#Munitionette
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wdytyamagazine.bsky.social
Do you have a 'munitionette' in your family? Discover the lives of the women who endured poisoning, 12-hour shifts and lethal explosions to build Britain's arms in the First World War:

www.whodoyouthinkyouaremaga...
January 15, 2026 at 11:59 AM
wdytyamagazine.bsky.social
Do you have a 'munitionette' in your family? Find out more about the young women who risked poisoning and explosions to keep Britain armed in the First World War:

www.whodoyouthinkyouaremaga...
September 2, 2026 at 3:59 PM
dagenhaminvince.bsky.social
Mon 3 Nov at Charlton Ath Museum 💚⚽️ "Dame Barker + the Rocket Girls of WW1" ⚽️💚 with @footballandwar.bsky.social 💜 Munitionette Footballers - Playing Football after a 12 hour shift 💜
October 28, 2025 at 7:25 AM
wdytyamagazine.bsky.social
Do you have a 'munitionette' in your family? Discover the lives of the women who endured poisoning, 12-hour shifts and lethal explosions to build Britain's arms in the First World War:

www.whodoyouthinkyouaremaga...
September 25, 2025 at 12:59 PM
roaringmeg.bsky.social
Munitionette? Never come across that expression before 😂
June 1, 2025 at 9:57 AM
wdytyamagazine.bsky.social
Do you have a 'munitionette' in your family? Discover the lives of the women who endured poisoning, 12-hour shifts and lethal explosions to build Britain's arms in the First World War:

www.whodoyouthinkyouaremaga...
May 25, 2025 at 12:59 PM
debsadelight.bsky.social
@rwldproject.bsky.social I’ve done a new blog about a munitionette killed on the way home from work.She was a 35yo war widow. She left 2 children.It’s a tragic tale.
Feel free to cut and paste all or some of it.Could you give me an ad for my FB page!Ta!
historicalclues.blogspot.com/2025/06/trag...
Tragedy on the Railway - The Fatal accident of a War Widow
As an amateur historian who studies the role and lives of women in the UK in WW1, I was very interested to see if there are any women re...
historicalclues.blogspot.com
June 12, 2025 at 2:27 PM
sylvanshine.bsky.social
There is a cracking, and crackling, description of the summer heat before a storm on page 128-129. I love how Sarah the munitionette is described in this passage.
August 13, 2026 at 7:57 PM
wdytyamagazine.bsky.social
Do you have a 'munitionette' in your family? Find out more about the young women who risked poisoning and explosions to keep Britain armed in the First World War:

www.whodoyouthinkyouaremaga...
June 15, 2026 at 1:59 PM
chuffnell.bsky.social
Because of your post, I read about the remarkable life of one munitionette Mabel Lethbridge, including this event. Must look out her autobiography..

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mabel_L...
June 1, 2025 at 11:11 AM
drwilkinsonsci.bsky.social
At 17 Mabel Lethbridge volunteered as a munitionette, filling shells with explosives for the war effort. She lost a leg, ear and lung when the machine she used exploded. But because she lied about her age she received no war pension. Discuss her story using TGT tomorrow.
bit.ly/TutorGroupThink
Tuesday 7th July Mabel Lethbridge was born in Somerset this day 1900. She was was born into a relatively wealthy family and was taken all over the Empire as a child. However, her father lost all his money and abandoned her family leaving the family with little. During WWI, Mabel worked as a nurse and then as a munitionette in a munitions Factory in Middlesex; one of many women who switched to traditional male jobs during the war. On 23rd October 1917 a condemned machine she was using to fill shells with explosive blew up, killing several nearby and removing her left leg. She also lost an ear and the use of a lung. However, she managed to apply a tourniquet to her thigh that saved her own life. She was awarded the Order of the British Empire, for Services to the war; one of the youngest ever recipients. However, because she had lied about being 18 to work in the factory, she was not awarded a war pension. She lived much of the interwar years in relative poverty; selling matches, renting chairs for patrons queuing for the theatre. Her story came to prominence when a publisher asked her to write an autobiography. She volunteered again in WWII, this time for the Ambulance Service, working alongside her daughter. After the war she moved to Cornwall and wrote another volume of her biography. She died in 1968. Imagine you were 17, and your country was at war. Would you volunteer for such a dangerous job What do you think of how Mabel was treated after the accident. Was she a hero, a rule-breaker or both? Tuesday 17th July Mabel Lethbridge was born this day 1900. During WWI, Mabel worked as a nurse and then as a munitionette in a munitions Factory in Middlesex. On 23rd October 1917 a machine she was using to fill shells with blew up, killing several nearby and removing her left leg. She managed to apply a tourniquet to her thigh to save her own life. She was awarded an OBE for service to the war. However, because she had lied about being 18 to work in the factory, she was not awarded a war pension and lived much of the interwar years in relative poverty. She volunteered again in WWII, this time for the Ambulance Service, working alongside her daughter and died in 1968. What do you think of how Mabel was treated? Was she a hero, a rule-breaker or both?
July 6, 2026 at 3:37 PM
wdytyamagazine.bsky.social
Do you have a 'munitionette' in your family? Discover the lives of the women who endured poisoning, 12-hour shifts and lethal explosions to build Britain's arms in the First World War:

www.whodoyouthinkyouaremaga...
March 22, 2025 at 5:59 PM
lyndenlea.uk
A bit more about my day at the @valeofberkeleyrail.bsky.social.

