‘That’s right.’
‘But I ticked special duties on my test. Er, sir,’ she added, grimacing at the oversight. ‘Sorry, ought I to have saluted?’
The flight sergeant smiled kindly from under his handlebar moustache. ‘No, I’m not an officer. NCOs aren’t saluted, and you shouldn’t call us sir. Better get that right from day one or you’ll have someone barking at you.’
‘Sorry. I thought since you outranked me…’
‘It’s the King’s commission you’re saluting. Strictly for officers only. Don’t worry, love, you’ll soon get the hang of it all.’
‘Right,’ Bobby said. ‘Um, do you know why I wasn’t accepted for the trade I ticked, si— Flight Sergeant? Weren’t my test scores good enough?’
‘I’d be surprised if they weren’t. I suppose one of the big bugs must have decided you were better suited to general duties.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
Bobby left, her spirits sinking.
She wasn’t sure why plotter had suddenly become her ambition. She had never heard of it until a few days ago, but the way Archie had described it had made it sound sort of important.And if his friend was anything to go by, it could lead to bigger things – a commission, and perhaps even overseas posting.
But it wasn’t to be. She was to be no more than a secretary in uniform after all, despite her apparently impressive test scores.
She trudged back to Hut 17 and threw herself down on her bunk. Everyone was now off duty, and Mike, Carol and Dilys were on their bunks awaiting the dinner hour. Mike was reading a magazine, Dilys was filing her nails and Carol was studying a leaflet.
‘What’s up with her?’ Dilys asked Carol, jerking a thumb in Bobby’s direction.
‘What is up with you?’ Carol asked.
‘Nothing really,’ Bobby said. ‘I didn’t get the trade I wanted, that’s all. I was hoping for special duties clerk but I’ve been given general duties instead. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Stewpot did tell me the WAAF only wanted me for my shorthand typing.’
‘That’s not bad though,’ Mike said, putting down her magazine. ‘Better money than batwomen and cooks, once you’ve qualified. What is it, fifteen bob a week?’
Bobby glanced at the pamphlet she’d be given, which was headedNotes for the Information of Candidates.Clerk came under Group IV, which for an Aircraftwoman Second Class meant daily pay of two shillings tuppence plus fourpence a day war pay. She did a quick mental calculation.
‘Seventeen and six,’ she told Mike. ‘I was on twenty as a civilian though.’
‘Yes, but now you’ve no clothes or rations to pay for. Besides, a swotty sort like you will soon rise up the ranks. You’ll be an NCO in no time, Bobsy.’
‘It isn’t really about the money,’ Bobby said. ‘I just thought there might be more important work for me to do in the WAAF than typing.’
‘Well, you don’t have to stick with it. You can apply for different training, once you’ve bedded in a bit.’
‘Can I? I thought once they gave you something, you were lumbered with it.’
Mike shrugged. ‘Only if you let yourself be lumbered with it.’
Bobby’s gaze fell once again on the pamphlet, and its tables of trades and wages. She would be able to send very little of her wage home to help her family for as long as she remained a lowly erk, as the aircraftwomen were known. But if she acquitted herself well, perhaps Mike was right – maybe there could be the chevrons of a non-commissioned officer in her future. As a corporal, she would be earning twenty-eight shillings a week – eight bob more than Reg paid her. That would make a big difference to her family, especially after the baby arrived. Perhaps she might even gain a commission, if she worked hard.
The thought cheered her a little, and she glanced up to smile at the other women.
‘Did you three get what you wanted?’
Bobby watched as Carol passed the leaflet she had been studying to Dilys in the bunk below, somewhat surreptitiously. Dilys looked at it and let out a little giggle.
Carol turned to grin at Bobby. ‘Oh, I hit the jackpot. Waitress. I start tomorrow lunchtime in the officers’ mess.’
‘Is that the jackpot?’ Bobby asked. Waitressing didn’t sound like it would be one of the higher-paid trades.
‘In theRAFofficers’ mess – you know, where the men eat. Must be because I told our beloved Stewpot I worked in a hotel before joining up. I’m happy enough with the lower wages if it’ll get me close to the officers.’
