men.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then why join the Waafs?’ he asked truculently.
What sort of boards had he passed, I wondered, to ask such a stupid question.
‘I love flying and the Waafs are closest to flying,’ I answered.
‘A negative approach,’ he commented, scribbling a note on his pad.
‘Tell us about your education,’ suggested the one with pince-nez, sitting on the extreme right. I half turned to him and told them. They appeared totally unimpressed. There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked longingly out of the window. The sun shone on a sparrow perkily hopping from bush to bush; faintly its twittering penetrated into the room. My mind soared to distant places; to surf and palm trees and sea shells resting on glistening sands; where ships called twice a year.
‘...prepared to volunteer for...’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said, blushing at my insolence at begging the pardon of so august a committee.
‘We need some girls for a highly secret operation. Are you prepared to volunteer for this job without knowing what it is?’ repeated the chairman of the board. My mind soared again. This time to deeds of secret valour. Visions of Joan of Arc vied with those of Florence Nightingale. My tummy tightened with a vicarious thrill.
‘Yes, sir,’ I answered bravely, trying not to squeak.
The chairman glanced enquiringly at the others. Individually they stared at me then nodded to him.
‘Then it is decided. You will receive posting instructions in the normal manner. You are aware of the Official Secrets Act?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That is all. You may go. Good morning.’
I got up, wriggled my skirt down, swung an improved salute and marched bravely out, my head in the air.
Orders were posted the following day for the entire draft. All but a dozen, including myself, were posted to training establishments. The dozen were to report the following day for further instructions; packed and ready to leave. We did so agog with excitement and with rumours virile and ripe.
We were shepherded into a train that crawled, backtracked and stopped throughout most of the night. I never did achieve a journey during the war on those trains that snorted imperiously to their destinations. Invariably I travelled, dirty and dishevelled, on those with insignificant priority that jarred to a halt with infuriating resignation in the blacked-out countryside and waited, their passengers cocooned in stale air, in the eerie silence broken only by an occasional tired grunt of steam or the creaking of metal.
We arrived ‘somewhere in England’ in the early hours of the morning. Escorts were changed and after marching along winding lanes with the smell of ozone wafting freshly in the breeze and bringing animation to our jaded faces, we came to a backwater jetty, mysterious and silent except for the brackish water sucking hollowly against three rowing boats moored nearby. A firm ‘Quiet please’ hushed our excited whispers. I looked primly at my colleagues. They did not appear suitable material for heroines. I could not see myself.
We rowed silently for half an hour. The waning moon played hide and seek in the trees as we disembarked at a tiny jetty that creaked protestingly and swayed alarmingly at the unaccustomed weight. We marched again until, passing through massive wrought-iron gates, the public lane gave way to the gentility of a gravelled drive and cultivated gardens. A blacked-out manor appeared, silhouetted eerily in the pale moonlight.
With our questions unanswered we were tumbled into bed.
9
During the following few days the sum total of our knowledge of our future activities was the negative one of at least knowing what we were not going to do or be. The manor was a training school hedged and shrouded in secrecy that provoked even greater curiosity. It was not until the last day of the course, three weeks later, that the successful trainees at last discovered the great secret. Those unsuccessful were given
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then why join the Waafs?’ he asked truculently.
What sort of boards had he passed, I wondered, to ask such a stupid question.
‘I love flying and the Waafs are closest to flying,’ I answered.
‘A negative approach,’ he commented, scribbling a note on his pad.
‘Tell us about your education,’ suggested the one with pince-nez, sitting on the extreme right. I half turned to him and told them. They appeared totally unimpressed. There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked longingly out of the window. The sun shone on a sparrow perkily hopping from bush to bush; faintly its twittering penetrated into the room. My mind soared to distant places; to surf and palm trees and sea shells resting on glistening sands; where ships called twice a year.
‘...prepared to volunteer for...’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said, blushing at my insolence at begging the pardon of so august a committee.
‘We need some girls for a highly secret operation. Are you prepared to volunteer for this job without knowing what it is?’ repeated the chairman of the board. My mind soared again. This time to deeds of secret valour. Visions of Joan of Arc vied with those of Florence Nightingale. My tummy tightened with a vicarious thrill.
‘Yes, sir,’ I answered bravely, trying not to squeak.
The chairman glanced enquiringly at the others. Individually they stared at me then nodded to him.
‘Then it is decided. You will receive posting instructions in the normal manner. You are aware of the Official Secrets Act?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That is all. You may go. Good morning.’
I got up, wriggled my skirt down, swung an improved salute and marched bravely out, my head in the air.
Orders were posted the following day for the entire draft. All but a dozen, including myself, were posted to training establishments. The dozen were to report the following day for further instructions; packed and ready to leave. We did so agog with excitement and with rumours virile and ripe.
We were shepherded into a train that crawled, backtracked and stopped throughout most of the night. I never did achieve a journey during the war on those trains that snorted imperiously to their destinations. Invariably I travelled, dirty and dishevelled, on those with insignificant priority that jarred to a halt with infuriating resignation in the blacked-out countryside and waited, their passengers cocooned in stale air, in the eerie silence broken only by an occasional tired grunt of steam or the creaking of metal.
We arrived ‘somewhere in England’ in the early hours of the morning. Escorts were changed and after marching along winding lanes with the smell of ozone wafting freshly in the breeze and bringing animation to our jaded faces, we came to a backwater jetty, mysterious and silent except for the brackish water sucking hollowly against three rowing boats moored nearby. A firm ‘Quiet please’ hushed our excited whispers. I looked primly at my colleagues. They did not appear suitable material for heroines. I could not see myself.
We rowed silently for half an hour. The waning moon played hide and seek in the trees as we disembarked at a tiny jetty that creaked protestingly and swayed alarmingly at the unaccustomed weight. We marched again until, passing through massive wrought-iron gates, the public lane gave way to the gentility of a gravelled drive and cultivated gardens. A blacked-out manor appeared, silhouetted eerily in the pale moonlight.
With our questions unanswered we were tumbled into bed.
9
During the following few days the sum total of our knowledge of our future activities was the negative one of at least knowing what we were not going to do or be. The manor was a training school hedged and shrouded in secrecy that provoked even greater curiosity. It was not until the last day of the course, three weeks later, that the successful trainees at last discovered the great secret. Those unsuccessful were given
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