Chapter 32
Bobby continued feeling wretched with homesickness over the next few days as she learnt the routine of her new way of life. The weather remained stormy and wild, which matched her mood, and route marches and outdoor drills were suspended in favour of indoor parades in the gym.
She began to get used to the sight of herself in her new military attire, and to hear herself addressed as ‘airwoman’.
She learned how to drill, march and parade; how to salute, and who and when to salute; how to take care of her kit; a great deal on the history of the Royal Air Force in the rather tedious lectures they were forced to sit through, and a huge amount of RAF slang.
Some she knew already thanks to Charlie – she was aware, for example, that square-bashing was parading, an erk was someone with the lowest rank of aircraftman or aircraftwoman, and to be put on a fizzer was to be placed on charge – but Bobby soon found there was a lot more to learn.
Her cutlery items were known as irons, recruits were called sprogs, Mae Wests were the inflatable life vests worn by aircrew, muftis meant civilian clothing, the Waafery was the women’s quarters, jankers meant being confined to camp, and there were many, many others.
It was like learning a whole other language.
Bobby acquitted herself well in her new role – at least, she avoided getting a ticking off from any officers or NCOs.
And yet she still had that lingering feeling of outsiderness.
She felt like she was forever on the edges, not belonging: a civilian in WAAF’s clothing.
She hoped this feeling would disappear in time, but all the other women seemed to have found their places after a few days to settle in.
Bobby couldn’t understand why it wasn’t happening for her.
She felt, too, like she was becoming a whole other person in this strange new world, short time though it had been.
She had understood herself in Silverdale.
There, Bobby Bancroft was ‘the lass from t’ paper’ – someone people recognised and respected.
She had had a job to do and she had taken pride in the fact she was good at it.
Here, she was just another rank and number.
It felt like all the confidence she had built while doing a man’s job in a man’s world disappeared overnight, leaving a nervous, trembling girl in its place.
Yet her place in Silverdale hadn’t come naturally to her at first either.
She had spent her first month on The Tyke trying and failing to win over the curmudgeonly locals who couldn’t see her as anything but an interloper, homesick for her old life in Bradford.
But she had stuck it out, given it her all, and eventually the village had come to feel like home. Why should this feel different?
After thinking it over, Bobby eventually worked out why.
It was because in Silverdale, she had had a goal.
Her job on The Tyke had been her chance to make it as a reporter, and she had wanted that enough to bear many trials.
More importantly, she had had a choice. Here she was a mere pawn of the war, and the independent spirit within her couldn’t help but rebel at being pushed around by fate.
But what could she do? Bobby only hoped that when the war was done with her, she would still remember how to be the woman she had been before.
Basic training, she quickly discovered, mostly covered things such as drilling and parading, RAF protocol, keeping kit and quarters in good order, first aid, personal fitness and, for those not already familiar with them, such delightful domestic tasks as scrubbing latrines, washing dishes and peeling potatoes – the essentials of military life.
Specialist training courses relating to their trades would follow once the RAF had turned them from civilians into airwomen.
Nevertheless, a small portion of each day was spent developing trade-related skills, which was how Bobby found herself assigned to clerical duties for the WAAF commandant, Mulligan.
‘How’d you get that job then?’ Dilys demanded when Bobby told the other women.
Bobby blinked. ‘How? I don’t know. The adjutant just told me to report to Stewpot’s office.’
‘Stewpot made a pet of you, has she? I never heard of sprogs doing typing for the big nobs. They’ve got NCOs for that.’
‘I don’t think she’s even noticed me,’ Bobby said truthfully. ‘I’m to share duties with another WAAF: two hours each per day. I imagine they needed a couple of recruits with typing experience and my name was pulled out of a hat.’
Bobby approached her first afternoon’s work alongside ‘Stewpot’ with trepidation, wondering if the officer would remember her from the day of her interview. Unfortunately, she did.
‘Bancroft,’ Squadron Officer Mulligan said when Bobby reported for duty. ‘I thought you weren’t keen on joining us. Postponement refused, was it?’
‘Um, no,’ Bobby said. ‘I mean, no, ma’am. I decided not to apply. Felt I ought to do my bit.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ She took a seat at her desk. ‘But do stop that stuttering and mumbling, girl. We need no “ums” and “ers” in the WAAF. Speak out with confidence and you’ll find people will instinctively respect you.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry.’
