大象传媒

The meals were a bit of a nightmare. There was a big hut which was called the cook house, and you had to line up in a huge queue with your 鈥渋rons鈥� (knives and forks) and your tin plate and mug. I remember breakfast in particular, when I was surprised to find an assortment of greasy bacon, sausage, fried bread and a dollop of marmalade all piled onto my plate. There was nothing as civilised as toast, but I can't help laughing at my memory of delving my short arm into a deep wooden packing-case box for a hunk of stale grey bread, and turning on the tap of a huge metal urn for a mug of powerful orange-coloured tea, ready-mixed with tinned milk, which had a distinctive taste, not like any other tea I鈥檝e ever had, and forever associated with service life in wartime.

We were only supposed to be there a fortnight. The experience was a kaleidoscope of activity, with a constant terror of putting a foot wrong (literally) as we were marched about to lectures on the history and ranks of the RAF and WAAF, the disciplinary rules and punishments, and the various 鈥渢rades鈥� for which we could enroll at the end of initial training. There were also medical inspections (which revealed unpleasant things in the heads of some inhabitants of the hut) and kit inspections, when all one's possessions had to be displayed in a set pattern on the bed, and every day there would be intensive periods of 鈥渟quare-bashing鈥�, precision drilling on a huge parade ground.

We were all looking forward to getting away, but my hut, Number 13, was very unlucky. There was a girl called Betty, a scatty, dark-haired Cockney, who did not take kindly to the strict discipline. When we were thankfully packing up at the end of the course, Betty mysteriously disappeared. It turned out that she had developed mumps. The whole of Hut 13 was in quarantine and must stay in camp for another ten days. This was grim news indeed, and even more grim were the 鈥渇atigues鈥� we were given to fill our extra time - clearing out the foul ablutions, and working outside behind the smelly cookhouse where loads of food were delivered each day. The worst memory is of a 鈥済as alert鈥�, when we had to scramble into full gas clothing with the heavy snorting masks, and unload and prepare a huge lorryload of muddy carrots in torrential rain. My personal vision of Hell!

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