up”.
JOINING UP
During World War I, my father designed aeroplane wings for the Handley Page Aircraft Company. My uncle, who lived next door to us, had been an Observer in the Royal Flying Corps, the predecessor of the RAF, in the First World War and now continued the tradition as an aircraft spotter in the Royal Observer Corps. I had no difficulty in choosing the Service I wished to join - it had to be the RAF.
In early November, a few weeks after the episode of the twelve unexploded bombs that landed in our garden, I volunteered to join the Women's Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF). Christmas and New Year came and went, and I received no acknowledgement of my application. January and February passed and the early garden flowers began to bloom, reminding us of Spring. I wondered if my application had been thrown into someone's waste paper basket or had been lost in transit. Maybe there was no need for more women in the RAF just now, or was it just a matter of the Civil Service taking its time? It could be that the Air Ministry was snowed under with applicants.
I thought about re-applying if nothing happened within the next month, but the problem was solved for me. Early in March 1941, four months after I had volunteered for the WAAF, I received a short, curt note from the Air Ministry. I was ordered to report to the Brighton Recruiting Centre three days later. My luggage allowance was to be no more than an overnight bag as all my needs would be supplied on arrival – where, they did not indicate.
For the next two days, I worked at turning my untidy room from a makeshift studio into a recognizable bedroom again. After saying my Goodbyes and packing the few personal belongings I was allowed, I boarded the Hastings train for Brighton. This was my first step towards becoming an A.C.W.2 (Aircraftwoman - 2nd. Class) in the RAF. Brighton is a coastal town about thirty miles west of Hastings and, in peacetime, a popular seaside resort. When I reached the Recruiting Office, situated far from the seafront and in one of the more dreary areas of town, nothing could have looked less welcoming than that cold, sparsely furnished office at 9 a.m. on a damp and chilly morning in March.
Within about fifteen minutes of my arrival, fourteen girls between the ages of about eighteen to the late twenties had turned up. Our names were checked, after which our ration books were taken from us. This really brought home the point that the RAF would provide for all our needs - it would have to now. The senior recruit was given a brown envelope containing our identity documents, plus railway warrants, for all the party. We were told to catch the next train to Victoria Station in London, then to proceed to Adastral House, Kingsway - the administrative headquarters of the RAF - where we would receive further instructions. The woman in charge of the Brighton office wished us Good Luck and off we trooped, an odd-looking collection, to the railway station.
Fortunately, we got on well together, though I doubt if even two of us had any shared interests but, being in a group, we gained a little of the confidence we needed as we began our journey in a mood of apprehension and suppressed excitement. Commuters on the train stared at us with interest, wondering what this mixed bunch of girls had in common.
We arrived at Adastral House about lunch time and, after a cursory medical examination performed by a bored doctor going through his daily routine; we received our first personal indignity. After we had been directed to another room, a nurse took us in one at a time and proceeded to pull our hair apart, peering closely into our scalps for any sign of wildlife. I felt hurt and upset by the procedure, but I tried to rationalize the operation. After all, I was only being treated in accordance with my rank, the lowliest in the RAF - A.C.W. 2 - and even this rank I had not, so far, been awarded.
Then, in no uncertain terms, the wisdom of the degrading procedure became apparent to all of us. One member of our party was harbouring biological specimens in her beautiful dark curly hair. She was detained, while the rest of us were ordered to hurry if we were to catch the next train for Gloucester. Our promise of a lunchtime meal faded into oblivion, as I was handed all the medical reports and railway warrants, and told to "Get 'em there safely". This was my first and last act of responsibility for the next nine weeks. We quickly learned to do as we were told without asking questions, however pointless the orders appeared to be.
We travelled on a slow train which stopped at every station and halt on the way along. Being famished, most of the girls decided to make the most of their last hour or two of freedom by going back to the Pullman car, three coaches behind us, for tea and biscuits. I offered to stay and keep an eye on all the small pieces of luggage, which were stacked in the racks above our heads in the two compartments we occupied. I also wanted to keep a lookout for our stop, which was just before the terminal at Gloucester. I had been put in charge so, as far as the girls were concerned, they had been relieved of all responsibility. The words "Get 'em there safely" rang in my ears. I did not want to blot my copy-book on the first day.
During the war, maps were seldom displayed anywhere and, by their absence on the train, it was difficult to know how long the journey would take. I was unfamiliar with the route, and my instructions had omitted any reference to the time of arrival. I knew only that the train was running late. Then, without warning, a guard came pushing his way through the crowd standing in the corridor, shouting that we were about to arrive at Innsworth. I was quite unprepared and, jumping up, I too had to push my way through crowded corridors to the Pullman coach behind us to collect my brood. When I reached the Pullman carriage, they looked up from their tables in dismay, for they were going to have to forgo their tea, the last little luxury they would enjoy for a long time. All I could blurt out was, "Drink up quickly and bring your food with you! We have to get out in a few minutes." They gave me the impression that it was my entire fault.
On arrival at the station, a few passengers alighted from the carriages along the platform, but to get fourteen people out of one door quickly was not an easy task. We took turns keeping one foot on the platform and the other firmly on the step of the train until all had got out. Only then did the guard blow his whistle for the train to depart. I guessed we had added a few more minutes to its already late arrival at Gloucester.
It was about 9.30 at night and very dark when we finally arrived. The station glimmered in a cold ghostly light with its shaded and low-powered electric bulbs, all that were allowed by the blackout regulations. An RAF sergeant and his driver walked up to us - they had waited a long time for us to turn up - and both looked chilled and unhappy. Once again, I expected to be told that it was my entire fault, but, instead, the sergeant smiled and accepted me as an equal, I suspect because I was still wearing civilian clothes. He and the driver helped to lift each of us up and push us, in turn, into the back of the large camouflaged truck parked in the station yard, quite a difficult feat in our tight "civvy" skirts. There, tired and hungry, we sat huddled either side of the canvas-covered vehicle on hard narrow benches as we sped away to the training camp.
The truck stopped at the gates of the newly constructed barracks and, through the canvas walls of the vehicle, we heard a few muffled words pass between the driver and the sentry at the gates. We were then spirited away along a road between recently built huts with muddy paths separating them. The view from the open rear of the truck was not very encouraging and it was starting to rain. Arriving at some central buildings, we alighted in front of the cook house and the WAAF mess. Once we were inside, a rather disgruntled-looking WAAF corporal told us to sit down at a trestle table, and gave each of us a plate of overcooked sausages and a large dollop of mashed potato. Even that looked good to us, for we were all very hungry. I stuck my fork into a sausage too enthusiastically. It reacted by jumping off the plate on to the table. I retrieved it and pushed the fork in more forcibly the second time, only to see the sausage jump higher and finish up on the floor. I left it there! The others sitting either side of the table were having the same problem. Undeniably, our "bangers" were cooked to a crisp. There was nothing more than savoury smelling charcoal on our plates to stave off our appetites. This is where (collectively) we made our first bloomer. "Please, Corporal," we said, "can we have some more sausages? We can’t eat these!" "What do you expect?" she retorted vehemently, "I've kept them hot for you
