‘Well, no,’ Bobby said, determined not to cement her reputation as a confirmed prig by sounding shocked. ‘That is to say, it isn’t really any of my business.’
Carol burst out laughing. ‘Bobby, you’re a hoot.’
Bobby smiled uncertainly, unsure what exactly she had said that was such a hoot. Was she being made fun of? She never had found it easy to tell. The lorry juddered over a dirt track, and she grabbed at the battered tarpaulin that covered the vehicle to steady herself.
‘Believe me, every man serving away from his wife or sweetheart has got someone who’s keeping him warm at night,’ Mike said, blowing a stream of smoke from one corner of her mouth. ‘So do the wives and sweethearts, if they’ve got any sense. At least David and I are honest with each other about it.’
Bobby felt dizzy from the shaking of the lorry and the frowst of cigarette smoke, and even more so from the shock of this strange new world she had landed in the middle of. She began to feel queasy, too, as the vehicle rocked along, and was glad when they stopped. The sergeant who had driven them dropped the tailboard and they all came piling out.
‘Leave your luggage and gas masks and follow me,’ the sergeant said, and they stumbled after her across a muddy field in their inadequate civilian shoes.
Bobby glanced around as they walked. She had often tried to picture the camp while reading Charlie’s letters, but it wasn’t quite as she had imagined.
RAF Ryland Moor was constructed over several fields, no doubt requisitioned from some unfortunate local farmer. Although she knew it was a small station, to her untutoredcivilian eyes it seemed huge: row upon row of curved Nissen huts – brick-fronted with corrugated metal roofs – interspersed with some sturdier-looking wooden constructions, and of course the aerodrome with its hangars and concrete runways. She assumed the Nissen huts they were headed towards were the WAAF accommodation, clustered around a concrete parade ground.
And Lord, it was bleak. It was just how Bobby imagined the German prisoner of war camps. Everything was grey: the huts, the parade ground, the glowering sky above them. It felt utterly desolate.
‘Blimey, this is grim,’ Carol muttered.
Mike laughed. ‘What were you expecting, a Girl Guide camp?’
‘Our Trish’s billet is in a house with three others. She says it’s cosy as anything. They’ve got a fire, wireless, gramophone. We’ll freeze our bums off in them huts.’
‘It’s only for six weeks,’ Mike said. ‘I suppose they think it’ll toughen us soft, flabby civvies up.’
Their destination was the parade ground. Once there, the women – some forty or so – were chivvied into a line by the NCO. There was a roll call as their names were checked off a list. Bobby noticed Mike grimace as she answered ‘present’ to what was evidently her full name: Violet Carmichael.
A short while after, the officer Bobby had met at her interview – Squadron Officer Mulligan – appeared. She was just as stern and unsmiling as Bobby remembered while she walked along the line of recruits.
‘Welcome to Ryland Moor, ladies,’ she said. ‘Some of you will have had long journeys. You’ll be taken to the Waafery cookhouse shortly, where you will be issued with the first of your kit – a knife, fork, spoon and mug, which you will guard with your lives – before being provided with tea, coffee and something to eat. After this you will be fitted for uniformsand given your service numbers. But before that, some rules.’ Mulligan flashed them a dry half-smile. ‘Firstly, men.’
Carol let out a snort that she quickly disguised as a cough when the officer’s gaze swivelled towards her.
‘In the first two weeks of your time here, there will be absolutely no fraternisation with the recruits in the airmen’s quarters,’ Mulligan told them, pacing up and down. ‘After this, some fraternisation will be allowed, although you will of course be kept under strict discipline. You should speak to male instructors only as far as concerns the subject in which you are being instructed. You will receive no letters from home in this two-week period, nor will you send any beyond a single communication to notify your families you have arrived safely – or you may use the phone in the Waafery recreation hut if your home has a telephone. After this, communication will cease until the two weeks have passed, although, in the event of an emergency, telegrams will of course be allowed.’
‘Oh, I say,’ Mike muttered disgustedly.
Mulligan turned a biting gaze on her. ‘Did you have a question, Aircraftwoman?’
‘Yes, I did actually, ma’am,’ Mike said, thrusting out her chin. ‘I wanted to ask why we’re not allowed to write to our people or fraternise or all that.’
‘The two-week embargo is designed to get you into the swing of military life. We have found complete immersion in our routines for that period is the surest way to make a WAAF out of a civilian. You did not join the RAF to go to dances, after all.’
‘Didn’t I though?’ Carol muttered.
‘The dormitories, you will find, are rather sparse in home comforts, but you should nevertheless have everything you need,’ Mulligan went on. ‘Sixteen women will be housed in each Nissen hut. Domestic nights will be Mondays, when an officer will thoroughly inspect your kit and dorms. The bugle will wakeyou every morning at six a.m. Those listed for fatigues should be given priority for use of the ablutions block, which is the concrete structure behind your huts, and all will be expected to be ready for breakfast at seven a.m. After this you will turn out for parade and drill practice, followed by lectures and specialised skills training according to your assigned trade. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and Saturday mornings there will be a route march, weather allowing, and on the other days you will have PT. Following this, those not on fatigues will have study and domestic time until your evening meal. You will in every way be treated as are the male recruits – with some allowances made for the differences in your biology, of course.’
This produced a muffled snigger from Carol, but it was soon replaced by a look of horror on hearing the next sentence.
‘The bugle will sound lights-out at half past nine, which must be strictly observed,’ Mulligan told them calmly, to hushed gasps from some of the night owls present.
‘Of course, we do not expect you to live like nuns,’ Mulligan went on, in a slightly warmer tone. ‘The wearing of light powder and rouge is not forbidden – in fact, we encourage our WAAFs to ensure they are feminine at all times. There is a recreation hut where you can relax in your leisure time, with a wireless and so forth, and after the first two weeks you may go into the villages or towns on a pass when off-duty. There is a tea room in Beckfoot, as well as the all-important fish and chip shop, and a picture house, services club and other entertainment in Skipton. Dances will be held in the NAAFI canteen on Saturday nights, for both airmen and airwomen.’ Her brow set into a stern frown. ‘But we expect you to remember that you are here to work, and to learn. The WAAF is a proud institution with a reputation for turning out smart, industrious young women, and I will come down very hard on anyone who fails to uphold that reputation.’
Bobby saw Carol roll her eyes.
‘There will be some people who will not like you,’ Mulligan went on. ‘Those who sneer at women in uniform – who believe your place is not in the theatre of combat but in the home. Those who make lewd and suggestive comments about your morality, because they fear female independence. Men who will patronise you, and refuse to afford you the respect your rank is due. Hold your heads high, ladies, and never let anyone tell you that your contribution to this war does not matter. Have no doubt that no matter what trade you find yourself in, the world would be damned without you. You are dismissed.’
After the welcome speech, the women were shown to the cookhouse for a meal of sausage rolls with mustard pickle, after which they were marched to one of the huts to be fitted for uniforms. This involved no actual measuring: just an RAF sergeant who looked them up and down and called out a number, following which a pile of clothing was thrust into their arms.
