Violet Lillian Winkles (née Charles)
General Information
First Name(s): Violet Lillian
Unmarried Surname: Charles
Married Surname: Winkles
Date of Birth: 8.5.1922
Place of Birth: Birmingham
Date joined WLA: 31.8.1939
Date left: 1.12.1945
WLA number: 18185
Previous occupation: Office junior
Reasons for joining: Do her bit. Get away from home.
Family’s reaction to joining: Shock initially. Later happy that she was away from the bombing.
Reasons for leaving: End of war. Marriage.
Employment
Pre-work training:
- 4 weeks at Inst of Ag, Moulton, from 14 May 1940
- 3 weeks dairy work, 3days poultry, 3 days pig & tractor
Employed by: Private farmer. First posting to a farm near Tamworth.
Worked for at least three other farms one of which was Ullington Hall (Farm) near Evesham. Another was Mockley Manor Farm at Ullenhall. The final posting was Shenstone Court Farm. Carried out milking, dairying, milk delivery by pony and cart.
Shared first posting with sister, Miriam Charles. Shared a later posting with Kath from Willenhall, seven years older.
Type of work undertaken: Mostly dairying and general farmyard chores.
Best and worst memories of time: Living and working in the open air of the countryside.
Accommodation
Private billet.
Life after the war
Did they return back to their pre-war occupation? No.
What was their occupation after the war? Housewife & mother. Much later, office work at a fruit and veg wholesaler.
Did they stay on the land? No.
How did work in the WLA affect their life? It was the most vivid memory of her life. Eventually related to everyone who knew her.
Contributor Information
Name: Jim Winkles
Relationship to Land Girl: Son
Accounts
A Day in the Life W.L.A. Member No. 181815
Read the account below or download as a PDF.
It had been a hot day, another in a prolonged spell of glorious weather that gave the month her reputation of ‘flaming’ June. A day to spend lazing on some golden stretch of sand, with an occasional splash in the sea.
I had spent the last hours of the morning in the hayfield, perched high on the swathe-turner, with an armful of selected hay as a cushion on the iron seat. When first promoted to this task I had been given detailed instructions, but soon learned that Jolly, my horse, knew the job by heart. As long as I did not let his head drop low enough to snatch at the sweet-smelling hay on either side, the task was performed satisfactorily and with the minimum of effort on my part. To-day had been no exception. Jolly plodded up and down the rows wearing a peculiar head-dress of leafy twigs which I had stuck into his bridle in the faint hope that they would help keep away the flies which always swarmed about his head in warm weather.
The tines on the wheels revolved and tossed the drying hay, disturbing insects and seeds to float like a small dust storm in our wake.
High overhead, invisible against the brightness of the sky, larks were bursting with rapturous song. Caught up in the glory I, too, began to sing, but Jolly was used to such nonsense and serenely stumped on.
After lunch, with the sun now blazing down, I was again riding behind Jolly, but this time on a large dray. On either side of the cart a man was gathering up a row of hay and, when each had a sufficient truss on his fork, he would drop the load on the cart. They were very good and took great trouble to put the hay in a strategic position so that I hardly needed to touch it at first but, as the load grew higher, it became more difficult to place each truss precisely. I found myself wading through the hay from side to side and back to front of the cart, in desperate endeavour to keep the loading even so that the whole lot would not slide, slowly and ignominiously, off the cart while being jolted down the cobbled track to the rick-yard
The soft, yielding hay tired my legs as I struggled over it – it was that nightmare of trying to run away from something dreadful and my legs were made of lead. My arms grew ever more weary. Seeds and prickly stems trickled down my neck and stuck to my shirt which, in turn, stuck to my sweat-soaked skin. My beetroot-red face was shiny and smudged with dust. My hair, tied in a cotton turban, clung lank and damp to my scalp. The smell of the hay, so sweet from a distance, was now overpowering and nauseous, my dust-caked throat ached for a drink, and I felt this was Hell. The glory of the morning was forgotten completely.
