Section 4 of "A Book on the WAAAF"

First Posting

IT WAS in philosophic mood that I took the five-hundred mile train trip to my first operational posting. Hitherto my service life had been borne out on the rookie station and in the training school.

I lived through "rookies" in a muddle of rain, mud, and cold. Tramp, tramp ... lift those arms ... What do you think you're doing? . . . ACW, quick! there's the whistle ! - hurry, A.C.W.! and again, A.C.W.! After that had come our course of specialised technical training. Here we worked shifts and, seemingly, had lectures all day and all night, and the fear of being scrubbed from course hovered over my plate at meals and closed in like a fog at bedtime.

Now - cleared and packed, shiny of shoe and brushed of uniform-I was on my own for the first time.

My destination, being secret, could not be revealed on my Movement Order; and I was to report to the Rail Transport Officer upon arrival at the capital city. The R.T.O. was incredulous. and his off-siders eyed me doubtfully, but eventually they put me on the local train. Chut-chut, we crawled across the green countryside in the twilight.

I was very sooty and tired two hours later, as the C.O. eyed me over his spectacles and told me I was the first W.A.A.A.F. to arrive on the station. He hoped that I would not be lonely until the others arrived. The men 'were sleeping in huts, but there was a spare room in the farm-house where the officers had their quarters - I could make myself at home there. In the meantime, he would take me to the cook.

Tea was over but the cook and I became acquainted over a cup of milk and some bread and jam. A few minutes later I straightened my palliasse, spread my blankets and was fast asleep.

The stillness of the early morning (glorious sun bursting over white islands, blue sea and dark green mangroves) was made more desirable by the contrasting uproar which poured from the mess. I stood on the step, cup and eating utensils in hand, and pushed the door open. All tongues were silent-all heads were raised-all eyes focused on me, in the doorway. Dragging my hypnotized eyes from the sea of f aces, T saw my friend the cook smiling at me from the kitchen. Suddenly I felt that, after all this time, I belonged to a unit.

The boys moved up to make room for me, and a stilted, drawing-room kind of conversation prevailed, until someone accidentally put his hand on the hot coffee-pot. Profanity - horrified silence - outbursts of covering-up conversation all helped to break the ice.

After breakfast the C.O. had a little chat with me about my pre-war experience in commercial art. He could not put me on to my technical work until the other W.A.A.A.Fs arrived, but until then there were some small jobs I could do. He had a tin of paint and a brush sent up from the guard-house, and he wanted me to paint "W.A.A.A.F. Only" on the new little place. Either two or three A's as I pleased; but it must be large enough to be seen from a distance.

Sketching in letters of a suitable style, and debating as to the number of A's, I turned suddenly and found that I was not alone. At a respectable distance was quite a crowd of spectators-leaning on the fence, sitting on the woodheap, watching from the doorway. I called out that I wanted a ruler, and a box to stand on. These appeared as if by magic, and between the dozen or so of us w had the W. and the two As up by lunch time. We finished it late in the afternoon.

Next day, the other WAAAFs still not having arrived, I went on shift in the operations room. "Fancy thinking girls can take over from us and keep the station going! They'll soon realise their mistake!" Like hawks the boys gathered round and watched, ready to pounce on the first sign of ignorance or careless handling. I did not disgrace my sex.

Female laughter and girlish voices woke me about ten o'clock that night -the others had arrived. A week later the boys piled on to the tender with their luggage, and we waved them a sad good-bye.

One more unit had been taken over by W.A.A.A.F.-one more crew of boys was released. When we heard from them three weeks later, they were somewhere in Northern Australia. Unfortunately, they said, it was a place where was little hope of the W.A.A.A.F. following them!

Time for Sleep...

I AM A day worker, but I sleep with shift workers. That is why you should be sorry for me, and why W.A.A.A.F. should have a six-weeks' course to teach them to move quietly. I was trained by landladies before I ever entered the Service. Those grand old days! The night wasn't worth living unless you arrived at the front gate just as the milk-man pulled up.

