Section 6 of "A Book on the WAAAF"

MANY of you have met her before. Some of you may even have suffered at her hands. But to those of you who are being introduced for the first time, let me explain that she is not employed only in clothing, stationery and barracks stores. Not at all! On R.A.A.F. units far and wide, in her role of equipment assistant, she has in her charge aircraft engines and spares, airframe spares, motor transport spares, and a host of other valuable equipment. The technical terrors of instrument spares, magnetos and carburetors arouse in her no panic. She quickly learns why things tick, and by knowing the bits and pieces residing on her shelves, soon becomes a real help to engineer officers, equipment officers, and other technical people.

She must account for every item of equipment in her care, by means of the appropriate vouchers, and she guards them all like a tigress fighting for its young. Let me illustrate this by means of a couple of incidents I have witnessed.

In a certain store one day, I unsuspectingly turned a corner and was precipitated into what appeared to be a small-sized war. It consisted of four airmen and one W.A.A.A.F. equipment assistant, set against a background of three airscrews and one Lister truck. The airmen had brought the airscrews from Receipt Section, thereby causing themselves no little exertion, and obviously wished to unload them immediately in the store. All four were busily engaged in putting forth some six reasons per minute as to why the unloading should proceed. Unfortunately for them, their arguments fell on deaf cars. 'ne lady of the piece was Cool, self-possessed and adamant. She would have none of their airscrews without the proper voucher, which was apparently not forthcoming. Finally, however, it was produced, and peace restored.

Another time I encountered a smaller group, consisting of one Wing-Commander and one minute but determined W.A.A.A.F. The Wing-Commander had discovered he was without a pencil, and being in the vicinity of the store, had dropped into the stationery section to collect one. At the time of my approach, be was being politely but firmly asked to produce the remains of his last pencil. I didn't stay to hear the result! In her role of clerk, or assistant clerk, "the Girl in the Store" copes, undismayed, with reams of paper per day. She may be found at almost any time poring over sheets of it, every one different and every one covered with the most fantastic figures.

Figures that would make any but a great mathematician totter to the handiest deep water and throw himself in. Not so our clerk. She apparently finds something coherent in the fearful maze before her. At any rate, she works away, stopping only to pursue wrongdoers, and to get mistakes justified. In the end, she miraculously arrives at the correct figure--or simply raises a Discrepancy Report, of course!

So, people, there she is . . . "The Girl in the Store", sweltering under tin roofs, or freezing in draughty hangars, in big depots or small makeshift storerooms; wearing overalls and a becoming grease mark over one eye, taking lots of responsibility, wisecracking, getting tired and dirty, having surreptitious cups of tea, keeping a relentless check on our equipment.

In case I have painted too harsh a pen-picture of her, let me add that she is not devoid of the milk of human kindness. I have seen the tears well to her eyes as she refuses to issue a youthful airman with a new pair of socks, or demands hard cash for some item of equipment asked for to replace one that is lost. Her training and her work tend to thicken that invisible steel coat that you have doubtless detected, but beneath her tattered stockings (she has no time to go to the store for a new pair) "there beats a heart of gold."

Northern Christmas...

TWO DAYS before Christmas, Megan came home to our bar racks with a bottle of sherry. Nearly all the girls had received parcels or cakes, but the "spirit" of Christmas was lacking. Hence Megan's sherry was greeted with cheers of delight. Christmas cake and lolly-water -our expressions were wry! But Christmas cake and sherry---ah, then it starts to be festive!

We decided to give the season a bright welcome-to pull the cork and plunge the knife on Christmas Eve. "Our crowd" had been on duty all day -10-hour day shift-and as it was almost unbearably hot in the tin roofed hut, everybody felt a little weary. Still, we were determined to be gay, and about 8.30 gathered around Megan's bed, with various offerings from our parcels for the feast. We were a little guilty, like kids in a boarding-school at a midnight supper because liquor of any description is not allowed in barracks; but we hoped that if we were caught the Orderly Officer would be human enough to remember it was Christmas Eve after all.

As usual, our clothes were of the scantiest. Mary was in briefs and a white sun-top which showed her smooth, golden-brown skin and long legged slimness to perfection. Her hair, blonde and fine, hung, around her shoulders where it had escaped from the tin hair-setters clipped about her head. She started to jitter-bug as the others cut up the cake and Megan and I struggled vainly to extract the cork from the sherry.

