Over a decade ago, dear friend and HarperCollins Children’s publisher Lisa Berryman sent me a note she thought might interest me: a reference to a question in the British parliament in the mid-1920s about why the women who had served and been permanently incapacitated in World War I were not receiving army pension. The answer: they had been employed by the post office, and so the army was not responsible for them.
Post office women? Not nurses, Voluntary Aid Detachments, drivers. I hunted for records, and found none. I did find one tantalising advertisement for women who could shoot, ride, would share tents with male personnel — I still don’t know if women were being sought for other positions.
This book, and over a decade of fascinated research is owed to Lisa, without whose prompting and encouragement I would never have continued hunting for the truth.
Slowly I began to compile references: some poems written by English women in wartime France, which seemed to indicate they were serving there; a few notes in letters. I was still not convinced there was a story to be found, but then came across a mention of a paper by Irish historian Barabara Walsh: ‘The Key Role Played by WAAC British Post Office Female Staff in Army Signal Units on the Western Front, 1917–1920’.
Unable to access it, I emailed her and found not only someone who knew about those extraordinary women, but who shared the details of her publications and sources, in particular the archives of the Irish Postal Workers Union, who had campaigned for better conditions for the women volunteers and who — not being part of Britain — had ignored the order that all references to their work be destroyed. I like to think that a few very Irish derogatory remarks were made if/when the order was sent to them.
My book was about an English girl, not Scotts or Irish, and by then I already had the details of what their work and training would have involved — if they had existed. Barbara Walsh’s work, generosity, kindness and stubborn burrowing into archives meant I knew for certain that the women had been there, and that government conspiracy kept their existence ‘top secret’ for no reason other than saving money on a few more pensions, and the humiliation that ineptitude and desperation had meant that women had to serve in those positions at that time.
Once again, Lisa’s editorial suggestions were inspired, as well as those of Kate O’Donnell, whose passion and insight means that my books are written knowing that she, as well as Lisa, will be the first, most critical and most generous of readers.
Nicola Nelson has gone way beyond the call of duty in managing the production of the book, deciphering my handwriting, solving the myriad technical problems and panics of an author who is dyslexic and regards computer formats as formidable foes.
Virginia Grant’s proofreading was — as always — impeccable, especially when the times and dates of the Battle of Cambrai were muddled even at the time, much less trying to reconstruct them now.
The extraordinary cover of this book is the creation of Andrew Davis. I wish I could convey how much the artwork moves me, the genius to take an entire war and place it behind the figure of a post office girl suddenly required to be a frontline soldier responsible for the fate of thousands, or even, as it must have seemed at the time, the entire war. I’m not a visual person, and recall very few artworks with complete clarity. They include Rembrandt’s self-portrait, and this cover, impossible to forget.
This book would also have not been possible without the formidable memory and technical expertise of my husband, Bryan Sullivan. As a young electrical apprentice at Cockatoo Island Dockyard he worked with men who had been at the Battle of Cambrai. He knew what signallers did, and had done there, and when I asked ‘how’ he just happened (of course) to have a small section of the cable they would have used, as well as the correct implements to show me how it should be spliced, and spent hours showing me the exact techniques, as well as how even a speck of dirt in a repair made in a shell hole with bombardment all around might make the line inoperable. The War Memorial in Canberra may have some of the equipment of the time. Bryan was the one who could tell me how it was operated, transported, and repaired. He is also a ham operator, fluent in Morse, and has been for nearly sixty years, as well as an expert in discreet communications, including the history of coding. I could have had no better guide to the technical aspects of this book. The hours spent with Bryan sitting next to me, splicing cable then guiding my hands as I tried it, will always be the most treasured of any I have spent in research.
Some books are works of love. This has been one of them, in so many ways. May lyrebirds, larks or sparrows sing to all who have made it possible, to all who turn its words into pages, or who pass the book to readers, and to everyone who shares the story of the ‘Jean McLains’ of World War I. May your coffee invariably be fragrant, your cups of tea be perfect, with what is exactly needed always delicious on your plates. It is impossible to thank you all enough.