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Patricia Bridgen Farley was a Wren (Womens Royal Naval Service) stationed at Portkil, Near Kilcreggan, Scotland during World War II, living in a house affectionately known to the group of Wrens that were based there as 'The Barn'. The Wrens came to be known as the 'Barnites'.
The Rosneath base and the hospital area housed, approximately, 5,000 men in their high testosterone 20's, cooped up with the same guys all week and needing some outlet for their libido at the weekends.
Our own naval friends were well mannered, controlled males, at least in our presence, and no forcible or date rape, as it's called today, occurred in our small group during the Wren years. If there was any sex, it was between consenting adults, as they say in the newspapers.
The great majority of the sailors, however, took off for the big cities, port towns like Gourock, Greenock or Glasgow, looking for a good time. A few might succumb to the charm of the cobbler's daughter and her friend in the local village but that was country stuff.
The prostitutes in Glasgow were a tough, organised band and, I am sure, many made enough money off the Americans during those years to set themselves up in reasonable careers, such as owning a hairdressing salon or little boutique. They protected their own territories strongly and woe betide anyone who stepped over the boundary.
The two top groups were known as the 'Argyll Street Rangers,' and the 'Sauchiehall Commandos', after famous Glasgow city streets. Ask any old salt from those days and he'll tell you it's quite true.
The Navy, of course, tried to protect its youthful crews from the ravages of Venus. We sometimes would arrive at the Rosneath base to see a movie, and out of the hall would wander some very pale, sick-looking sailors, not wanting to look at us at all. Strange behaviour, as the sight of a winsome Wren would generally warrant a whistle. What's the matter with those guys, we would ask our friends. The usual VD film for recruits, was the reply.
The other prevention method was to provide prophylactic kits to anyone going on leave or out on a pass. How did we know about that? Well, at the bottom of the road leading to the jetty, there was a stile leading to a path that wended its way up to the hospital Nissen huts. As we went to work on a Monday, we could see 'French letters' (40's slang for condoms), lying by the gate.
It wasn't until many years later that I discovered that the French also had a slang expression for condoms, namely, English sheaths. Sort of tit for tat!
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