We didn't possess a corkscrew, but had a huge collection of forks, nail files, knives and scissors, and used them with great energy but very little dexterity. We tugged, we shoved, we pushed! Bits of cork flew in all directions. Betty said "Oh, heck, wish I were a man and could bite it off. Let's smash the jolly thing open! The suspense is too much!"

Next moment the cork went with a pop into the sherry. Tin mugs and glasses banged together while Megan attempted to pour a fair share. Tiny and Jill, who hadn't tasted sherry, had lolly-water, but even so there wasn't much by the time it went round the twelve of us, and Megan had spilt a good bit on the floor.

We toasted each other, everybody and everything, in particular taking a keen delight over an officer on the unit who had incurred our special hatred. Ray said: "Next Christmas at home, kids!" There was an unanimous assent ... Suddenly the party went flat. The girls stared at each other, and grew silent.

Ray said: "I'm in, an awful mess-"

Gradually we all wandered into the ablutions and there was much cleansing of teeth and splashing of water.

I was powdering myself lavishly with the last of my favourite talc, as a Christmas treat, when Megan came in and sat on the bed. She looked horribly dejected and sat watching me, her mouth drooping woefully. She had just come out of the shower and was wrapped only in a towel with her damp hair pinned up on top of her head. I flicked some talc over her, and it floated in tiny white flakes on her
nose.

"What's the matter with us? I feel awfully low," she said in a bleak little voice. "You know I didn't get a letter today- have you had any New Guinea mail?"

I shook my head as I continued dressing. I know how she felt. Megan had been waiting for a fortnight for a letter from her fiancé who was in the Finschafen area, hoping and hoping it would arrive before Christmas. Mary came up and sat listlessly on the floor. They both looked so young and disappointed-cheated, somehow that I longed to put my arms comfortingly around them. Instead I said briskly and brightly: "Now Stop it, immediately! You are both like wet hens. Where's the glowing spirit, the jubilation you had a little while ago? You were making terrific row, Mary."

Mary grimaced at me. "All right- but I'm not going to pretend I'm having a wonderful time just because it's Christmas Eve-it's a rotten farce! I'm going to read the book Mummy sent me! "

Megan and I were dismayed, for though she spoke with vehemence there were tears in her eyes. It was Mary's first Christmas away from home, and she was decidedly feeling it. "I think I'll come to Midnight Mass with you-looks as though we are all in for a bout of nostalgia, and I meant be so gay."

It was as yet only 10 O'clock, and I had settled down to read until the tender came to take us to church, when a lass from the next hut rushed in, her arms laden with tinsel, streamers and bunches of holly. I was amazed. She threw them down on the bed with a flourish and said breathlessly: "We went to a party at the Red Cross-it was marvellous-a Christmas Tree and all! The place was beautifully decorated-the Americans certainly put on a show. Been doing our hut up with this stuff-thought you might like some!"

I called to Mary and Megan. They came running to find the cause of the hilarity, and their faces lit with surprised pleasure at the sight of the gay trappings sparkling on my bed. With zest we put them up, tacking the holly over the doorway and putting the small pieces on the girls' pillows. The hut took on a festive air, and I marvelled at the laughing Mary hammering scarlet paper chains to the wall.

Just this, and she and Megan were gleeful again, entering into it as good fun, wholeheartedly. A couple of girls who had been on duty came in and brought a late mail over. There were shouts of joy. I saw a telegram for Ray and went in to wake her, as she had gone to bed in disgust. Ray is one of those lucky people who can sleep through any noise. I shook her hard for a couple of minutes before she stirred.

"Want a telegram, Ray? The post-mark's deleted." She leapt up and clutched the telegram, almost ripping it in two in her excitement and anxiety to open it, scanned the brief message and sank
back against the pillow with a sigh of content, smiling beatifically.

"Well," I said, "going to tell me, or lie there gloating?" For an answer she gave me the telegram. The address and date were deleted and it had only four small words: "Happy Xmas, love, Bill."

Shortly afterwards the tender called for those who wished to go to church. We piled in and drove off, chatting merrily. Church was crowded with townspeople and servicemen and women - all descriptions, all ranks. Men were kneeling everywhere, in the grounds, on the steps, standing in the street, all very devout and reverent. Here indeed was the true spirit of Christmas. I thought of home-the family would be in St. Mary's now, perhaps kneeling before the crib, and I knew my name would be in their prayers.

"Peace and goodwill"! Lovely words! My sister had put a note in her parcel, and the words flooded into my mind -sweetly, comfortably. "We miss you so much - it's lonely but we are very proud. We will pray that next year this will be a united family - that when we say 'Peace and goodwill' its true meaning will be felt throughout the world."

