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'.

I seem to recall that I spent the first few months, January through early March '42 not doing anything very exciting while I was waiting to be called up. Everything was on ration, including clothing, so there was no shopping as we know it today.

My sisters were attending school. My parents were busy. My father was involved in war work with his company, and my mother had joined the WVS, the Women's Voluntary Service. It was unpaid, of course, but she wore a snappy dark green uniform and helped out at day-care centres - looking after bombed-out families, and a myriad of other much needed duties.

The Christmas before I signed up (1940) had been a bad one. Manchester had been the target of a vicious fire raid by the Nazis. The high school my sisters attended was flattened by several bombs. Luckily, this occurred during the Christmas holidays so there was no loss of life.

This meant the school had to organise temporary quarters for the students for the remainder of the war. My sisters had to cycle about ten miles every weekday in hail, rain and sometimes snow to three large houses in a nearby Cheshire village that had been commandeered and run as the school facility. No chauffeurs or school buses in those days.

I remember trying to cook with the skimpy rations and not succeeding too well. Our cook/housekeeper had left to work in munitions, or so we thought. We had a good laugh when Daddy told us he had had a big shock, walking through the Ferranti factory where he was a director, to hear someone yell out, 'Hey, Mr. Bridgen, it's Jenny'.

There was our ex-housekeeper, sitting at a bench processing a vital piece of equipment for the war effort! 'I just hope she doesn't let out too many family secrets!' my father said.

My mother now did a lot more cooking and house cleaning than she had done for many years! I couldn't foresee that I would be doing a lot more in that line, when I finally was called up.

The waiting soon came to an end when an official letter arrived in the mail. I remember getting the 'goose bumps' as I saw the Navy insignia on the envelope, and could hardly slit it open. I rushed into my mother who was busy washing up the breakfast dishes. 'Mummy, it's here', I think I said 'I can't read it, you do it for me' So she obliged.

I soon discovered I had to report in a week's time to a naval station near Warrington, a town close to Liverpool. This would be my probationary two-week course.

The letter stated that I had entered the Navy on a voluntary basis. If I didn't like the life, I could resign with no reprisals. And, of course, if I didn't measure up to their standards, they could politely tell me to leave the service before I ever began. The Wrens was the only service to initiate this program. I am sure it helped to convince prospective ratings one way or the other.

My memories of that period are vague, as you might understand. My stomach felt so queasy and my chest was so full of pumped up excitement that I could hardly breathe - the result of realising that a completely different lifestyle would be happening.

I do remember very well that my father made sure I arrived in style. One of his subordinates drove me from Manchester to the base and deposited me at the very gates. I recall sooty, grimy-looking brick buildings, a naval sentry at the gate who demanded to see my papers, and masses of young women in civilian dress milling around.

There were some real Wrens in uniform, but they worked there permanently. We could not wear uniform until we had finished the two-week course. We wore out own clothes with overalls, called 'bluettes' over them.

I think I must have turned off my memory bank on purpose to block out memories of some nasty incidents. Fellow Wrens who went through the course there, or at other bases, have regaled me with horror stories about their own indoctrination, the injections and vaccinations, the constant lectures and drills.

Then came the passing out parade. I had survived. The Wrens liked me, and I wanted to be one.