Back in the days when women were gels and chaps were gentlemen, the Honourable Lady Whatsit was expected to be a beautiful airhead: indolent, incompetent and ignorant. She would be lucky to go to school at all, and might spend her teenage years with a nanny and a governess. Her education encompassed French, riding and dancing; she would be "finished" by some impecunious countess on the Continent; she could not cook, light a fire, wash a sock. Any idea of looking after herself, let alone anybody else, was preposterous.
Anne de Courcy has described the last season before the outbreak of the Second World War in one of her previous books. At least George VI and Elizabeth took debutantes' presentation at court seriously; in 1936 Edward VIII had got bored, announced that everyone could consider herself presented, and left to play golf with Wallis Simpson. One deb presented on the eve of war recalls the Throne Room being filthy, the tiaras being in need of a clean and the champagne being served in tooth mugs; the whole event had a shabby, dated air. But still they queued in Daddy's Rolls for hours in the Mall, while hoi polloi pressed unwashed noses to the windows.
In 1939, most of these butterflies were blissfully unaware of the growing storm, as newspapers were for men. A few, still being "finished", had to be rescued from Germany or France as the Nazis invaded. One, whose Prussian officer boyfriend took her to the Nuremberg rallies, was better prepared than most; he was killed at Stalingrad. At this point, however, true grit emerged and the gels showed what they were made of.
De Courcy, a former Daily Mail columnist, has interviewed 47 old debs to produce a glorious yarn, a mixture of derring-do, make-do and eye-popping innocence. Because of their wealthy upbringing, all could ride, most could drive, and a few could fly. So they joined the FANYs (often with their own cars) and chauffeured generals, or the ATS and Red Cross and drove trucks or ambulances, or the WVS and ran mobile canteens. They emptied bedpans as nurses and cracked codes at Bletchley. They worked in factories: "Rosie the Riveter" had a cut-glass accent. They trained as mechanics: asked what she knew about the carburettor, one said brightly, "It's filled with oil and hair," not realising that her father's chauffeur, her teacher, had thought that was how posh people pronounced the word air.
The flying debs came into their own, though none became a fighter pilot. More than a hundred female Air Transport Auxiliary members ("Attagirls") took newly finished planes from the factories to the airfields. They flew solo, unless they were delivering four-engined planes, in which case their co-pilots were cadets aged between 12 and 14. Diana Barnato acquired a reputation for extraordinary skill by safely crash-landing her Spitfire; she could not possibly bale out, she explained, as she was wearing the regulation tight skirt and "anyone below would have seen my knickers". Another plane dumped its whole undercarriage - "it was very windy" - but still its pilot managed to arrive at her destination. As she taxied the wreck in, the mechanic asked why she was bringing only half an aeroplane.
In those days, nice girls didn't, so many had a rude introduction to sex. One, dancing in a nightclub, complained loudly that it was a pity chaps brought their torches with them; told it was an erection, she was none the wiser. Lady Lavinia Holland-Hibbert had a long wartime liaison with Denis Healey (who looks quite dishy without his shirt). Others had to fight off vicious attacks from fellow workers; the ATS was particularly hazardous due to its popularity with lesbians. Lady Margaret Egerton, stationed in Orkney, had the presence of mind when a whisky-sodden woman corporal entered her room ("It's your turrrn tonight, ma'am!") to call in a voice of command: "Get the hell out of here, Staff!" It worked, but when she complained about a lesbian assault her commanding officer asked, "What's that?"
They were cold, they went hungry, they endured ostracism amounting to downright cruelty. Their genes came to the fore and they stood up to sadistic matrons and majors, winning improvements for all their mates. They also got the best jobs, alongside Winston Churchill and admirals, plotting D-Day deep in the Cabinet War Rooms. Their courage was outstanding: all the more so considering that dreadful sheltered upbringing. Then Attlee swept to power and their privileged world began to crumble. Timely, therefore, to remember the contribution of these great ladies in this enjoyable, often hilarious book.
