On the outbreak of war, Boss Franklin and her Sergeant Major, Edith Walton, immediately contacted Sir Arthur Sloggett, as Director General of Medical Services at the War Office, to offer the services of the FANY. The same Sloggett, who only weeks before had been so complimentary and apparently impressed, after Grace's discussion with him.
Now, however, he became totally unhelpful, stonewalling all their efforts to get his help and support for the FANY. The Establishment line was, very firmly, that a battlefield was no place for a woman and that was the position that he was determined to hold at all costs.
Fortunately he was not quite as patronizingly disparaging as some. When a certain Vera Matthews applied to the Admiralty, prepared to accept any kind of job at all, she was brusquely informed by their spokesman that "we don't want any petticoats here."
Vera, much later, became Director of the WRNS!
Again, a Dr Elsie Inglis, Head of the Scottish Women's Hospital Unit, applied to the War Office, volunteered to take a qualified team of medics, with their own ambulance, across to Belgium, and was told even more rudely, "My dear lady, go home and sit still!" It was an attitude that prevailed almost everywhere in the male dominated establishments of the time. Later, Grace herself was on the receiving end of a similar rebuff on the quayside at Folkestone.
Fortunately, Lillian Franklin was a woman of great strength of mind, known for her calmness and unflappability. She accepted Sloggett's decision calmly, though inwardly seething with frustration, returned to FANY HQ apparently unperturbed. There she organised sewing parties, collected any sort of equipment which could be useful, and got staunch, dependable FANY Margaret Cole-Hamilton to come to London to sort out, list and pack that equipment against the time it might be needed.
Such was the situation when Grace returned to HQ and was briefed by Boss Franklin. Already, as a result of the Establishment's attitude, many of the FANY had resigned to take up other posts, some with the VAD, or the Red Cross, convinced that there was no chance of service overseas with the FANY. Only a small band of dedicated and steadfast members remained, and on these stalwarts - Cole-Hamilton, Mosely, Nora Cluff, Walton, and of course the rock-steady Lillian Franklin – the future of the FANY was built.
Disgusted with Sloggett's attitude, Grace swung into action at once, demanding an immediate interview with him, which he finally and reluctantly agreed to after some initial prevarication. Even she - tough, confident, using Scottish bluster and feminine wiles, reminding him that trained nurses with an ambulance were desperately needed, couldn't budge him from the Establishment line.
Ever resourceful, she changed tack, asked to go, herself, alone, across the Channel, look at the situation, and report back to him. Perhaps this sudden change of tone, almost subservience, reassured him that he was still in charge. Little did he know. He agreed to her plan, but only if she herself could get the necessary passport and permit to take her across, and the prior agreement of the Red Cross, as they would be providing the transport. Sloggett was convinced she would get neither. How wrong he was!
Grace lost no time, went straight to the Red Cross HQ, completed the form they gave her, then badgered the Red Cross secretary unmercifully until she got it signed. All this in one visit, almost unheard of. From there she made a beeline for the Passport Office, arriving shortly before 3 o'clock, and it closed for the weekend at four. She was horrified at the number of folk waiting to be processed, but she was in her khaki FANY Lieutenant's uniform, which gave her a psychological advantage over the majority who were mostly civilians.
Handing in her application form to the policeman on duty, she watched him slide it beneath the pile in the tray, and sat quietly waiting for any opportunity that might arise. It came, when the policeman took a handful of forms from the top of the tray, called the names of the next small batch of applicants, and led them through to the processors in the main office.
Grace rose quietly to her feet, deliberately slow moving, though her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen, strode over to the in-tray, moved two or three of the last-in forms, including her own, to the top of the pile, and returned to her seat. It was England, and nobody said a word.
The policeman returned, standing watchfully, until the buzzer went for the next lot, when he picked up the forms, and read out the names. Grace's was first. The policeman frowned at her suspiciously, but noting her officer's uniform and Lieutenant's 'pips' trod carefully.
"Yours?" he queried.
Grace gazed at him, eyes wide and innocent. "Mine" she answered.
A moment's hesitation, then he led her and the others through, into the main office. Grace got her Passport and Channel Permit. But the battle wasn't over yet. She dashed back to Red Cross HQ, and was confronted by the same sour-faced secretary who couldn't – wouldn't – believe that Grace had got it sorted so quickly. But persuasion, persistence and perseverance won the day. Besides which, it was going-home time for the Red Cross staff, and they could see that with this particular customer, it would be a lot easier and quicker just to give way. They did. Grace got her Embarkation Permit signed and stamped and was off.
The episode was typical of Grace's attitude throughout the war to red tape or awkward situations. She would seldom, if ever, take no for an answer. She hurried back to FANY HQ, then to her flat, weary but triumphant. There she gathered a few things together, packed, and next morning headed for Victoria Station and the train to Dover. Two days later she was in Belgium.