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Patricia Bridgen Farley was a Wren (Womens Royal Naval Service) stationed at Portkil, Near Kilcreggan, Scotland during World War II, living in a house affectionately known to the group of Wrens that were based there as 'The Barn'. The Wrens came to be known as the 'Barnites'.
The Christmas of '43, I was on duty with Becky, a fellow Wren. Everyone else had gone home to celebrate the holiday. Christmas Eve was on a Friday, I recall, and we didn't have too much to do at the Fort. No ships were running at the range. We closed up about 3 pm, and went back to the Barn for a quiet evening.
The phone rang and Becky answered. It was our socialite friend, Mrs. Johnson, from the village and she needed a favour. Two young American officers were with her. They had arrived a couple of days ago and were staying at Rosneath. They had nothing to do on Christmas Eve, and could we possibly help out?
Becky, at first, demurred but then agreed we would take them to the Christmas Eve dance at the Cove village hall. The usual Saturday dance was cancelled as it would be Christmas Day and everyone would be staying home with their families. Becky suggested to Mrs. Johnson that the men pick us up about 7 pm and left it up to her to give them directions to our wee house.
What pandemonium ensued after that! 'What are we going to wear?' we shrieked at each other. Luckily Becky, being a local girl from Dumbarton, had brought over some dresses to choose for the doctors' New Year's party at the hotel. We looked through them, and finally decided I could fit into one dress, it being a little short for her.
Becky ran over to the hut to use the shower there, and I jumped into a warm bath in the house. She brushed out my hair, which I had curled with bobby pins, my favourite mode of hairdressing in those days, while I sat in the tub.
We borrowed each other's make-up, which we hardly ever used in our daily routine. Looking in the bathroom mirror, we both agreed we didn't look too bad, considering the rush and unexpectedness of the date.
At 7 pm there was a knock on the door. We peeked through the curtains and saw an American Army jeep parked outside. We opened the door to see two smartly dressed American Army officers, field artillery, to be exact. One was John, my future husband, single, 29 years old, the other, Pete was a married man, about the same age, and he agreed to be Becky's date as she was also married.
And that's how it all began. From his own words, John was completely bowled over, infatuated, and remained that way for the six weeks he was stationed in our area! He had come up from the south of England, where they were preparing for the proposed invasion of Europe, to collect much needed supplies from Rosneath and escort them down to England.
We went out nearly every night, either to his place, or to a movie or dance. At a New Year's Party (1944) hosted by the Johnson's we promised to wait for each other. We knew that the coming year would be dangerous for him and most eventful for everyone.
I also remember a dinner served in the officers quarters. It was going to be special, I was told. It turned out to be steaks, real big ones, and lots of them. I embarrassed John by refusing to eat the meat. I have never liked beef, and the sight of those huge pieces made me feel nauseous. The other women dates of the officers, all English or Scottish, looked at me disapprovingly as they dug into what was, for them, a rarity and a pleasure.
John became a welcome visitor to the Barn and got on well with our naval friends. I loved him for his gentleness, his Irish wit, his scholarly knowledge and, by being a newspaper man, he was in my favourite profession. I loved to listen to him telling stories about his life on a Buffalo newspaper, and about learning to ski in that northern American city.
We said goodbye in February '44, when he went south to prepare for D-Day. I didn't see him again until July 1945 when he got permission to come to London, from Czechoslovakia, where he was on occupation duty, to marry me. He had survived D-Day, France, Belgium, Germany, in a field artillery battalion, whose top commander was General Hodges and, at one time, the notorious Patton.
John was one of the many who suffered through the Battle of the Bulge in the winter of '44-'45. Years after, he would complain of a pain in his left knee whenever it rained heavily or was very damp outside, my 'foxhole' knee, he would say, referring to those melancholy days in Huertgen Forest. I wrote to him every day, and he did his best to reply when he could. I have kept all these precious V-mails (V standing for Victory).
We were married on July 14th, 1945, Bastille Day, in London, before we both went back to our bases. I was then stationed in Harwich on the Southeast coast of England, where I had moved after the closing of the Fort in Portkil, Scotland, after VE Day.
John went back to Blatna in Czechoslovakia, preparing to do more training for the fight against the Japanese. Luckily for us, and everyone else, the Americans dropped the atom bombs and it was total surrender for the Japanese, VJ Day.
I was soon demobbed, being a married woman with priority, and John was sent back to the States. I had to wait until the following year, February '46 when I came over to the U.S. as a GI bride on a ship crammed with many other wives like me.
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