SHELLS AND SHELL CASES--IN THE FUSE SHOP--CARTRIDGES AND BULLETS
Arrived in the munitions factory, the new-comer, whether from a Government
Training Centre, or from another occupation, is given two or three weeks'
trial on the task she has come to undertake. Only a very small proportion
of the women offering their services--one experienced manager puts it at 5
per cent.--are found unsuitable, and these are discharged during the
probationary period.
Except in the case of those who have received a preliminary training, or
of those who have merely transferred their energies from other factory
work, the average woman has, at the initial stage in the munitions shops,
to overcome an instinctive fear of the machine. Occasionally, the fear is
intensified into an unreasoning phase of terror. 'One has to coax the
women to stay with such as these,' said one understanding foreman,
pointing to a monster machine with huge-toothed wheels. 'We don't ask a
woman to sit alone with these at first, for she wouldn't do it, so we put
a man with her, and let her sit and watch a bit, and after a while she
loses her fear and won't work anything else, if she can help it.'
The women, in fact, soon get attached to the machines they are working, in
a manner probably unknown to the men. 'I've been here a year on this
machine, and I can't do near so well on any other,' is a remark many a
girl has made to me as I have watched her on a difficult job. From time to
time, a girl will even confess that she 'can't bear to think of some one
on the night-shift working _her_ machine'. An understanding has arisen
between the machine and the operator which amounts almost to affection. I
have often noticed the expression of this emotion in the workshops; the
caressing touch of a woman's fingers, for instance, as a bore is being
urged on to the job on the machine. This touch, which cannot be taught, or
imparted, enables the operation to be started in the most effective method
possible, and goes to the making of an excellent and accurate worker.
The femininity of the worker has, however, its drawbacks, and for the sake
of successful handling of women in the munitions factory, it is as well
that these psychological points should be noted. If, for example, a
machine is out of gear, or if the operation is held up for any other
cause, the women munition makers will sometimes behave in an unreasonable
manner, quite bewildering to a foreman accustomed only to dealing with
men. The temporary cessation of work may make only a slight money
difference to the woman operator by the end of the week: 'not enough to
fuss about,' as the foreman judges. But the woman nevertheless often
_does_ fuss, because in her eyes the wages do not loom so large as the
interruption to her work. She 'hates standing-by', she will say, for she
cannot express the emotion of which she is but dimly conscious, that a
woman's deep instinct is to give freely of her fullness, and it frets her
very soul to be balked in the middle of a job.
[Illustration: ASSEMBLING FUSES]
[Illustration: COOLING SHELL FORGINGS]
[Illustration: OPERATING A LUMSDEN PLAIN GRINDER: RE-FORMING 8-INCH
HIGH-EXPLOSIVE CUTTERS]
Other initial obstacles in the employment of 'new' female labour in the
factories result from the exchange of the manifold duties of the woman in
her own home for repetition work performed in the company of hundreds of
other human beings. These difficulties are, however, soon overcome, and
the new-comer, generally speaking, rapidly becomes one of a large and
merry company. The whirr of the wheels and the persistent throb of the
machinery may at first distract her, but after a short time the factory
noises are unnoticed, save as an accompaniment to her thoughts, her
laughter, or her song. I have indeed met in the England of to-day nothing
more inspiriting, outside the soldiers' camps, than the women munition
workers at work or at play.
In August 1916, there were some 500 different munitions processes upon
which women were engaged. To-day, they are employed upon practically every
operation in factory, in foundry, in laboratory, and chemical works, of
which they are physically capable. Within the limits of this publication
it is not possible to follow them into every field of their endeavours,
yet a glance at their work in a few typical products may give some slight
indication of women's contribution to Britain's effort in the World War.
_Shells and Shell Cases_
Of the numbers of operations that go to the making of a shell, women now
undertake every process, in some works, including even the forging of the
billets in the foundry. It was the urgent need of a greatly increased
output of shells in 1915 which led to the widespread introduction into the
engineering shops of female labour, and the women have repaid this unique
opportunity by their unqualified success. So rapid, and so marked, has
been their progress in shell production that by the spring of 1917 the
official announcement was justified, that, by March 31 of that year,
Government contracts for shells of certain dimensions would only be given
where 80 per cent. of the employees were women.
