Section 5 of "A Book on the WAAAF"

What Don't I Do In The WAAAFs...

IT SEEMS to me, dear," said my puzzled parent once, "you administrative officers are a mixture of welfare officers, sanitary inspectors and father confessors."

When I come to the end of a "Perfect Day" in my unit, this definition of my duties invariably crosses my mind during the few seconds between hitting the hay and slipping into deep and dreamless sleep.

0600
"Madam, madam, come quick" Daisy's passed out in the Abluts.

Agitated little stewardess bursts unceremoniously into nine by ten compartment. Dive into dressing-gown and scoot down duck-boards to Abluts. It was, of course, only a slight faint. Sgt. Bull, D.I., and I have hectic few minutes coping with clammy corpse ol A.C.W. Bender, while helpful S.Q.A., phones for ambulance.

0730-0815
C.0's Parade. As officers march on to parade ground, roar from W.O.D.: "Stand still in No. 5 Flight!" See out of tall of my eye that it is Skippy (sheep-dog who trots round and round squadrons as he used to trot round and round sheep before he joined the R.A.A.F.) trying to attract attention of A.C.W. Crabapple, who magnetically attracts cats, dogs, birds, fish and reptiles.

Strong sea-wind blowing, and we cannot hear Unit Band. Not surprised when, on arrival at office, Adjutant 'phones: "C.0's compliments, madam - and have the Waaafs the music to 'Waltzing Matilda'?"

0815-0945

Sgt. Bull, my dark-haired D.I., affectionately known to Waaafs as "Fair Cow," has letters ready stacked for censoring. "A.C.W. Scrivener's written ten again, Madam," she announces cheerfully, "and how do you think A.C.W. Crabapple's father will react to this?"

Holds out gingerly loathsome envelope which looks as though Skippy has used I it as his bath-mat. "Return it with my compliments," I say. "And add that Skippy is to be tied up before next C.0's parade."

In spite of an incredible diversity of calligraphy and orthography, five phone calls, queue of airwomen with garments to U/S, and Sgt. Bull's voice on 'phone, plaintively compiling the parade state: "Did you say 'dead' or 'in bed'? Look, all I want is-----", am through the censoring by 0945, when Sgt. Bull whisks letters off to Unit Censor's office.

1000-1100
C.0's Inspection, divided into:

(1) 1000-1041. Sgt. Bull and I stand, at alert, in sun at compound gate, exhorting mess staff coming off duty not to dishevel their immaculate hut and to keep out of lats "just a moment longer."

(2) 1041-1059. C.O., Adjutant, S.M.O., Orderly Officer, Barracks Officer, W.O.D. and I, led by Sgt. Bull 2s chief thrower-open of doors, proceed at brisk trot round compound, pace set by C.O's long legs. Waafs complimented on state of compound except for

a) dump of Skippy's bones in one of drains (Barracks Officer to ascertain whether murder has been committed).

(b) Mrs. Perkins (W.A.A.A.F. cat) and two kittens on A.C.W. Crabapple's blankets (S.M.O. to investigate unhygienic possibilities of.) One small mess woman scuttling out of lats. apparently not seen by C.O.

1100-1115
Private blitz conducted by Sgt. Bull and myself. Trail of ants, which mercifully escaped visitors' eyes, heading into A.C.W. Sweet's locker.

1115-1200
Accumulated odd jobs in office, including compressing vast telegraphist into jacket to prove it is too small for her, and dealing with weeping A.C.W. Smart, who has received long-overdue ticking off from her sergeant, and wants to be posted.

1200-1215
Rounds of W.A.A.A.F. mess.

"Madam, must we always have melon-and-lemon jam?"

"A.C.W. Pye, you are not to take the butter from the next table." "Oh, but, Madam, someone's taken ours!"

"A.C.W. Gapper, why don't you eat your crusts?" Blushes, and giggles from table-companions. "New teeth, Madam!"

1215-1245
Late and blissful lunch at re-set table in officers' mess. F/Lt. Butcher, very earnest, comes and talks shop into cheese and biscuits.

1245
Sgt. Hansom to assure me that what- ever A.C.W. Smart had said about him was untrue and he hoped I knew him surprised better than that.