Hush Hush Unit...

WE VIEWED the dingy railway platform for the first time by the grudging light of one electric globe. There were still crumbs on the long trestles where the troops ate when passing through to the combat areas. On these trestles several lonely travellers in Air Force drab and battered army green snatched a sleep between trains, their lean, patient faces gentle in unconsciousness.

Dark shapes in the shadows changed to amiable canines. Yawning a little, they beat their tails in the dust. Women in uniform are popular with dogs, for, while dogs worship soldiers and the orderly disorderliness of an army, they appreciate the gentleness of women and the comfort which they bring with them.

Two airmen in goonskins claimed us and collected our gear. We piled into a tender and drove away into the darkness along an endless tree-lined road.

After the trees, a light, and the shelter of weatherboard buildings against the rising wind. We dozed standing in our overcoats while the men made tea and fried bacon. We dozed at the trestle tables in the mess. and then, when we were finally bedded down on newly filled palliasses, came wide awake, wondering at the noisy loneliness of it all.

For it was noisy. There was the incessant chirp of the cicadas, for all the world like fairy Morse; the wild unmusical bleating of a thousand frogs, the beat of the Pacific against the shore, and the wind in the trees. During the night we had felt like, naughty children carried off into a deep dark wood, and at daylight we found ourselves in an enchanted garden beside a sea of exquisite jade and turquoise colourings.

The kindly trees made a tracery of creamy boughs and dull green leaves against the back-drop of rose-coloured cloud which announced the tropical sun. Inspecting our new home that first morning, we found all sorts of lovely things to wonder at-pink and white fringed blossoms that dropped at the first touch of sunlight and lay fragrant heaps on the clean brown earth; small brilliant birds that swooped chirping through die trees; wild white Jasmine twined among the underbrush; petunia-coloured convolvulus blooming underfoot; and, close to the sea, wild cotton trees flaunting their yellow blossoms against naked branches, and crimson passion-flowers holding up their paper-white crosses for those with eyes to see.

Later we found more secret things -possums that reared their young in the eaves of the station buildings and attended all debates and meetings in the mess; koalas brave in their furthest northern outpost; and snakes of all sizes, including shining green snakes that came into our sleeping hut and inhabited the showers, and twenty-foot pythons and carpet snakes. Snakes were killed on sight. We never knew which were poisonous and which were harmless-to us they were all evil, and beautiful.

That was how the shore itself seemed sometimes when the black fins of sharks cut through the deep rolling waves, and night mists lay like a chilling shroud on beaches and headlands, and mosquitoes and sandflies and all sorts of creeping, stinking things assailed us with their bites and their foulness.

Porcupines dug in hastily at our approach and big iguanas like dwarf crocodiles stood up on their front legs and stared at us-much as the people of Sydney stared at us when we first wore our uniforms in Pitt Street over three years ago!

Month by month we worked on steadily, taking heat and dirt and sandflies as part of the job; so that when the wet season came and the rains burst out of a dark and lowering sky to wash out the roads and isolate us from our kind, we were no longer afraid nor particularly lonely. This was our work, and this forest a friendly protecting canopy of green.

So it goes on. If there have been times when we have been too distrait to notice the soldier crabs in their ultramarine thousands marching up the beach, or too weary to treat humorously the possums who wake us by quarrelling in our huts, the spell of the enchanted garden has had its effect-we no longer ask "Is it worth it? Are we doing anything really worth while?"

Here in this lonely land, where we can read, and listen to the radio, and think impersonally, and from where we can see our aircraft going northwards like Death on silver wings, we know that it has all been well worth while.

Onlooker..

Because I'm a Public Relations Officer, I've been asked to write "something about the W.A.A.A.17". A "P.R.O." spends a lot of time standing about watching other people work and asking all sorts of questions, and is therefore very much in the nature of an onlooker. During more than three years "onlooking" I've seen thousands of W.A.A.A.F. on all sorts of Air Force units-talked v6th them, eaten with them, laughed with them, admired them, remembered them. I can set down here only a few of the memories that come to mind.

There was the girl who asked permission to wear a tie at her wedding. Away up there in the north where she worked, airwomen wore open-necked shirts all the year round, with no ties and no stockings. It was a question of fitting in leave, and she hadn't time, let alone coupons, to get a frock from the south. Still, one ought to wear something special on one's wedding day, so she asked permission to wear a tie, and her stockings, and her blue Service cap (instead of "hat, fur felt") with her beautifully laundered shirt and skirt. Her fellow-airwomen spent hours picking basketsful of tropical flowers from the barracks gardens, and when she came out of the little church with her husband, she was showered with lovely blossoms just like any bride in satin or lace.

