When the bus stopped and opened the door, I noticed that an older gentleman, a civilian, was driving the bus. He just smiled and motioned us on to the bus without saying a word. I remember thinking to myself that the experience so far had not been too bad… It was a very short trip from the airport to the base. Probably no more than a ten-minute ride. When the bus stopped the driver opened the door and a tall fellow in uniform stepped into the bus. “Gentleman”, he addressed us, “when you step out of the bus, form a single file line outside on the grinder, NOW MOVE IT!” We bummed rushed out of the bus onto the asphalt collapsing into a clumsy single file line that seemed to be about 75 victims long. As I stood there in the line, waiting for whatever was to come next, I glanced around at my companions in this experience. We were a very diverse group, seemingly represented by almost every different race, color or creed known to man. in their 30’s, but most were young like me, no more. How Mary wished that one day she might visit London, its glamour and mystique seemed a life removed from that of a poor orphan girl in a small Devon town. Perhaps she might even go to a theatre to watch a play by the man they called The Bard, who had died just a few years earlier.At twenty, Mary was as old as the century itself. Her father, a Royal Navy bosun, had died at sea when she was aged two, in a skirmish with a vessel of the Spanish navy, and her mother had succumbed to smallpox four years later.Her upbringing in the Orphanage of Saint Saviour's had been austere and bleak, gruelling physical work and harsh treatment. Memories of being awoken early on chilly winter mornings, washing in cold water, dressing in the dark then walking across to the adjacent Church of Saint Saviour's in order to clean and polish the ornate ironwork door, or dusting the interiors and seeing to the rood screen within came back to her mind.Mary was slightly less unfortunate than some of the other.
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