Adjutant 1300-1405
Welfare committee meeting in Gym. Get a fiver for W.A.A.A.F. library without any fuss and sit back while football representative hotly denies that team damaged bus in which it travelled to Crossbar on Saturday and that anyway, if did, bus was in such a state that a little more damage wouldn't matter.

1410-1430
Sign leave passes.

1430-1550
Proceed to Maintenance Wing on section cycle, nearly being mown down en route by A.C.W. Trundle, Office Orderly, very unsafe on R.A.A.F. cycle. Discuss remusters of aircraft hands comfortably over cup of tea with Adjutant. No disciplinary troubles in Wing, thank heavens. Visit maintenance squadron and workshops.

1600-1630
Visit Station Sick Quarters. A.C.W. Smith, Mona, has been on P.M.1 for fourth time in ten days. "If that little so-and-so comes again," threatens S.M.O., "I'll give her a dose of castor oil, and that'll fix her!" A.C.W. Legge, who fell down a slit trench and broke two ribs, highly delighted because she can walk. A.C.W. Bender, overgrown youngster of 18, wan but smiling.

1635

Dash over to hockey in time to settle argument as to who is to play left inner and who right on Saturday. Sgt. Bull chanting: "Left-and up. Right-and up!" to P.T. class.

1715
Waylaid on way to showers by A.C.W. Smart with leave pass and beaming smile: "Madam, Sgt. Hansom has just rung up and asked me to go to the pictures with him. Could I have my leave pass signed?" "All right," I grumble. "But Sgt. Hansom is a bigger fool than I thought. You can tell him so from me." "Oh, Madam!" Sgt. Bull passes along Rec. Hut inspecting windows polished by A.C.Ws. Crabapple and Sweet: "They still look as though the flies have been playing hopscotch all over 'em-but you may have your passes.

1800-1930
Noisy peace at Officers' Mess, broken only by one 'phone call from Cpl. Chatterton, Orderly N.C.O.: "Madam. four postings came in on the tender instead of two. Sgt. Bull's at the Sergeants' Mess. Where shall I put them?"

1930-2315
At pictures in village. Seats uncomfortably near Sgt. Hansom and A.C.W.
Smart.

2330
R.A.A.F. officer walking away from Compound with arm round airwoman. Am about to pursue when Cpl. Chatterton pops out of Compound gate: "A.C.W. Gapper's got toothache, Madam, and she's been crying all night, so I rang F/Lt. Pullar and he's taking her down to Dental. There was a bit of mucking up in Hut 23, Madam, but they're all right now. A.C.W. Crabapple's got Skippy under her bed and Mrs. Perkins and the kittens on top. Sgt. Bull told me to tell you she's moved A.C.W. Stout down the other end of the hut, so you won't be able to hear her snoring. Like a cup of tea, Madam? Gee, I bet you feel like calling it a day!"

Everyone knows what the Gremlins do to airmen; but did you know that the W.A.A.A.F. have to put up with...

Blurps...

THE building was half-lit and shadowy. Voices echoed hollowly down the stair wells, and typewriters sounded like volleys of machine-gun fire. To the ten girls who were working it was quite natural. They were used to working at night when everyone else was gone.

Morale had to be kept up, promotions had to go out, there was not enough time in the day; so three or four nights a week the section propped open its heavy eyelids and worked.

Towards the end of the week they began to see things. Doors opened and no one came through-there were noises that had no explanation shadows jumped for no known reason. The workers would blink, yawn, say "Foo again! " and get on with the job.

But this happened early in the week, when they were fresh and their eyes were wide open. A.C.W. Thomas was doing a good 60 w.p.m. on the typewriter when there was a sudden jam in the works, and a most blood-curdling scream. "Hell's bells, what now?" she sighed, and investigated with a careful finger. She caught hold of something and pulled.

	It seemed to be a long length of red tape, but no red tape she had ever seen swore the way this bit did. When she let go, it curled up into a corkscrew, developed a thin, solemn f ace, and arms and legs. "Are you all-right?" (The A.C.W. wasn't too sure if she was all-right herself, but thought it only polite to enquire.) "Blurp", said the Thing, and shook itself.
"Typewriter giving trouble?" called an N.C.O. across the room. "Something jammed, but it should be O.K. now."