At first, the women were mainly engaged in simple machine operations, such
as boring, drilling, and turning, or in filling the shells. They are, at
present, working hydraulic presses, guiding huge overhead cranes,
'tonging', or lifting the molten billets, 'setting', or fitting the tools
in the machines, inspecting and gauging, painting the finished shell
cases, making the boxes for dispatch of the finished product, and trucking
these when finally screwed up and ready for exit from the factory to the
Front. It is not possible to describe here in detail women's entire
contribution to the production of a shell, but, from foundry to railway
truck, she has become an alert and promising worker.
In the foundry, her appearance is as yet exceptional, yet in the North
country it is no unusual sight to find a woman in the cage suspended from
the overhead travelling crane, operating its protruding arm. Now, she will
pick up with the clumsy iron fingers a pig of iron and thrust it into the
glowing depths of a furnace, or she will lift the red-hot billet and bring
it to the hydraulic press, where it is roughly hollowed into its
predestined shape.
In the shell shop proper you may watch the woman operator on some scores
of processes; at one machine, she may be attacking the centre of the
billet with a revolving nose, at another she may be 'turning' the outside
of a shell. The shavings curl off in this process like hot bacon rind and
fall in iridescent rings around her: blue, purple, peacock, or gleaming
silver. Or, you may watch the woman worker 'threading' the shell, a
process by which the screw threads are provided, into which the nose of
the shell is afterwards fitted; or, you may stand and marvel at the skill
of the worker who so deftly rivets the base-plate into the shell's lower
end. But, perhaps, the most attractive operation to the visitor to the
shell shop is the fitting and grooving of the shell's copper band, a
process which leaves the machine and worker half-hidden in the glory of
sunset tints, as the copper scrap falls thickly from the machine.
At every stage, the shell is gauged and tested, examined and re-examined,
since accuracy is the watch-word of its production. Sometimes, the
machine-operator will gauge her own product; at other stages, the shell
passes into the hands of women overlookers of the factory, the final tests
being made by Government 'viewers'. The inside, as well as the outside of
the shell is submitted to such inspection, and you may see women peering
into the interior of the shells, aided by the light from a tiny electric
bulb, mounted on a stick. This contrivance is thrust successively into
rows and rows of shells.
Women are now exclusively used for the painting of the shells, a process
accomplished, not by means of a brush and paint-pot, but by the operator
playing a fine electrically-worked syringe on to the surface of the shell.
This process is undertaken in what is often called 'the butcher's shop',
the shells, in pairs, being swung up on a rope into a compartment where
the operator works from behind a protective iron screen.
In the Filling shops, women's devotion to their work has been proved once
and again. Whether the process undertaken be in company of a few comrades,
or in isolated huts where lonely vigils are kept over stores of
explosives, the munition-girls are hardly known to flinch in their duty.
Sometimes, they have volunteered to work throughout the night when
air-raids are in progress, at other times, women-workers have returned to
the Danger Zone immediately after some bad experience there; and, in every
case, the woman worker in the Filling Factory cheerfully sacrifices much
which she holds dear in life. It may signify but little to a man to give
up his small personal possessions whilst at work in the danger areas, but
to many a woman worker it means much, that she may not wear a brooch, or a
flower, while on duty, and that her wedding-ring, the only allowable
trinket, must be bound with thread while she works. Her tresses, which she
normally loves to braid, or twist into varying fashions, must also be left
hairpinless beneath her cap. She must relinquish her personal belongings
before going to her allotted task; no crochet-hook or knitting-pin may
accompany her into the zone where friction of steel, or hard metal, might
spell death to a multitude of employees. Yet this sacrifice of
individuality is given freely by the woman in the Filling shop, and she is
still merry-hearted and blithe as she fills the small bags with deadly
powder, or binds the charge which shall fire the shell.
