Section 1 of "A Book on the WAAAF"

Lockers that two of us share, and kit-bags placed so neatly at the foot of each bed. It's getting dark outside and an air of desolation seems to hang about the hut, but - when the girls come home it will be ;alive with warmth and laughter, and the glow of friendship will light up every tiny corner. Living, eating, sleeping side by side like this was a little -odd at first, but it's given us a chance to know these girls much better than -we'd have known them the way we -used to live. We've found something -fine in their comradeship that we'll never forget.

There are times when the only excitement we have is finding a mouse - or two in our palliasses. Look through -the window-that's the ration-tender coming away from the mess with one of our girls at the wheel. She's late night, but that won't worry her. On some stations the D.M.T's are on duty down at the 'drome whenever there is night flying. Waiting while the boys lay a flare path. Watching anxiously :as the planes come in between the twin rows of lights, especially if a wind has sprung up. The ambulance and fire-tender always there just in case; and a silent prayer of thankfulness when they're not needed. There's something about all this, too, that is hard to forget.

Come over to the Ablution Block and I'll show you where we really go all feminine. Bobby pins, cold cream, talc, shampoo powders, and gaily coloured dressing-gowns. Not many baths, but plenty of showers where the the W.A.A.A.F. make excellent use of their vocal abilities. That rosy-looking girl rubbing herself down is one of the messing staff. She's doing a grand job. It's warm enough standing in front of a hot stove these chilly mornings, but imagine what it's like when the heat is so intense that we're all searching for some shady spot.

Think of the piles of greasy dishes to wash, and the tubs of vegetables to peel. This girl was employed in easier and glamorous work before she joined the W.A.A.A.F., but never has she done a more important job.

We may as well walk across to the Rec. hut and have a look in there. This is a really pretty room with its strips of matting, gay cretonne curtains, cane lounges and easy chairs-given by the Comforts Fund. There are rugs made by school-children from scraps of brightly-coloured wool. We sit around the fire, reading or writing. Notice the piano. Some of the notes won't play but we can always dodge them. There's coffee and cake afterwards if we want it, and we always do. There'll be a dance on the Station tomorrow night so the girls who are not on duty will be going to bed early tonight. Dance in our uniforms? Of course we do-except on special occasions.

The dark-haired girl coming out of the canteen is a fabric worker. She's been busy in the dope room all day. Maybe you didn't know that the dope has to be laid on different parts of an aircraft, and sometimes the fumes make your stomach turn over.

It looks like paint and smells rather like that nail polish we used to wear. The girls drink plenty of milk to counteract the fumes. Whether it's the milk I don't know, but you'll have to agree that we're a
healthy lot-perhaps the early nights that are compulsory three times a week have something to do with it! Oh yes, "Madam" comes around to see that we're tucked in safely. It might sound like too much restriction to you, but we've plenty of freedom and a certain amount of discipline which is both necessary and good for us.

We learned the meaning of discipline early in our rookies' course. I remember, while stationed at a camp near home, coming back from week-end leave. There they were, long queues of R.A.A.F. and W.A.A.A.F. waiting for buses to take them back to barracks. We'd wait for an hour sometimes. No pushing to get ahead of the person in front. Talking quietly. No protesting if we just missed a bus and had to wait a little longer. Everything well and truly under control.

It will be mail-time soon, so let's take a peep into the Administrative hut and watch the big event of the day take place. What's that they're saying?

"Any letters for me?"

Yes. Three for Pat. Two for Clare. Some for the others, but none for Janet. Of course she's disappointed. But wait a moment, Clare has something to tell her.

"Jan, listen to this. Remember Bill the Observer from Milne Bay? Well, you'll never guess who's been posted to his Squadron. Is writing to you!"

"Not John?"

"Yes. You needn't rush at me like that. I'll let you read that part."

So now we all know that John has arrived at his destination and that Janet will be hearing from him soon.

Being in uniform doesn't interfere with our sympathy or co-operation where romance is concerned!

Jeans . .

JEANS! the mysterious little word with a triple meaning. jeans are overalls, coveralls and hide-alls. There are two sizes-too large and too small (a majority of the too large). They are adorned with numerous buttons -all kinds of buttons - tin buttons, bone buttons, coloured buttons and just buttons!

They are issued on the Day of Days (day of arrival at a W.A.A.A.F. Training Depot) with the Instructions which say: "Wash Jeans Before Use." This is done to remove the stiffening, but has the reverse effect. When taken off the line the jeans are quite capable of standing up on their own two legs.

Now to get them on. There are several methods of approach - the "Flying Leap", whereby you jump into jeans before they quite realise you are there; and the "Struggle Method", whereby you get your own two legs in and are levered into the rest by various assistants. So far so good; you proceed to do up the buttons.

We Worked With General MacArthur

OTHER W.A.A.A.F. officer and I were the first women officers who actually worked in CENTRAL WAR ROOM, the Holy of Holies, where General MacArthur, Lt.-General Kenny, General Blamey, Admiral Ghormley and other high ranking officers met to study the war situation daily.

It was an awesome experience at first. We were in this large room guarded by sentries. Only commissioned officers were permitted to enter, and even then could not do so without having a specially endorsed pass which had to be produced to the sentries every time we passed through the door.