This video from the team restoring Andrew Barclay No.2157 #Munitionette at the VoBR shows their experience of the event, including the tiny #Planet diesel locomotive that I drove.

We were on the same train, so see if you can spot me!
August 4, 2026 at 11:41 PM
andrewduval.bsky.social
CHALLENGE 2 (Harder): Munitionette goes dancing after work
By day, my hands are raw from solvents, blackened at the edges from graphite, and red-creased where the gloves rub too tight. We’re packed shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the munitions plant, the machines roaring so loud you have to shout to be heard. We churn out shell casings like clockwork—precision, focus, and no room for error. One wrong move, and someone down the line could pay for it in blood. I measure twice, press once, and count every screw like a prayer. At 6:00 sharp, the bell shrieks and we scatter, lungs full of powdery air, hair clumped with sweat. I bike home through the dusk with my dress stuffed in a paper bag, the streets dim with rationed light. My skin smells of metal and fatigue, but by 8:00 I’m someone else entirely. A touch of powder, a swipe of crimson on my lips, the careful tug of silk stockings up my thighs. My fingers, stained from the factory, hide behind white gloves. My curls are pinned just so, and I slip into the club like a polished gem. In the dim light and jazz haze, I become the woman they think they know—sugar-voiced, feather-light, someone whose most pressing concern is whether to waltz or fox-trot. They don’t ask about my days, not really. They ask where I buy my shoes. They tell me to be careful, sweetheart. They say the war is no place for a girl like me. I nod and smile, sip my gin fizz, and think about how I spent the morning threading detonators into 75-millimeter shells. I can feel the world shifting under our heels. More men gone every month, more women filing in beside me on the factory floor. Once, I danced beside soldiers. Now, it’s girls in overalls and borrowed dresses, laughing louder, holding each other up. I wonder if someday the whole floor will be full of women like me, not waiting to be asked, but claiming the dance for ourselves. I think about the other side sometimes. The German girls—because there must be German girls—bending over machines just like mine, pressing wires into explosives with careful h… STORY 2B With delicate white fingertips, she squeezes three drops of lime juice into her gin. Her fingers have no trace of grease, soot, or cordite. An hour to clean them. Wholly satisfying. Under the howl of trumpets, he talks about her kissable mouth. Proffers a cigarette while his glistening eyes dribble down her bare neck. Leans too close. He doesn’t know she's a factory girl. Can't conceive of it. She can tell by the way he tries to shield her from other men. He can't imagine that four hours ago, her sleeveless dress was a denim boiler suit; her bobbed brown hair was plastered with sweat; her silk pumps were wooden clogs protecting her soles from a foundry floor so hot it burns leather shoes straight off your feet. He’s seen her foxtrotting. He hasn’t seen her with fifty other sweaty girls, machining shells destined for German flesh in Ypres. He is oblivious but insistent, so Marjorie humours him. She’s here to dance with women, but she’s patient. Each week, the ratio between the sexes widens, as two by two the men are led to war. She finishes her drink and lets him lead her back to the dance. By her count, in six weeks this club will be as free as the foundry. This man will be in Europe, where even now a German girl just like Marjorie is rendering the instrument of his death, smiling in anticipation of her own night on the dance floor. STORY 2C The powder clings to her skin, yellow as old bruises. Every shift leaves her luminous, marked like a ghost. At the dance hall, she watches the lights jitter across lacquered shoes, lace collars, vacant eyes. The men look at her like they’ve earned her just by surviving this long. “Smile, love,” one says, already sliding his hand toward her hip. She gives him the kind of smile that isn’t a smile at all. She dances anyway, with Eileen, whose wrists are fine-boned as matchsticks and who knows how to lead. They move close, whispering, nothing flirtatious, just a hush in the roar. They step in rhythm to scratchy records and the steady churn of grief beneath the floorboards. A soldier stumbles past, uniform smelling of sweat and damp wool, eyes glassy with gin. His friend’s missing half a face. They nod at her like she’s part of the scenery. “You’ll dance with her but not with us?” someone jeers. She doesn’t answer. The song ends. Eileen presses her palm briefly—warm, certain—and disappears into the crowd. Later, in the alley, she smokes. Her fingertips glow like a warning. One man approaches, fumbling with a match, his smile all need and nerves. She turns her head. In the pause, he seems to shrink—like the men at the factory, blurred outlines before the siren calls them to vanish into the smoke. She flicks ash, watches it fall. Somewhere, distant thunder. Or maybe not thunder at all.
May 12, 2025 at 3:47 AM
englishwordbot.bsky.social
The word "munitionette" on a stylized background
August 4, 2026 at 10:40 PM
gato-loco.eurosky.social
Level Munitionette 💪
fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Munitio...
Munitionnette — Wikipédia
fr.wikipedia.org
February 17, 2025 at 6:13 PM
sports.skyfleet.blue
Wor Bella: forgotten story of women who combined war work with football
Wor Bella: forgotten story of women who combined war work with football
Hundreds of Munitionette teams played in Britain during the first world war – and their story is being told on stage
www.theguardian.com
April 9, 2024 at 11:43 AM
garrinchacf.bsky.social
'Munitionettes' y futbolistas caritativas. Sobre el millón de heroínas inglesas de la primera Guerra Mundial.

www.theguardian.com/football/202...
Wor Bella: forgotten story of women who combined war work with football
Hundreds of Munitionette teams played in Britain during the first world war – and their story is being told on stage
www.theguardian.com
April 11, 2024 at 12:58 PM