did this show itself within my QA experience? We started out as 13 students, with only 2 going on to graduate as SRN’s. The rest fell victim to the times.

In addition to a daily 11pm curfew, a key part of the army’s attempt to keep us ‘vulnerable young things safe', while maintaining both military order & socially prescribed decorum and control, was that male guests were strictly forbidden from entering the house. But…and you might guess it….it wasn’t unusual for male guests to visit us…. overnight…. and in our shared bedrooms to boot! As well, the Sergeant’s overnight guests were not infrequently found wandering the hallway in search of the loo. This was to be her downfall.

Here’s what happened. The first of us fell prey to the lure of marriage; this required a celebration; off we all went to a pub, trooping in at 11:20, to be met by an extremely irate Sergeant who lorded it over us and threatened us with a charge. Up we went in front of Matron, with revenge in our collective mind. Side stepping the issue of being late for curfew, we quivered in our boots, crocodile tears running down our faces as we relayed how terrified we all were, with Sergeant’s men friends frequently wandering the halls of the house during the night! Matron, steely eyed, demanded to know why we had not spoken of this previously!!! We vulnerable young things stammered that ‘we were just too afraid’.  

Within the week, the Sergeant silently and unexpectedly departed for Germany. No charges followed for the QA student nurses.

For myself, I too soon fell prey to my 1950/60’s socialization, married an RAMC student nurse, and as was allowed only for women at the time of marriage, chose to leave – one of life’s BIG regrets! In 1976 when my then husband was able to leave the army, we emigrated to Vancouver. 

With 2 young children, I then went on to university, and am a semi retired Master of Social Work. I have 3 grandchildren and live with my partner of 20 years – a woman – in British Columbia. I have never forgotten my training and I have not returned to the UK since. One day - hopefully soon….

Jurassic Coast Branch Chair at an Indian Wedding by Marjorie Bandy

On New Year’s Eve 2022 I travelled to India to be a guest at a wedding. The sister of one of my friends Clinta was getting married. So why was I invited? A couple of year ago Clinta asked me if I could help her sister Catherine to improve her English as she wanted to move to Canada. With the help of WhatsApp and email we started on “lessons “ once a week, starting with just conversation and progressing to written work with me setting her homework. We started off with a simple thank you letter and over months progressed to her writing short stories. For anyone who knows me you won’t be surprised to read that I sent her work back complete with red ink corrections! It paid off and she passed the exams. She always promised that I would be invited to her wedding

In India unmarried women rarely ever venture out alone or with friends and so have little opportunity to meet members of the opposite sex. Arranged marriage is therefore the norm. At the end of November Catherine sent me a picture of her with a very handsome man with the announcement “ we are getting engaged.” The handsome young man is Akhil who lives on Canada but was home in Kerala specifically to get married. The regulations for taking a wife to Canada meant that the wedding was set for 2nd and 4th January. Initially it seemed that I would not be able to go as getting a visa for India for anyone from the UK is very difficult and usually takes months to arrange. Suddenly in mid-December the rules changed and I was able to apply of an e-visa. All I needed now was a plane ticket. The Jurassic Coast branch to the rescue as Pauline Stow’s son-in-law runs a personalised travel agency. Sorted.

Now for the packing. I had been warned that I would be wearing a Sari for the first ceremony but was specifically asked to look like an English guest complete with large hat for the second. My hand luggage contained little more than said hat.

I flew to Cochin in Kerala State which is predominately Christian and Romain Catholic. The family made me very welcome, and I stayed with a family member. I arrived Sunday and spent Monday getting the necessary jewellery for my sari experience and having the bouse made. The sari colour had already been chosen for me. Next day was the engagement ceremony which took place in the Parish church of the bride. For this the bride and her immediate family all wore the same colour, a rich burgundy. This service is the responsibility of the bride’s family and is followed by a meal and then all of the groom’s family come back to the bride’s house for tea and a piece of cake. This welcomes the joining of the two families. After that the groom and his family leave and we the bride’s side have a party. I asked why the engagement happens in church and Clinta explained that as all marriages are arranged the priest will ask both bride and groom whether they really want this marriage. Church is a safe environment should this be a forced marriage. 

Getting ready for this first event was an experience. A beautician arrived to get me ready, very professional makeup and then I was “dressed” in my sari. I certainly couldn’t have done it myself. Despite wearing the same as everyone else with my blonde hair I hardly blended in.

Wednesday was a rest day albeit I was taken on a sightseeing day.

Thursday was the actual wedding ceremony and unlike here, the Wedding Day is the responsibility of the groom’s family and takes place in their parish church. For this I was able to dress myself. The hat proved to cause a lot of excitement and I can honestly say I have never had my photograph taken so often and with people I didn’t know. 

The bride and groom walk into church together followed by both sets of immediate family, the groom’s mother carrying a basket of gifts, one of which is a sari, and the bride after the service, changes out of her white dress into this. 

After the 1 ½ hour Nuptial Mass [of which I understood not one word] we went to the groom’s family house. After prayers at the entrance and the handing over of the dowry we were all invited in to again have tea and cake. Catherine arriving on the back of Akhil’s motorbike sitting side saddle in white dress and veil and an escort of about 20 bikes of Akhil’s friends. After this we went on to the reception.

After the wedding I had a 3 day escorted trip around Kerala enjoying a peaceful day on a lake houseboat and then up to the hills around Munnar to see the tea plantations and ending in Cochin and the wonderful houses now hotels from the time that India was part of Empire before returning to the airport and a return to wet and windy Weymouth.

Lt Col (Rtd) Marjorie Bandy RRC