The landlady was waiting for the milk to serve you your morning cup of tea, and the problem was how to appear to be sleeping under your blankets before she bobbed in at the door. (I still do not sleep, but there are no delightful memories to curl in and out of my mind as I shower and dress.)

I amend orders all day, and by 1730 hours I am weary. "Tonight," I think, "I won't go out. I'll go to bed early."

When Bill telephones, I say "No, pet," and he rings off indignantly. I mooch to the sleeping quarters, shower and slip into bed. All four straws in my palliasse have been carefully arranged. I draw the net.

I feel quite happy for the first three hours. The girls who came off at 1800 are dressing and going on leave, and their tramping feet cause no real annoyance. I even do sundry small jobs to help them.

The barracks bore comes and tells me about her latest American. Her voice goes on and on: "And he sez to me, 'Gee, Honey, I'd like to take you out some place"' and I murmur sleepily, "Did you ask him to take you

out in the bay and drop you?" and she says "You are a one to joke! " and I say, "That's no joke, that's fair dinkum." And she goes off in a huff.

2230. The lights go out. I sigh peacefully. Towards 2300 1 am almost asleep; then the midnight shift prepares to go on. They have reached the stage when they need nourishment. Torches flash. The girl in the next bed eats a paw paw noisily. She talks between bites.

"Of course he's married, but his wife doesn't understand him-the only real happiness he gets is when he goes out with me. He -never tries to kiss me. The W.A.A.A.F. Officer doesn't like me going out with him because he's a Flight Looey . . . "

I bury my head and groan. I listen to these accounts of nocturnal love adventures in the hope that some day I will hear something really exciting but the stories are all uniformly dull. The blokes are always -very gallant, hopelessly in love, and want to marry the girl. In the dim light of the torch I can see two hairy knees, and the smell of the paw paw becomes almost unbearable.

Two girls put their shoes on. They always put their shoes on first. I wonder why it is I always put my shoes on last-and why men always want to kiss me, and generally try. Meanwhile the torches flicker round the dark shadowy barracks, and shoes clatter like horses' hooves. Clad in shoes and underwear the girls are applying lip stick and having a last cigarette. The girl of affaires goes on: "I've promised my Yank I'll go to the pictures with him, that is if Neville doesn't turn up. We were late last night. I had to climb the fence - just missed the guard."

By now a whole army of girls is walking round shoes first, and digging their heels in; then the tender hoots, and they whizz off. I get up and rearrange my palliasse, brush the beetles off the net, and prepare to sleep.

At 2345 people come in from the pictures, and trample about talking at the tops of their voices. If only I could read ... but lights are off so that everybody can have a nice sleep.

The officer of the watch comes round with the duty N.C.O. at 2359 and for five minutes there is complete and blessed silence; but as soon as they have gone lights snap on here and there. Food is produced from the odd secret places where those people who cat continuously seem able to find food.

They all walk round again. It makes me think of the witches' kitchen in "Faust". I doze a little. I am lying dead in a cemetery and a herd of elephants is being driven over me, even down in the grave where I am lying I can hear the reverberations . . . .

Somebody knocks a glass over and I sit up shaking. It is only the last shift getting into bed. 0139-surely now I ,will sleep. I roll and toss, but a mosquito has got into the net, and the heat is unbearable.

A voice chants somewhere: "She said that if we didn't get more work through she'd give us mess duties, and I told her then and there she couldn't because we must have our sleep . . . " 0300 strikes, and an alarm goes off. One of the girls has to catch a train.

She is just away when the 0600 hours shift starts moving. I am sorry f or the girls. They are a long way from home, and they can't have had much fun in their lives or they'd know all about sneaking into bed quietly. I must be getting nervy or would not be so worked up.

I stagger down to the showers and get dressed. Then I go round to the back of the cook-house and bag a cup of tea from the cook.

Test Flight...

HE AIRMEN'S mess had been converted into a dance hall for the weekly unit dance. It was decorated with streamers and strips of gaudy paper, and it was hard for one to realise that behind these decorations were the drab iron walls and crude rafters of the big mess where thousands ate daily.