One day I tip-toed through those same barracks on a hot summer's day, and saw the shift-workers who had come off night duty in the "ops." and signals rooms, trying to sleep. Lovely young bodies clad in the briefest of briefs and brassieres stretched under mosquito nets, turned and twisted restlessly in the heat. Trite and all, the phrase "flower of Australian girlhood" came into my mind, and I thought: "This epitomizes the whole thing".

These youngsters who should be having the happiest time of their lives-luncheon dates and pretty dresses and silly hats and 'coming out' balls-working long hours on shift, tapping out messages they never talk about, accepting the discipline of a Service, wearing dull regulation clothes, sleeping (or not sleeping) through the sunny days with pads on their tired eyes to keep out the light. This is war in our country."

Of course I've seen hundreds of parades; "pass-outs" of both airwomen and officer trainees; ceremonial "birthday" parades; presentation of W/T badges and Good Service Cards. But somehow the one I like best to remember was the C.O's weekly parade at a remote station in South Australia which I once visited. R.A.A.F. and W.A.A.A.F. formed up on the parade ground at 0730. After "General Salute" had been ordered, they marched past the C.O., giving him an "eyes left", the two W.A.A.A.F. flights modestly but smartly bringing up the rear.

Then they dispersed and went off to their various jobs. Just an ordinary C.O's parade, and yet there was something . . . Perhaps it was the clear morning air, the clean sparkle of the tin-roofed huts surrounding the bare brown parade-ground, the snap of the C.O's salute as the blue ensign slid up the standard and floated out, the earnest concentration on the young fresh f aces. ]Even without the roar of the first early morning aircraft overhead, you couldn't have helped feeling that those men and women belonged to something real and vital, something absorbing, bigger than their own individual interests. I suppose what I really saw was a glimpse of that elusive thing called "esprit de corps".

Visiting flying stations was always a thrill. (I expect the W.A.A.A.F. who worked on those stations will feel lonely in peace-time without the noise of the planes always about them.) I loved walking through the hangars you never knew what interesting things you'd come across. One little scene in particular stands out. I was cutting through a hangar where I didn't expect any W.A.A.A.F. to be working, when suddenly my eye caught an unmistakably feminine figure in faded blue-jeans stretching up to the wing-tip of a plane.

I looked again, and saw that she was screwing into position the little red light on the port wing-tip. She was an electrician and at that moment the only girl among a dozen or so men in that busy hangar. Whenever I see the port and starboard lights of a plane flying at night, I think of that little W.A.A.A.F. electrician, etched against the open hangar door.

Then there was the "keeper of the rings" whom I saw going about her duties with several fingers of her left hand covered in jewels. She was at that time flight-sergeant in charge of workers at the W.A.A.A.F. fabric flying-boat repair depot at Lake Boga. Nearly all the girls in that section were engaged or married, and when they were "doping" they gave the "flight" their rings to mind.

Mention of that flight-sergeant minds me that she was one of the first W.A.A.A.F. fabric-workers to learn the care and packing of parachutes, and reminds me too of many visits with press people and photographers to the parachute section at Pt. Cook, always a place of fascination, with some of the blue-jeaned W.A.A.A.F. deftly shaking and folding the gleaming white silk canopies stretched out on the long tables, others poking and patting the folded 'chutes into their canvas cases, other stitching repairs at sewing machines, with yards of white silk billowing about them.

For some reason, I remember, away back in 1942, travelling in a N.S.W. train one day next to a bright and vivacious young airwoman. Perhaps it was because she was so enthusiastic and had such intelligent interest in all that went on there, that she impressed herself on my memory. During our conversation I asked her what her job was. "Oh dear," she replied, her face falling instantly, "that's what my friends are always asking me. 'What do you do in the Air Force,' they say 'do you fly?' And I have to say, 'Oh no, I only type!"

I've come to the end of my allotted space now, so that is all I can write here of my recollections of the Air Force girls who "only typed", and cooked, and drove cars, and washed down aircraft, and did hush-hush job - who washed, and ironed, and tried to sleep, and sometimes learned ballet steps, and curled their hair, and read novels, in their spare time. Just like any girls, anywhere, any time - only these happened to grow up in time for World War II.