Читать книгу Arts to Intelligence - Doreen Galvin - Страница 5

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 since six o'clock." We went to bed hungry.

In the meantime, having finished our mashed potato supper, we were marched to the sick bay to have our heads examined for the second time in one day. I wondered if the nurse knew about our first medical. Thinking that I would save both her time and ours, I enlightened her politely that we had already been through this process. I was rather naive at that stage of my career; I had a lot to learn. The nurse said pleasantly, “We always supply this service for new arrivals. One never knows!" Just to prove her point, she discovered, a moment later, that one of our group was in that embarrassing situation. Since she had sat on the Brighton train next to the girl with head lice, some of them had found their way to the more desirably clean head of hair so close to them. The girl concerned was detained at the sick-bay. We, on the other hand, were told that our hair would have to be cut to no longer than one inch above the collar once we were in uniform.

We were escorted to a newly completed sleeping hut. The WAAF corporal told us with pride that we would be the first occupants. The room was cold, damp, and had bare floors, and it was midnight. Along each side of the hut were fourteen beds, their metal bases dull with dampness. Did we have to sleep on bare springs? I had not expected things to be that bad. But the procedure was quickly explained to us by the corporal who occupied a small private room near the entrance door. We had to make our own beds every night from the odd collection of bedclothes stacked at the head of the bed. Each bed was supplied with three "biscuits", mattress-like squares which, when put beside each other, formed the mattress. There were also a pillow, two brown blankets and, joy of joys, a pair of white sheets as well! Each morning, before breakfast, we were expected to fold and stack the bedding at the head of the bed again.

After telling us to put our possessions on the bed of our choice, the corporal took us to the far end of the hut and through the door to inspect the ablutions. A dismal picture awaited us as we inspected the quality of the washing facilities. A long galvanized metal sluice ran along one side of the hut, with cold water taps protruding over it at intervals. With the aid of a stack of metal wash basins to choose from which were piled at the other end, we were expected to begin the day clean and wholesome, despite the lack of hot water in freezing temperatures - a bone-chilling exercise. The floor beneath our feet, ignored by the carpenters, was a mass of muddy earth, made usable only by a series of duck boards placed over it. I doubt if any of us washed behind our ears or aspired to the excessive use of soap for the next three weeks. In low spirits, we returned to the hut, made our beds and crawled under the damp blankets, shivering. Was it really the same day that I had left Hastings? It seemed that I had left the comforts of home weeks ago.

The following morning, Service life began in earnest at the Equipment Section. There we were issued with uniforms and ugly, but warm, underwear that went with them. The strong black leather lace-up shoes were our most difficult problem, for they were the cause of many blisters during the first week.

On the second night, the girl who occupied a bed next to me broke camp. She had a great night with the boys, having left and returned unchallenged by going through a gap in the fence. She was too drunk to get into bed and so spent what was left of the night under it. Early the next morning while she was still sleeping it off, another girl from our party announced that she'd "had" the Air Force and was running away! We had already been informed that, as volunteers, we were allowed to change our minds about staying on but, after three days, it would be considered desertion, and this was the third day. She did not trust the authorities to discharge her legally, so she decided to make a quick getaway at dawn. I often wonder what happened to her!

The following twenty-one days were filled with drill on the parade ground, instructed by a sergeant who barked at us constantly. When not on the parade ground, we were sent on route marches, which grew longer and longer as the sticking plaster on our feet grew thicker and thicker. Before our first week’s pay was due, we learned how to stand in line, step briskly in front of the accounts clerk, salute according to the book, shout our number - 442513 in my case - then pretend to take our weekly pittance from his hand. We usually finished doubled up with laughter. The sergeant tolerated this only on the first day. At the end of the week when I received my first ten-shilling note, I tried to keep my giggles well under control; otherwise I would have been kept waiting until the end of the pay parade to do my circus act all over again.

After the three-week initiation period, our group was split up and we were dispersed all over the country. I joined a party of about eighteen girls, all of whom had been chosen for "special duties," whatever they were. We set off in a hopeful mood, knowing that our future life could not be much more strenuous or painful than square-bashing and limping on blistered feet. I looked back on the past three weeks as an interesting experience, having shared and learned something about the lives of people whom I would otherwise never have met or known. They were a good hearted group.

We travelled to Leighton Buzzard, about thirty or forty miles north of London. By now, we appeared to be a somewhat more cohesive group, as we all wore the same Air Force blue uniform. Dusk had fallen when we alighted from the train where the inevitable lorry - as trucks were called in England - was waiting for us. As we drove through a rather uninteresting part of town, we approached our goal, a most depressing-looking building constructed of very grubby brick. Its original colour was obliterated by years of dust and dirt, and its only architectural features were two rows of small windows one above the other. These were covered with sticky tape to prevent the glass from flying during an air raid. An unprepossessing archway in the centre invited us rather grudgingly into the equally ugly quadrangle. Our sleeping quarters were on the upper floor, with an open corridor (or balcony) connecting the rooms. These were dark and the paint on the walls was brown with age. There was a small bare gas jet projecting from the wall in each room for illumination, enough to see by, but not nearly good enough for studying if we had to read at night. We were told, "Oh, yes! This place used to be a workhouse, and most of the gas power is now used to supply the factory down the road." We had six weeks to survive in this dismal industrial district!

Next morning, the same lorry driver took us a short distance, and then halted at the entrance gate to a heavily camouflaged area. Two armed guards then let the vehicle through and we dismounted outside an even more heavily camouflaged one-storey building. A couple of MPs escorted us inside and we found ourselves in another world. It was a very large room with a huge table in the centre covered with a grid map of the southern half of England. The room was a perfect replica of a Fighter Operations Room.

For several weeks, without a day off, as far as I can remember, despite the fact that the Easter week intervened, we pushed arrows around on the map as we plotted fictitious raids and air battles, until we reacted automatically to the instructions received through our earphones from the R.D.F. (Radar) lines and Observer Corps.