With a slightly cynical twist to his lips a young sergeant pilot surveyed he happy throng of boys and girls, as they swung blithely into a quickstep. He wondered why he couldn't join in and enjoy himself like his cobbers.

The girls of the unit were mostly in civvies, a privilege that was very popular among them. It made a big difference to their appearance, thought Derrick Crome, the young pilot. Take Judy Fane, for instance. All day either wielding a screwdriver and spanner, or chasing signatures for the E/E 77 yet look at her now. Dressed up fit to kill, and smiling up into the eyes of the man she was dancing with as if she were pleased as Punch with herself and him.

The young pilot swore to himself. Something about Judy Fane annoyed him, and attracted him at the same time. just then the quickstep came to an end, and he seized the opportunity to slip out unnoticed. If his cobbers saw him leave and guessed it was because of Judy, he would never live it down. He walked quickly over to the sergeants' mess. Maybe if he had a few drinks he would feel more cheerful.

Pushing open the fly-wire door, he swung over to the bar in the corner.

"Hullo, Derrick," greeted his best pal, Wallace, "is the dance over so soon?"

"No," was the gruff reply. "Somehow I don't feel like dancing tonight."

"You moody dog! Do you ever feel like any enjoyment?"

For answer Derrick turned to the bar steward.

"Double whisky, please!"

After a minute's silence, save for the clinking of glasses, he obtained his drink and settled himself on the lounge, next to his plump, jolly-faced cobber.

"I like dancing well enough," he admitted, "but to tell you the honest truth, Wal, I'd rather go flying tonight. God knows why the Old Man scrubbed it."

"Come back to earth, old boy 'adverse weather conditions prevail' mimicked Wal.

"Adverse, my aunt; it's as clear as crystal outside. Why, it's a real 'bomber's moon'!"

"Oh, don't be so 'troppo' - you're going on early flying tomorrow, aren't you? "

"Huh! A blasted test flight! Some old Vultee that has had a two-forty done on it - I'm certainly in the Old Man's bad books!"

"By the way, Derrick," Wal gave him a sidelong glance, "I hear you've a W.A.A.A.F. flight rigger working in your crew?"

Derrick gulped his drink. "Bah! Don't remind me of that. Women make me sick; they're everywhere these days. If I say as much as 'damn' when she's around, I feel as though I should go and hide for a week. Had the nerve to tell me the hydraulic system in the undercarriage of this kite had foreign matter in it! What the devil do women know about hydraulics, anyway?"

Wal laughed good-naturedly.

"Never mind; you'll get used to her in time. She's very attractive, you know, even in 'goons', and carrying a handful of tools."

Derrick looked at him sharply. "Is that so! Look here-if I had my way, there'd be no women in the Air Force. Not one. They should all be home looking after babies."

"Oh, rats, they'll all go back to their homes, after the war-or even before it's over-you'll see; so let them have their fling while they can. The majority of girls seem to like the life, and they're doing a good job."

"H'mphl"

Derrick tossed off another whisky. The room was beginning to spin around him and he could still see young Judy moving round in the dance. "They'll all go back to their homes when this war's over". But whose home? And what right had she to be so infernally cocky about her knowledge of hydraulics?

It was chilly and cold just before dawn, but the air was crisp and clear. Derrick felt that his head was packed with lead and that be hadn't slept properly all night. If only he had taken Wal's advice and not drunk so much whisky! Pulling on his flying boots, he walked over to the hangars where he could bear the engines being warmed up. Funny there weren't many around this morning; just a skeleton crew!

A few girls were wandering about wrapped in greatcoats and scarves. "Cissies!" thought Derrick savagely-and then started. For God's sake, if it wasn't Judy Fane, just finishing the daily on the Vultee Vengeance that he was to test-fly! Before he had time to think she hurried over to him with the E/E 77.

"Everything is checked and in good order, Sergeant . . . Sign here."

Derrick was taken aback by her cool efficiency. He scrawled his signature, and glared at her.

"Are you sure the hydraulic system is clean?"

She looked him in the eyes and flushed.

Oh God! How his head was splitting. just then, a fitter 2E came over and announced that the engine was "Running sweet; she's all yours, Sarge."