(Was she dreaming? Had her imagination been playing tricks, and could no one else see what she could see?

She decided it must be so, and went on with her work, trying to ignore the Thing on her desk.)

"Blurp", it said again.

"Blurp yourself!" A.C.W. Thomas had jumped nearly out of her chair.

"Shut up, Tommie. We know you're potty, but there's no need to talk to yourself."

"I wasn't-" began Tommie, but stopped. Maybe she was. Her fingers flew over the keys and the typewriter carriage raced along. Before she knew it, the Thing was sitting on the carriage, riding up and down and grinning all over its f ace.

"Scram", said Tommie. "Next time you get in the works I won't stop, and you'll get chopped up . . . Who are you, anyway?"

"Blurp", said the Thing again.

"Is that all you can say, or is that your name.

"Blurp".

"Alright. Blurp you are. But if you want to save my sanity you'll learn to say something else".

The Blurp grinned again, crossed his legs, and settled down. The faster the carriage went, the more he enjoyed it. There was a thud and another Blurp landed on the machine. With a scream of rage the other attacked him and pushed him into the works.

The typewriter stopped suddenly. Tommie said a naughty word. The first Blurp repeated it.

"Shh! "said Tommie. She pulled the other Blurp out of the typewriter by his leg, and he scampered away crying.

"Scram, scram, scramdam, damscram!" called Tommie's Blurp, jumping up and down.

There was no more conversation for a time, but soon there were Blurps everywhere. Tommie didn't like to ask the others if they could see them, because she still wasn't sure if she had really seen them herself. She was nervous and slightly afraid. One never knew where these things would end. Look at the Gremlins, for instance! Fascinated, she watched one Blurp hiding correspondence behind a cupboard, another tying up the light cords, while one daring fellow was tugging away at the sergeant's glasses till they were right down on the end of her nose ....

"I'm going inside to work", said Tommie. "I'm seeing things out here". She picked up her work and went into the inner office. She looked round, making sure there were no Blurps about before she settled down. The typewriter inside was much better, and Tommie was getting along at a great rate. Then she heard a panting and grunting-and there was her Blurp coming in under the crack between the door and the floor. He dusted himself down, straightened his red-tape jacket, and did a flying jump on to the carriage of the typewriter. Tommie stopped.

"Get off!" she ordered.

The Blurp hummed a little tune and took no notice.

"I won't do any more work till you leave me alone."

"Look here", said the Blurp. "I'm not worrying you, why should you worry?"

"It wouldn't be so bad if the others could see you, but it's ruining my nerves seeing things they can't, and talking to things that aren't there. I tell you, it's got to stop."

The Blurp frowned. "Would it make any difference if I was introduced?"

Tommie was past caring. "I'll try anything once", she replied wearily.

The Blurp coughed, and looked towards the boss's chair. "I say Hungry, introduce me, will you"

A sleepy Blurp who was sitting in the chair looked up. "Don't know the lady's name", he said.

"Tommie, her name is. Tommie. Hungry, Tommie."

"Charmed", said Hungry, bowing.

"Tommie, Troppo, Troppo, Tommie."

"Pleased, I'm sure", said Troppo. He bounced up and down on the carriage.

Tommie leant on the space bar, and the carriage shuddered the length of the typewriter, tipping the Blurp off.

Hungry and Tommie laughed, and when Troppo had recovered, he laughed too. After that they all felt better.

"Look here, I'm all in the dark. What's the idea? What do you do, and why?"

Hungry cleared his throat. "Blurps are an ancient institution with a very celebrated history. For as long as there have been public servants, there have been Blurps-and will be.

Air Force Blurps are a superior breed, of course. Our common ancestor was the Red Tapeworm.

We haunt the offices of the Government because there, more than anywhere, are kept up those principles first laid down by our ancestor, the Red Tapeworm."

"You're telling me!" breathed Tommie.

Hungry ignored the interruption. He was a pompous fellow, and spoke like a well-fed Rotarian.

"Each body is assigned a Blurp. We-er-do various things. For instance, I shine the O.C's pants, and buzz in his ear when he's on the phone. Troppo-"

"Thanks, I know what Troppo does", interrupted Tommie hastily.