At last the load was pronounced finished and I somehow had to climb down from the dray on trembling legs. When I reached it, nothing felt firma than terra. It was considered proper for the loader to inspect the load before it went off so, with assumed nonchalance, I walked round and felt greatly surprised to find it looked fairly stable. Pronouncing myself satisfied, (with an inward prayer for its safe arrival), I sent the cart on its way then thankfully gulped down half a pint of cider before climbing on to a second cart to start the agony all over again.
So time wore on and the field was slowly cleared. When the last load was taken down to the yard I was spread on top of it, heedless of its stability or appearance.
At the rick-yard I could climb down a decent ladder instead of that under-slung fence-like contraption at the front of the dray. But I would not have cared if the journey had gone on forever, it was so good just to lie there and know that Hell had closed for the day.
Walking back to the house for supper, with the rooks returning to the elms in eight-acre and my shadow ridiculously elongated before me, I could begin to forget the fatigue and remember only the satisfaction of a job well done. All around me, in the golden glow of evening, small creatures were preparing to rest. We had had a busy time. Lie on a beach? What a waste of a lovely day.
Autobiographical Account
Poetry
Who Would Be A Land Girl? by Violet Winkles
Oh, who would be a land-girl, we chorus with a groan
When Autumn days turn chilly and the wind begins to moan
Around the barns and buildings as day draws to its close
Freezing toes and fingers and the tip of each pink nose
Oh who would be a land-girl we chorus in despair
When rain pours down in torrents and the curl has left our hair
I’ve got a special date to-night, what am I going to do
I’d wish to be at home in bed, l’ve got a touch of flu.
Oh who would be a land-girl we chorus full of woe
We’ve got the load of hay alright but now the horse won’t go
The pigs won’t eat their hay and straw, the cows won’t touch their swill
Oh Kathleen don’t you think we ought to give them each a pill
The rabbits ate our luncheon greens, the hens have had our tea
There’s nothing left in all the world save work, and you and me.
Oh it’s grand to be a land-girl when summer skies are blue
I wouldn’t change this job of mine for all the world, would you?
Oh who would be a land-girl we’re chorusing anew
For in between the big jobs there are little ones to do
While Violet’s scything nettles Kath is cleaning out the hens
And oh, she cries with mournful sighs, I wish I’d joined the WRENS
Oh who would be a land-girl we chorus in disgust
We’re trying to winnow barley and we’re being choked with dust
We’re hauling heavy sacks around, we’re sure they weigh a ton
We know we’ll all be total wrecks before this harvest’s done
Oh who would be a land-girl we chorus in dismay
For now we’ve finished silage and we’ve started on the hay
There’s always heaps more work to do no matter how we strive
If the days can get more strenuous I doubt that we’ll survive
Oh who would be a land-girl, again that mournful cry
As we try to thatch a hayrick to keep the darn stuff dry
We spread across the sloping roof and balance on one toe
Our position’s most precarious, the ground seems far below.
Oh who would be a land-girl we chorus in distress
We were sent to clean a ditch out and we’re in such a mess.
The ditch is full of water which alone would cause a frown
But now it’s started raining so I guess we’ll have to drown.
Oh who would be a land-girl, in disappointed tone
From an almost original member comes this not so original moan.
For years we’ve laboured on the land in sunshine, snow and rain
We’ve toiled and sweat, shed blood and tears
To grow more – and more again
To feed our hungry nation we’ve grown potatoes, cabbage, grain
But for all the blooming thanks we get
Our efforts might have been in vain
For when at last we get discharged at the final victory
We get shoes, shirt and overcoat, but no gratuity
And even when the fighting’s done
We can’t go home and say “We’ve won!”
We land-girls must go on and on
To help to feed the poor starved Hun.
The cows will always have to be milked
So VJ Day finds us at work
The next day, too, we’re harvesting
For land-girls must never shirk
And when we look upon the stooks we’re proud we did not relax
Until we look upon our pay – ten bob gone for Income Tax
Our pride all goes, our spirits sink and we’re not half so gay
Is THIS all the thanks for loyalty in working on Victory Day?
For we only got paid for the time we worked
All hours at double pay.
That ten bob makes it just about right
We worked for love on VJ
Come now, folks, you must agree
We’d have done better far to join in the spree
And left cows and harvest
And signed off with a great big V.