"Right!" Suddenly Derrick turned to Judy Fane. He had a muddy, malicious idea of getting even with someone.

"ACW Fane-you can hop in for the test flight."

"But . . ." began Judy hesitantly.

"No buts; if it's good enough for you to sign a daily on, it's good enough for you to fly in."

"Very well."

Without another word Judy climbed warily into the rear cockpit.

Derrick knew she was scared, and he got a mean pleasure out of the fact. With a last look around to see if all was clear he hopped into the cockpit. Next moment he was taxi-ing across the field. Turning the plane into the wind, he opened the throttle and with a mighty rush of air the plane was speeding against the wind along the "take-off" strip. Suddenly the earth seemed to pull away from them as the plane became air-borne. To Derrick this was just a dull routine-he no longer experienced a thrill at the take-off; all he yearned for was the thrill of active combat.

He scowled at himself. His head was far from improving. just then it seemed as though it had all the drums of the South African jungles beating a tattoo inside. He glanced over his shoulder at Judy, and taking her sheepish grin f or a smug expression, gritted his teeth. She'll soon be squealing, he thought, and rapidly gained height. Then, without warning, he sent the plane screaming earthwards in a perfect dive. The plane roared low over the blue gums and f arm houses, then climbed at an angle that was very near stalling.

That's funny! Derrick frowned. Why, the girl was laughing--laughing at him, trying to frighten her! So she thought it was funny, did she? Very well! Derrick was tense. For the next twenty minutes or so he put all his best flying tactics into operation. The plane pitched, rolled, turned, looped the loop and dived. It was a pretty, but breath-taking sight. At last he brought it back to level flight.

That should take the grin off her face, he thought. Glancing back, he saw to his horror that Judy was dead to the world. Her face was grey and ghastly.

"Good Lord," he groaned, "she's fainted! I've certainly burnt my boats now. The quicker I land the better."

The plane was in sight of the landing strip and losing altitude. Suddenly Derrick stiffened. Above the roar of the engines, something seemed to make a thin screaming sound.

"It can't be that," he murmured.

But the noise grew louder and stronger as the klaxon gave the warning that the undercarriage was unsafe for landing. He grabbed desperately at the emergency hand pump, and worked it feverishly, but the klaxon still screeched its warning, and Derrick realised with a sense of peril that the hand-pump had also failed. He pulled the control stick and climbed again, none too soon, as the plane just cleared the hangars by feet.

He glanced back and saw that Judy had "come to."

"You damned little fool," he swore at her, "What did you do to the hydraulics? "

"Nothing," she yelled back, "Why, what's the matter?"

"Only the undercarriage won't come down, that's all. I'll try again and if it won't work we'll have to make a belly-landing, so hang on tight."

He climbed a few thousand feet and turned the nose down.

"Oh Heaven, let it work this time!"

Something seemed suddenly to clutch at his throat, nearly choking him. He tried to shake off the feeling, but failed. It seemed to close around his neck like tentacles. Then he realised that it was Judy's arms clinging to him; she was leaning over from the rear cockpit and sobbing hysterically.

"You fool," he screamed. "Do you want to crash the plane?"

"I'm scared," she sobbed and clutched him tighter, so tight that he felt his senses reeling and lost control of the aircraft.

He tried to pull her arms away, but they were like bands of steel around him. He tried to tell her that they were heading for certain death, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The plane twisted earthwards like a corkscrew. Only a few more seconds! If he didn't pull the plane out of this spin they were lost. Once more he tried unsuccessfully to untangle those clinging arms. Suddenly he relaxed; her arms seemed safe and comfortable then, and her voice was soothing in his ear.

"Never mind, darling," she was saying, "we'll die together. I'm not afraid."

Derrick knew then that he wasn't afraid either, and stared downwards at the lop-sided world rushing up at them. Death was close now, only a matter of a second or so. He decided it wasn't going to be hard, dying in Judy's arms. She clutched him tighter, and someone laughed gaily.

Judy! Laughing, as they were going to their death. Gee, what a girl!

