shells were lobbed into the
town, and all passing over us on the way.

It was a German destroyer that had somehow got down the coast
unchallenged, and was--we heard afterwards--only at a distance of 100
yards! What a chance for good shooting on our part; but it was a pitch
black night and somehow she got away in the velvet darkness. Sounds of
firing at sea--easily distinguishable from those on land because of the
"plop" after them--continued throughout the night and we thought a naval
battle was in progress somewhere; however, it proved to be one of the
bombardments of England, according to the papers next day. To our great
disappointment, our little "drop in the bucket" of 300 odd shells was
not even mentioned.

There was much eager scratching in the bank for bits of shells the next
day. One big piece was made into a paper-weight by the old Scotch
carpenter, and another was put on the "narrow escape" shelf among the
other bits that had "nearly, but not quite!"

Wild rumours had got round the camps and town that the "lady drivers had
got it proper," been "completely wiped out," in fact not one left alive
to tell the lurid tale. So that wherever we drove the next morning we
were greeted with cheery nods and smiles by everyone. The damage to the
town was considerable, but the loss of life singularly small. The Detail
Issue Stores had gone so far as to exchange bets as to whether we would
appear to draw rations that morning, and as I drove up with Bridget on
the box we were greeted right royally. One often found large oranges in
one's tool box, or a bag of nuts, or something of the kind, popped in by
a kindly Tommy who would pass the car and merely say: "Don't forget to
look in your tool-box when you get to camp, Miss," and be gone before
you could even thank him! All the choicest "cuts" were also reserved for
us by the butcher and we were altogether spoilt pretty generally.

Tommy is certainly a nailer at what he terms "commandeering." I was down
at the M.T. yard one day and as I left, was told casually to look in the
box when I got to camp. I did so, and to my horror saw a wonderful foot
pump--the pneumatic sort. I had visions of being hauled up before a
Court of Enquiry to produce the said pump, which was a brand new one and
painted bright red. On my next job I made a point of going round by the
M.T. yard to return the "present." I found my obliging friend, who was
pained in the extreme at the mere mention of a pump.