When the shell is finally filled and passed 'O.K.', or perfect, it is a
woman who packs it into its box and who wheels it on a truck, sometimes
for a mile or more over narrow platforms, to hand it to another woman who
stacks it into the waiting railway-wagon. Any one who has watched
throughout the production of a shell in a factory of to-day can only echo
a well-known author's recent salute: 'Hats off to the Women'.
_In the Fuse Shop_
The fuse, that small and complicated object which explodes the shell, is a
war-product now largely produced by women's labour. A few inches in
length, it requires some hundreds of operations for its manufacture, even
if the initial processes on the metal are excluded from the count. In
section, it looks like a complicated metal jig-saw puzzle of exquisite
finish and cohesion: viewing it externally, a child might mistake it for a
conjurer's 'property', a bright metal egg, or roll often surrounded by a
metal ring marked with time measurements.
The care and accuracy necessary for the production of this small object
can hardly be imagined by the uninitiated: it is measured and re-measured
in every diameter, since on its perfection depends the life of the gunner
and his team. The fuse shop is usually characterized by its cleanliness
and quietude. I recall one such shop stretching far away into distance
both in length and breadth. Under its roof some 1,500 women were at work.
Conversation could be held in any part of the shop, undisturbed by the
usual factory noises. The fuse parts are, indeed, so small that the
machinery is necessarily light, and in such a shop it is dexterity and
accuracy that tell, rather than physical strength.
Rows of graceful women and girls were standing at their machines, and I
recall how their overalls and caps of varied hues made a rainbow effect,
as one watched from a distant corner. Some were in cream colour and some
in russet-brown, or apple green, the caps sometimes matching the overall
and sometimes offering a strong contrast. A splash of purple, or a deep
magenta, mingled with the head-dresses of softer hue, for in this shop,
away from the Danger Zone, no insistence was made on uniformity of factory
costume. Other women, wearing a distinctive armlet, were passing in and
out between the rows of workers, now stopping and bending over a machine,
now making some bright remark to the operator, as a ripple of laughter
indicated, or again, pointing out in sterner wise some danger, or some
error in the job. These itinerary women are the overlookers, who since the
war have perfected themselves in their special job and can now supervise
the operators.
At long tables, other women were sitting; some quite elderly and
grey-haired, some mere girls. They were measuring with small gauges parts
of the fuse, some the size of a good-sized bead. There are 150 different
gauges authorized for the measurement of one type of fuse, and in practice
even more are used, to ensure perfection of accuracy. I stood spell-bound
at one of these gauging tables and watched the examination of small screws
and flash plugs. There were six little squares of felt on the table, on
which the examiner placed rejects, classified according to the detected
flaw. The work proceeded with the utmost dispatch, the 'accepted' or
'perfect' heap growing as if by magic.
At another table, a girl was testing springs of about an inch long. If any
of these showed the smallest fraction too much length after being
submitted to a given pressure, they were put aside as 'scrap'. At yet
another table, tiny fuse needles were being examined for length,
thickness of phlange, and accuracy of point, and on a high flat desk,
near a machine, I noticed seventeen different gauges were ranged for the
examination of the percussion end of the fuse-body, one ten-thousandth
part of an inch being the limitation or variation allowed in such parts.
When all the parts have been examined they are passed to other tables for
assembling, or putting together. In this operation almost superhuman care
is required, and the work is reserved for the best operators and
time-keepers as a reward for long service. 'Assembling' is regarded as the
plum of the fuse-room. The operators are well aware of the importance of
the task, as they stow away in the time fuses the pea-ball, pellet,
spring, stirrup, ferrule, and other components of the fuse. The needle is
fixed by blows from a small hammer, and at length the fuse is completed
and passes out of the room of its creation to receive its 'filling' from
other hands.
_Cartridges and Bullets_
The production of cartridges and bullets is another branch of munitions
production in which women are mainly employed. These objects, which, when
completed, are together no longer than a ball-room pencil, make in their
manufacture no great demand on physical strength.
On entering a cartridge and bullet shop, one is at once struck with its
individuality. There is more stir and movement than in a fuse-room, but
less of the imperiousness of the machinery than in the shell or gun shop.