Troppo grinned. Tommie continued. "But what has me bothered is why I can see you and the others can't." Hungry stroked his tummy thoughtfully and looked at Troppo. Troppo squirmed.

"I was always getting pushed into the works of her typewriter. It was terrible, and she goes so fast I thought I'd get mangled, so I sprinkled her eyes with Propaganda Dust."

Hungry's eyes had a twinkle in them. "I see your point. But is that going to help Tommie? So far it seems to have been driving her mad."

"That's alright," said Tommie. "Now I know who you are, and that I'm not seeing things, it will be different.

Troppo heaved a sigh of relief.

Tommie turned to him. "You look out for yourself, young fellow, or I'll use you to oil my typewriter."

That is why Tommie is so valuable in the section. When documents disappear she can always find them, and if there is a hold-up anywhere Tommie can straighten things out.

For she can see what the others can't, and Troppo is now a help instead of a hindrance. The others in the section says she talks too much to herself, but Tommie laughs and picks a Blurp off the sergeant's nose.

She knows why the sergeant's glasses are always sliding down.

A Lift On The Way...

LEAVE is something we dream about, long for, plan months ahead. When our applications have been submitted, approved and granted, a fever of impatience seizes us, and transport becomes the vital topic of conversation.

It takes a good three days to get to Sydney by the best of trains, and as delays are frequent occurrences on this line, the journey down is liable to dip into one's spare leave, and use up a couple of precious days. Hence everyone tries by some means or other to obtain a lift, part way at least, by
plane.

Once permission to fly has been granted, the thing to do is to begin a little before the date of departure to work on the squadron boys, or anyone connected with aircraft movements.

This I knew, so feverishly, a week or -so before my precious leave commenced, I began to sound my various pilot friends and acquaintances. Unfortunately for me, there was a drive on, north; overnight they all flew up and I knew there would be very little aircraft movement south during the next ten days, and the priority for travel would be extremely high. My hopes were dashed and I viewed the world with a desolate outlook.

I came off night shift at 7.30 the morning of departure, and as the train -was scheduled to leave at 8 p.m., I thought it best to get some sleep while I could, although I was restless and disappointed at having to go by train. just on the chance, I decided to phone a lad I knew at the airport, who had promised to do his best to get me on any south-going plane.

Ron wasn't very helpful. No signals for aircraft had come through, and the whole business looked very drear and bleak. To cheer me up he suggested that, as I couldn't sleep, I went out to the drome and waited about in case anything flew in unexpectedly. Activity of any description was welcome, so I 'phoned transport, who regretted that all the tenders were out on duty runs. I didn't care much, and decided to breakfast whilst waiting.

Then out of the blue came the urgent 'phone call. It was Ron-he left a message for me to come out immediately-the urgency was stressed.

I was in a panic-how on earth would I get there? No transport, no way of getting transport (taxis and such being unheard of here except in very, very rare cases!) I could have screamed with sheer rage, and cried with utter woe at the thought of a plane going off without me!

I rushed out to the road, ready to hitch-hike if necessary. Any means to get me to the drome! At the gate I nearly collided with an Air Force milk tender-the cans clanked and banged as it pulled up with a jerk, narrowly missing me struggling with my kitbag. I saw Garbutt chalked on one of the cans-that was enough! In breathless haste I explained. In a minute I was inside with the cans, speeding along the bumpy road to the drome.

My cap blew off, the kit-bag rolled on the dusty floor, and I had to cling wildly to the milk-cans for support as we raced along.

"Too fast? Getting bumped too much?" asked the driver over his shoulder. I smiled back weakly, but uttered a very definite "No! Keep going-it's fine! "

At Garbutt I rushed over to Ron (who was watching for me), waved farewell to the kind milkman, murmuring my breathless and grateful thanks. Ron grabbed my bag, caught me by the hand, and we raced across the field. Before my incredulous eyes loomed a Liberator! Its engines were already roaring-men were climbing through the under-carriage into the interior, violent currents of air flap
ping their clothes, whipping their hair up on end.

A Yankee sergeant appeared beside me with the manifest in his hand, and yelled: "Is this the girl? What's her name?"

Ron and I yelled back together. He laughed as he scribbled it in. I began to tingle with ecstatic joy -a Liberator -oh, wonderful, wonderful!

