Joan McCurdy

My name in 1940 was Joan Care. I later married a Canadian broadcaster, whose name was Matt McCurdy, and I've lived in Canada for quite a long time. I was a volunteer member of the WAAF [Women's Auxiliary Air Squadron] from April, 1940. I was eighteen years old. It was three years before women of my age were called up in 1943. There were only 39 WAAF at Cranwell where I was sent at the beginning of 1940, and we were all volunteers. I was demobilized in 1945, having served in Number 11 Group Fighter Command in Andreas, Isle of Man, and in 21 Group Training Command in Chipping Norton, Oxford, and in Teeling, Dundee, Scotland. We were moved around quite a bit because of the people who were missing, so we had to fill those vacancies. As time went by, I became an Airwoman First Class, a Leading Airwoman, a Corporal, and then received a commission in RAF administration, and became Assistant Adjutant, and later an Adjutant of a satellite aerodrome. An Adjutant's job was personnel and administration. I was usually one of only two or three WAF officers in a mess of a hundred men of varying nationalities, so one tended to fall in love a lot. At Cranwell, the WAAF lived in a hut on a hill, and marched to breakfast in the airmen's mess each morning. One morning, my friend Marie Rogers and I came out into the blue early morning after breakfast. To the right, I saw an enemy aircraft approaching low over the parade ground. I pulled Marie around the back of the photographers hut and pushed her down to the ground. And I lay beside her as we heard the "rat-a-tat-tat" of the aircraft's guns. When it flew off, we stood up. Marie was shivering. She looked down at her wet uniform. "You didn't have to push me down in a puddle!", she said, crossly. Aerodromes were usually in the country. I didn't experience the blitz like my family in London. Home on leave, I said to my sister: "I've never heard a bomb." She was reading by the fire. There was an almighty crunch. She looked up from her book, and said conversationally, "That was a bomb", and went on reading. The Battle of Britain Medal meant little at the time it was issued. It was like spam - everybody got one. Besides, it wasn't particularly attractive - a strange combination of colours - bright green, bright orange, a black stripe, and a rosette in the middle. I wish I knew their significance. What's the green, for the green fields of England? What's the orange, for the fire over London during the blitz? Did the Rosette signify England's wild rose? I'd like to know more about the ribbon. We made jokes about it at the time. I wish I had it now to show my grandchildren. "Look, darlings. Your Grandmother was awarded this medal for defending England during the Battle of Britain, fought by the famous First of the Few. They might well talk about my medal at show and tell, or write in their school compositions: "My grandmother is a hero with a medal." I would keep a wise, brave face, but refuse speaking engagements, of course, out of true British grit and understatement. How I wish I had my Battle of Britain medal. I wonder if I could get one second hand. My great friend Gwendolyn Grinstead sewed hers on a cushion.