There is in the cartridge and bullet room still the whirr of wheels and,
above that, the deep constant throb of the driving-force, that makes
conversation almost inaudible to the new-comer. But beneath this bass
accompaniment, one can hear the lesser sounds belonging to the cartridge
and bullet-room alone. There may be the buzz of the circulating gas
machines--which resemble miniature merry-go-rounds--the tap, tap, of the
cartridges as they are thrown out of the machine into a box below, and the
tinkle of bullets as they are poured into weighing machines, or on to
tables, or into huge barrels, such as are used on the wharves for the
transport of herrings.
A cartridge and bullet-shop sometimes is as animated and as picturesque as
an open-air market under a southern sky. I remember such a shop where the
girls were in various factory costumes, some at the machines in khaki and
some in cream-coloured overalls and caps; some, who were 'trucking', or
removing the product in boxes, were in cream trouser-suits, with smart
head-dresses fashioned from brightly-coloured oriental handkerchiefs. In
between the rows of girls men in dark suits were passing to and fro, now
stopping to examine, or alter a machine and now taking up a box of
bullets and pouring out its glittering contents like a silver stream, so
that the output from each worker might be weighed and assessed.
Through an open door, at one side of the shop, one could see other men,
like stern magicians, dropping cartridges into vats of acid, and just to
the side of the vats I caught sight of two girls vigorously shaking a sack
of cartridges, hot from the furnace. As they shook, they sang an army
refrain: 'Take me back to dear old Blighty,' with a chorus of laughter. At
the extreme end of the shop, near the door whence the product made its
exit, were long narrow tables, piled with bullets, reminding one of a haul
of silver sprats on the quay-side. These were the inspecting tables where
the bullets receive minute attention from women viewers.
The women's work in the bullet-shop is of extraordinary interest to the
onlooker, although many of the processes must be infinitely more
monotonous, from the worker's standpoint, than operations in other
munitions productions. The elongation of the little metal vessel,
resembling an acorn-cup, into a full-length cartridge, or bullet,
necessitates many operations in which the dexterity of human fingers and
the ingenuity of the machine both come into play. In the shop I recall, in
one machine employed for semi-annealing, the cartridge was being 'fed'
into a metal revolving plate. This passed behind an asbestos screen into a
double row of gas jets, where the semi-annealing or hardening process was
being accomplished. The dexterity of the operators was so great that one
woman was often feeding two machines, apparently without effort, and never
missed placing the cartridge into the correct aperture in the revolving
plate.
In another process, I watched young girls sitting round a table and
placing bullets into circular apertures in small trays, resembling
solitaire-boards. Many of the girls were working with such speed that it
was impossible to follow the movements of their fingers, but they,
unconscious of their prowess, worked with averted heads, smiling in
amusement at the visitor's astonishment.
In yet another operation, it was the machine that held one's attention.
The operator was feeding cartridges into a metal band which slipped out of
view while the process of 'tapering' was performed. When finished, a metal
thumb and index finger appeared, which delicately picked up the
cartridges, one by one, and threw them aside. The displaced cartridge then
hopped out of the machine into a box at the side of the machine.
Entranced by the many mysteries in the production of cartridges and
bullets in the shop I am recalling, I had not noticed that the
tea-interval had arrived, and suddenly found that the work-room was almost
empty of human beings. Only two girls remained. They were sitting sewing,
whilst they devoured thick slices of bread and butter out of a newspaper
packet. The woman inspector, who was my guide, turned sharply. 'What are
you doing here?' she said, 'Eating your tea in the workshop, instead of
outside, or in the canteen. Be off at once into the fresh air.' Then, with
the indignation fading out of a good-humoured face: 'What next?' she said.
Looking out of the open door at the streams of bright and happy girls
laughing, singing, dancing, and running, as only healthy youth can do in
the midst of these dark days of war, I seemed to see other and brighter
days ahead stretching out into the years of the future, when the workfolk
would all taste a fuller joy in life. With renewed hope, I gave her back
her challenge: 'Well! and what next?'