The captain came up behind us. Ron said: "Captain . . . meet Miss . . . " but his voice was lost in the roaring whirr. The captain gripped my hand, bellowed inarticulately, grinned with a flash of white teeth, holding his cap on with one hand. Next moment I was being pushed and hauled into the
Liberator.

I heard a dim shout of "All clear!" sat very still while the huge bomber's engines screamed and reverberated, and struggled with a feeling of almost overwhelming nausea from the sudden heat
and powerful smell of petrol and a grease. A Yankee sergeant smiled down at me from the navigator's seat, and gesticulated that I would be all right when we gained height.

That I knew, and held tightly to the table while the plane tore down the runway, steeling myself against a lurch. Then unbelievably we were up, and almost before I realised it, the air had started to cool and the engines had settled down to a steady roar.

The captain came out, saying he would try to make me more comfortable soon. The sergeant slid off his seat and shouted I could sit up there. There was very little space, but between them I squeezed into his seat, and he sat on the edge next to me.

The day was clear and sunshiny and the sea lay scintillating below, dotted with little green-black islands. Rivers and streams wound their way carelessly through the land in fantastic coils, like thin lines of crayon, here and there widening into pools-so intensely blue they looked like fallen chunks of sky -and trees and vegetation grew profusely along their banks in tiny green blobs. Red-brown roads stood out clearly, linking patches of crops contrasting gaily in golds and fresh greens.

I began to feel utterly weary-night shift, rushing, excitement, and then this lull. I must have fallen asleep. I awoke chilled and stiff. The air was bitterly cold and the plane behaved in a most alarming fashion, reeling drunkenly, bumping up and down. I peered out of the window, but the view was entirely obscured by grey misty cloud. Shivering, I pulled closer the jacket I found had been placed round me-it was an American wind jacket. I looked up and saw the sergeant watching, and smiled my thanks. He climbed down from the astrodome above and said cheerily,

"Have a good sleep? You did look tired." "Yes, I was rather weary. Thanks for the jacket! Aren't you cold?-it's awfully chilly, isn't it?"

He laughed and showed me the woolly singlet he had on underneath his shirt.

"I'm used to it-Would you like some juice?" he asked.

I said "Yes", wondering what the juice would be. He came back with a tin of pineapple juice with a hole punched in the top. I had great difficulty in drinking it, as it persisted in dribbling down my chin, and I felt silly-maybe it's an art, like drinking out of a bottle! appeared, dotted with little doll's houses. I was conscious of looking very grubby, and searched in my pocket f or my tie (being now in an area where ties and stockings must be worn - awful bother!)

The sergeant asked me if I would allow him to take a snapshot when we landed-all Americans appear to have a keen desire to photograph people and places. I acquiesced gladly and also promised to write to him. Then Brisbane appeared, and we came in to land. I said good-bye in a chorus of wishes for a super leave, and waved as the bomber taxied off to the hangar.

I turned, picked up my kit bag. Would my luck hold? Would there be a crate going to Sydney - well, anyhow train or air I was only 24 hours from HOME!

The First WAAAF to Invade Darwin...

DARWIN! Will it be as bad as I have been told? Will there be any trees at all? Will there be dust in all my clothes and food? Will everyone be slightly troppo after months in "this ghastly place?"

These were the thoughts which turned over and over in my mind as I sat in the aircraft which was taking me-the first W.A.A.A.F. in an area where the only white women are nurses -to write about the Air Force from "a woman's angle".

I might have been Greta Garbo, and with just as much chance of being alone as she, when I stepped from the Lockheed which had flown me over endless miles of barren Australian territory.

All eyes focussed on "the W.A.A.A.F." (They had been trying to work out the "S/O" on the passenger list, and had not taken a woman into their considerations.)

They wanted to know if I were the "first of the few". A dozen times ; day I was asked "When are the W.A.A.A.F. coming up here?" A hundred times a day, as I drove along through dusty roads in a car, utility ambulance or jeep, I waved my hand to gaping, waving, coo-eeing men who thought they really had gone troppo when they saw a woman pass by, who was not a nurse.