Our job was to follow the activities of every plane that soared the skies in the Pacific, record the number and type of sorties it made, the number and type of bombs dropped, rounds of ammunition fired, targets hit and targets missed, casualties in men and aircraft.

Written here, it misses some of the drama it held in those early days when aircraft were scarce and missions many. We never read the papers in those days, but we knew almost to the hour how the Solomons Battle was going. Often we had cause to feel uneasy. We knew every day how many planes we had "at the ready", and above all we knew just what a cracker job the fellows in the old Hudsons and Wirraways were doing ... No wonder we were breathless when the Beaufighters and Beauforts started to make themselves felt. Then the story of the Spitfires and Fortresses unfolded itself, and gradually we felt we could laugh a little more lightheartedly.

For many months we wrote, in figures and words, the story of the war in the Pacific. We rode in the lift with General MacArthur, we saw him at the daily meetings (when he wasn't absent "further up") and heard him ask vital questions in his quiet, confident manner.

From our records General MacArthur compiled the citation for the old Hudson Squadrons; Air Ministry in London was supplied with vital data regarding torpedo strikes (when this weapon was first used in the Pacific) ; and in Australia, the Chief of Air Staff was able to see just what every squadron could do with the machines, men, bombs and ammunition available, and those charged with the responsibility of planning the expansion of our Air Force, had this valuable information at their finger-tips to guide them. So . . . we didn't mind if we sometimes worked long hours when there was a big "show" on. We went flat out to cover the entire performance, and don't mind admitting we used to flop when it was all over.

We flew further north to Townsville, and then went west to gather data from some of the American Bomber Groups. We travelled from Townsville to the Groups by car, and had the grand experience of seeing the practical work our American Allies had put into motion. Fine runways, dispersal areas - gear, gadgets, and Fortresses.

When we arrived at one of the Groups, we discovered they had expected two men, but everything worked out all right. Often I look at the map of the far North, and feel a tingle of excitement still at the recollection of being there, among the gum trees, in a cool tent, seeing hundreds of young Americans, some taking up B 17s to swing the compass, others taking off on missions. Some didn't return.

On the roadside we passed small detached parties, their job being to protect the road convoys. 'We stopped to speak to them. Fine, tawny young Australians, their sense of humour undimmed by their lonely vigil. "What would you like us to bring you from Townsville?" we asked them. "Ice cream", they said. "What can we call you?" one chirped at me. "Mum" sang back his mate.

Looking back, I will always remember them, miles away from anywhere, but alert and keen despite the heat.

Cookie . . .

SHE is not thin, and her fair, curly hair frames an attractive, oval face. Am airman once called her "Fat", but he paid for his indiscretion by missing his breakfast-for a time. When her rage abated and her spirits returned to the usual cheerful level, she, the queen of the kitchen, gave an excellent interpretation of a royal pardon by personally delivering the goods to the disgruntled, fasting airman.

She may be fat, I don't care-I only know that her form is fair to look upon, and her cakes are good to eat.

She has a big job to do, and a heavy one. Her day might begin at 0500 or even 0300 if there are travellers to be fed and watered before leaving for Doover, and it's all in a day's work ... fires to light, lunches to cut, food, food, FOOD-a jolly crowd to work with and plenty of things to growl about.

There's plenty to occupy her mind, noting the various tactics of her customers; some quite devoid of tact, others apparently old friends, to whom the meal line is no new experience they know the game. Then there are the great hearts who come for a second helping. Just watch the face of the cook! The beam is real, the grin widens, for the requests represent a pat on the back.

There is pressure of work, and the -sergeant in charge of the Pool sends some rookies to help. The sight of the awkwardly-clad rookie in his jeans, beret at a most unbecoming angle, and squeaking boots, following our W.A.A.A.F. around the big kitchen, doing her bidding, taking the odd jobs from her busy hands, makes you want to laugh, and yet thrills you; for he looks on her as he does his mother.

Though she may be his senior by only two years, cooking is her job, and was his mother's. Now and then her lips form in a covert smile at his effort to help, but she tells him to take a tart when no one is looking. If he's homesick the words will be off his tongue before he realises it "My mother makes these . . . .

After a heavy morning in the kitchen, her first thought is . . . "Now for a rest!" Not so, sister-there's a little gentle exercise listed for you at 1400 hours. P.T.!

"Guaranteed to make you slim," promises the D.I. "Try anything once" says her mate. "Trouble is," says the cook, "I've tried this more than once, and I've put on more weight than ever . . . . Oh, well, my husband loves me just the same, so I suppose I'll have to go." Yes, there's a certain W/O, A.I.F. type, to whom she is Mrs. W/O . . . . lucky bloke!

At last comes stand-down. (Did you say stand-down? More like a stand-to, if you ask me.) It is panic night, and the D.I. knows whom to trust with coppers and taps that must evince the bright glory of the sun itself for the C.0's inspection on the morrow. So there's more energy to be expended, and our cook is prodigal.

The super woman? No, but she's the salt of the earth.

Point Cook, Vic. C. 1942. A WAAAF Sergeant Cook based at RAAF Station Point Cook is typical of WAAAF cooks in Air Force kitchens throughout Australia.

On duty she wears a "drab" (beige-coloured) linen dress, white starched apron and cap.

This image is NOT in the original book. It has been added from the AWM Collection.