After this, they visited the medical officer. Here, Bobby was forced to go through the humiliating ordeal of having her hair checked for nits, as though she were a child at school, and then sit through a dental inspection. The women were then told to strip to the waist and parade in their bras past the medical officer to be inoculated in each arm against various diseases. The camp MO was a man, of course, and Bobby’s cheeks were ripe with blushes as she hurried to cover herself up afterwards.
They then queued for their service numbers, which were given to them by a tough-looking RAF warrant officer with a Lancashire accent.
‘Remember that from now on, names mean nowt except to your civilian chummies,’ he told them. ‘To the RAF, we’re each of us no more than a number. You’ll give this to eat, to go on leave, to be put on charge and to get paid. You’ll put it on all yourletters, and your civvy friends will put it on those they send back – no number, no letters.’
After being issued with their numbers, they were shown to a lecture room. In here they sat down to take the maths, aptitude and psychology tests that would decide on their suitability for different trades.
‘I thought our trades were decided when they interviewed us,’ Bobby whispered to Carol.
‘That’s more of a check, to see if we’ve got skills they need,’ Carol whispered back. ‘I hope I do all right. I was always a dunce about tests, and they’ll lock me in the cookhouse for the duration if I don’t turn in a decent score.’
Bobby turned the maths paper over with some trepidation, wondering if she would be expected to show knowledge of advanced calculus or something. She didn’t fancy being assigned cooking duties for the duration either. The questions didn’t pose too many problems, however, and she felt confident she had got a reasonably good score.
She hoped so. Ever since Topsy’s wedding, she had been thinking about what Archie had said: about his WAAF friend who had been posted overseas to work in intelligence. It had made her realise that she could be so much more here than merely a uniformed secretary. The RAF seemed to have pigeon-holed her for admin work, but if she could prove she had brains as well as decent typing speeds, perhaps they would realise she would be better employed elsewhere.
The last question on their test papers asked what trade they would be most interested in. Bobby skimmed the list. Radio mechanic, photographer, balloon operator, fabric worker, cook, aircrafthand, batwoman, clerk: general duties, clerk: special duties…
She tried to find ‘plotter’ – the role Archie’s friend had begun her RAF career with – but no such trade was listed.
‘Excuse me,’ she said quietly to the WAAF NCO supervising them. ‘I can’t see plotter listed here. You know, the WAAFs who track enemy raids and things.’
The woman frowned. ‘Who told you about plotters?’
‘Um, I’ve got a friend training to be one,’ Bobby fibbed. The woman’s expression seemed to suggest that the existence of plotters wasn’t common knowledge, and she didn’t want to get Archie into any trouble.
‘Oh. Well, it comes under special duties.’
‘Thank you.’
Bobby put a tick next to the role of ‘clerk: special duties’ and handed in her paper.
Chapter 30
‘That sour-faced old hag!’ Mike ranted later, standing in front of the mirror in the boned corset, coarse cotton bra and long wool knickers that had been issued during kitting out earlier. ‘What’s the idea, locking us up like convent girls? Just because she hasn’t had a man since bustles were in fashion.’
The dormitories could accommodate sixteen women, each pair sharing a bunk bed: eight on one side of the hut, eight on the other, with a stove in the middle to keep them all warm – at least that was the idea, although the women of Hut 17 had quickly found they couldn’t get the thing to light and were shivering in the cold waiting for an NCO to turn up. A noticeboard was mounted at the farthest end of the hut, to which various announcements and itineraries were pinned. Each pair of bunk beds had a chest of drawers between them, and a shelf above with hooks to hang up their uniforms.
Bobby had found herself sharing the bunk beds closest to the door with Mike, while Carol and the young Welsh girl, Dilys – the one who had called Bobby a prig – had the neighbouring pair. Bobby was sitting on her bottom bunk, writing a letter to Charlie and listening to the rain hammering on the tin roof while the other women ranted about their new commandant.
‘That’s not what I heard,’ Carol told Mike, in a confidential tone. ‘I was talking to Mavis, one of the NCOs, over our sausage and mash tonight. She told me on the quiet that Stewpot Mulligan was forced to transfer here from Harrogate after the RAF officer she was engaged to ditched her for someone else.’
Mike laughed. ‘No wonder she hates men then. I don’t blame him either, poor beggar.’
Dilys wrinkled her nose. ‘Her engaged? She must be at least forty.’
Carol was shuffling into her new skirt. They’d been issued with a full service uniform each: shirt, tie, tunic, skirt and cap, although greatcoats and spare uniforms had yet to arrive. Everything here seemed to be in a state of half-readiness as the camp had hastily prepared to receive its new female recruits. Carol fastened on her jacket and tightened the belt, then went to stand by Mike so she could look in the mirror on their chest of drawers.
‘What did they bother sizing us for if they were going to give us any old rags?’ Carol grumbled. ‘This skirt is at least two sizes too big. Ugh, and you’re right, Mike: I’ve got a backside like the front of a bus.’
‘Your sister wasn’t wrong about these blackout knickers either,’ Mike said. ‘Talk about passion-killers. I’m not wearing them no matter how cold I get, otherwise I’ll never get a man. I fully intend to start having some fun as soon as possible, in spite of old Stewpot’s diktats.’
‘How do you manage it?’ Dilys asked, her voice tinged with admiration. ‘It’s all right for your husband. He isn’t going to have any babies.’
‘Oh, I know all the ways,’ Mike said breezily. ‘A couple of kids tugging at my skirts is the last thing either of us would want, whether they were David’s or someone else’s. We’ve got plans for after the war. We’re going travelling, see the world.’
‘What ways are there?’
‘French letters, for one, of course, although some men can be funny about using them. But there are plenty of other tricks. Stick with me, girls, and I’ll teach you all about it.’