"What's your number, sweetheart', an Army lad yelled as his truck passed mine. Lads thumbing a ride (second favourite pastime in the territory-most popular being spine-bashing!) would hesitate as they were about to climb into our transport when we stopped to give them a lift.

Once when I lifted the receiver to call a number, the operator said: "Struth, a woman's voice!" And thereafter, by some sort of bush telegraphy, my voice became known over the wires as "madam's".

The day I went up in a Beaufighter, the pilot said he had never seen such a large, voluntary ground staff as there was at work getting his aircraft in readiness.

For one of my "angle" stories, I arranged to see my "Beau" boys before they went out on a bash, to listen in to the W/T while they were over the target, and then to talk with them when they returned home. I saw them off, and they left me promising to turn on a wizard party when they got back. An hour later we tuned in and sat waiting for their leader to give them the word "go". They struck some trouble that day and Hank (the leader) forgot there was a woman at the other end of the W/T.

I didn't forget for some time what a considerable flow of language that young man had. But they all got home, tired and soaking wet from long hours in their cockpits with a hot northern sun beating down on them. We celebrated the sinking of a trawler, and with due ceremony, I was elected the first woman member of their mess.

When I was forced, through transport problems, to stay overnight at R.A.A.F. Darwin, the C.0's cottage was evacuated to accommodate me, I went into my bedroom to find that the mess steward had picked a cluster of frangipanni, which grows larger and pinker in Darwin than anywhere else in Australia, and placed it in a bottle beside my bed. There was another bowl in the lounge.

That touched me. I reallsed then that these lads, detached from normal lives, and the company of women, appreciated the feminine touch, the company, the conversation of a woman, someone who had been in civilisation more recently than they, someone foreign to the surroundings, who was feeling just as pop-eyed as they looked.

If by chance I met someone I had known elsewhere, that was a red letter day for both of us. A familiar face among those thousands of new ones, was a tonic to me, and my acquaintance would assume a new importance in the eyes of his cobbers, for a day or so. At the Marine Section I met a lad who had worked at Melbourne "Herald" office. He offered me a piece of water melon and before I left him and his friends, I was uncomfortably replete from consuming water melon, lolly water (in other words "pop"), fruit cake, tea and biscuits-in fact, anything anyone could find in his secret store.

My personal bodyguard for the three weeks, a R.A.A.F. Public Relations officer, made it his business, wherever we were going, to give warning of my arrival, to avert embarrassment to me and to the lads who didn't expect a woman on their horizon. He was always there to tell me which way I couldn't look-he went round corners ahead of me, and (with only one or two slips) he did a fine job.

I lived at the R.A.A.F. Medical Receiving Station, and my home for three weeks was in a tent. The eight R.A.A.F. sisters were glad to have another women about to tell them of shows, shops, and social gossip with which their only link was letters and newspapers.

Together we went to open-air picture shows, at which one provides one's own chairs; we went to dances and returned to our tents thoroughly exhausted after travelling perhaps 50 miles each way and probably dancing non-stop because of the scarcity of women.

The patients at the M.R.S. took a special interest in my activities. As I went out each morning in search for copy, I passed the wards which have only wire-netting walls, and they gave me a "hoi" or a "you beaut", and when I returned later in the day, at a slower pace, they would give me a welcome call home, a more sympathetic one. They could see I walked with a less sprightly step, that I was not feeling or looking as spic and span as I had when I left in the morning. That depressed me at first. The dust and heat make prolonged neatness almost impossible. The roads-rough and unseated then-made even a 30-mile trip rather exacting.

Was Darwin anything like I had pictured it sitting in that Lockheed? No, not a bit, except for the dust. There were trees and growth similar to those anywhere else in Australia, except that the gum leaves are larger and some have a fluted edge.

There is nothing glamorous about the North-Western area. For the first couple of nights it is hard work convincing yourself that there is NOT something crawling over your bed; not to shrink at the moths and flying beetles which come in their millions to any light shining in the darkness; not to be terrified by electrical storms which have to be experienced to be believed.

What of the troppo aspect? I think it is boredom which gets the lads more quickly than anything else. That was why I was given such a riotous welcome wherever I went-why they showed me snaps of their mothers, wives, and girl friends-why, when- ever I could, I stopped and talked to the lads-and listened.