Everything became vague and misty. He prepared for the first impact; dimly he heard a ripping, tearing sound, and imagined it was the mainplanes being torn off. Then came a jarring crash, and a bump as he hit something hard.

Slowly and painfully Derrick opened his eyes and focussed his gaze first on the wooded rafters of the hut in the sergeants' sleeping quarters, then at Wal grinning maddeningly down at him. He noticed how one of his sheets had been torn when he fell so hard from his bed, and how his service blanket had twisted itself like a rope round his neck.

"That serves you right, for being such a hog on whisky! I hope you've got a hang-over," Wal chuckled. But all he got was a stony stare. That's unusual, thought Wal sleepily, and turned over in a more comfortable position.

Quickly slipping into his clothes, Derrick hurried across to the hangars just as the sun was rising.

Judy Fane rushed over to him excitedly, but she had not the E/E 77 in her hands. Her eyes were shining and she looked as though she didn't know how to begin. At last she blurted out:

"Sergeant Crome, do you think I could ... Would it be possible for me -to go up in the Vultee for the test flight?"

She is still wondering why the young pilot passed out and fell in a crumpled heap at her feet.

The Tying of a Tie...

You ever really looked into the subject? Do you realise the great benefit, the satisfaction the soul absorbs from really knowing, learning by bitter experience, the art of putting two studs into a stiff collar and then tying the tie?

When I was a rookie at Bradfield Park, I came in with the idea that the "rookies" period was easy. My disillusionment came a week after I was "in". I was issued with Service Blues.

Friday night, leave night. Thirty girls had an hour in which to shower, get dressed, and be inspected. We had all patiently pressed each garment of our uniform to band-box smartness. Shoes were polished to give a mirror-like surface. Each garment was donned with the care and consciousness of an adolescent going to her first dance. Seams in stockings were "just so". Patient fingers smoothed down or pinned up gleaming locks of hair to "an inch above the collar." Daubs of powder and a careful amount of pink was applied to lips and cheeks.

Then-then came the tense, bewildering moment when I realised, as an icy hand of fear clutched at my throat knew it was no use pretending any longer ... I had to face it. I had joined up to serve my country-I couldn't be so cowardly as to back down now-it was too late. I just had to put my collar and tie on.

I fetched my six-by-four mirror from the bottom of my kitbag and proceeded to adjust my collar. I put the little back stud in the little hole in the neckband and then put the stud on the collar on to the little hole in the neckband of the shirt. Well-this is alright! With rising courage I grabbed my tie and put it neatly round my neck and pulled the collar down over the tie. (There is one peculiarity about an Air Force issue shirt. It has tabs on the collar, to give you that "Pelaco" look.) I took the pin out of the long front stud and grasped all my neck bands and tabs, and, getting the stud firmly in my fingers, I held my breath and put the pin through first one hole, then another-till all I had left to do was to fling my tie over one shoulder and juggle the tabs until I could put the pin of the stud through the tabs to join the stud itself on the other side ...

I can say this much though - I almost succeeded. Fate is cruel; never before had she dealt such an unjust blow. I can see by the horror in your faces-you have guessed, my friends. Yes! The pin in my stud just went "Pop! ", flew to the other side of the hut, and rolled under the bed. My collar groaned with relief and hung dejectedly over one ear. Well - I know you will think this is the end, but, no!

Having come from a long line of brave seafaring men (the women were weak) I mustered what courage was left in me and dived under the bed to retrieve that loathsome stud. Yes! I did try again-and again; but the last time my courage was in shreds and my patience worn so thin you'd never recognise it.

I was finally discovered by two corporals sitting on the floor, digging with a pair of scissors into a crack where my precious stud had fallen. I was crying like a baby, they tell me. My pride had gone. I was beaten. The two kind corporals fixed my collar and tie for me even found me a new stud. I went on leave. I was morose for days after. I would stand in front of my six by f our, and practise putting my collar and tie on for hours at a time Anyway, by the next Friday night I only needed one corporal to dress me.

I know my readers will be happy to know, that, after seven months in the Service I am now able to tie a tie in three minutes, and, if the wind is right and it is a nice day, I can adjust my collar in five minutes.