There was another desk at a right angle to Mulligan’s bearing a typewriter and various papers, but as Bobby hadn’t been given any order to claim it, she waited to be told to sit down.
‘Be seated,’ Mulligan said, rather impatiently. ‘There are some letters to be typed, and in half an hour I have a meeting with Squadron Leader Gardiner, my RAF opposite number. You will type a transcription in shorthand, then transcribe into longhand for the records.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I must admit, you arrived at a rather opportune time. The corporal who acts as my secretary is on urgent compassionate leave, and WAAF HQ swore they couldn’t spare me a replacement for at least four weeks.
’ Mulligan looked rather vague. ‘Husband injured, I believe – or he may have been killed. I was glad to see we had a couple of recruits with shorthand skills who could take over Hudson’s tasks until she was fit to return. ’
So that explained Bobby’s assignment. Not a privilege but a necessity.
She was glad to be able to justify this apparent special treatment to Dilys – although an afternoon locked in with their stern commandant didn’t seem much like special treatment to her.
However, as she hadn’t been asked a question, Bobby merely said again, ‘Yes, ma’am. ’
‘Well, get to work then.’
Bobby picked up one of the letters she had been asked to type, pleased to see that Mulligan had a clean, neat hand – a hundred times easier to read than Reg’s – then put it down again.
‘Squadron Officer?’
‘Yes, Bancroft?’
‘Um, I was hoping to have an opportunity to talk to you.’ Bobby flinched, remembering the instruction not to fumble her words.
She tried to speak out more confidently.
‘I’d like to request permission to get married, on the 2nd of May.
My fiancé can only get leave then. He’s a pilot on operational flying. What do I need to do, please?’
‘You must put your request in writing to the CO, Squadron Leader Gardiner, along with a leave pass form,’ Mulligan said vaguely.
‘We do try to limit personal commitments during basic training, but if the boy is one of our own then I doubt it will be any trouble. You can hand them in to the station warrant officer.’
‘Thank you.’ Bobby paused. ‘Sorry, but may I ask a question?’
Mulligan looked up. ‘Why are you apologising? Do you want to ask a question or don’t you?’
Bobby blinked. ‘Well, yes, I do.’
‘Would a man say sorry for wanting to ask a question? Or would he just ask permission?’
‘I imagine he’d just ask permission.’
‘Then you do the same. What is it?’
‘I wanted to know…’ Bobby hesitated. ‘I suppose you saw how I did in my tests. And I suppose you know I wanted special duties. I was hoping I could train as a plotter. Why was I assigned to general duties instead?’
Mulligan frowned at her. Bobby felt her cheeks burning.
She wondered if she had crossed a line and was about to be charged with insubordination.
This was one thing she hated about the military.
None of the normal rules of human engagement seemed to apply, and she had no intuitive understanding of what the new rules were.
‘Your typing and shorthand speeds were impressive,’ Mulligan said at last. ‘We can use those skills in the WAAF. Good, fast, accurate typists are always valued.’
‘Yes, but surely if I did well in the tests then there’s more important work I could be doing?’
Mulligan fixed her in a steely gaze. ‘Don’t assume that because other work sounds more heroic or glamorous, the work you’ve been assigned isn’t important. All our work is important. Without it, the RAF couldn’t function, which means the war could not be won.’
‘I know, I just… thought I could be more help in another area.’
‘Answer me this, Bancroft. Why do you think the work of a plotter is more important than that done by our WAAF clerks, or cooks, or the girls getting blisters on their fingers sewing parachutes?’
‘Well, because it’s…’
‘Men’s work?’ Mulligan asked, lifting an eyebrow.
‘That isn’t what I was going to say.’
‘But it’s what you were thinking. It’s what everyone thinks, whether they know it or not.
It’s work that would, in other circumstances, be done by a man, and therefore intrinsically more valuable.
Cooking, sewing, typing: they come under the umbrella of women’s work, and like all work done by women, tend to remain invisible.
But a man who isn’t fed cannot fight, Bancroft.
If parachutes aren’t competently sewn, men will die.
The work of a clerk keeps the wheels of the Air Force turning. Do you see that?’