The uniform fitted only where it touched, and those places were few and far between. Little did I know then that this was going to be a blessing - after six weeks of a rather stodgy, starchy diet my clothes might have been made to measure.
Early rising is not my forte, the morning Tannoy was the biggest bugbear of the day, but always some kind soul would give me that necessary extra shake and mercifully I was kept out of hot water.
The training was fun. I'm a Virgo character - the group whose members according to astrologers 'prefer to take orders than give them out and have little ambition'. That's just me - I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of square-bashing and wasn't even troubled with heel blisters as were many of my new-found friends. The 'Bull', namely polishing bedspace, buttons and badges, and folding and stacking bedding in a particular way was no more than I had expected, and soon became routine.
To find out what our capabilities were, the Powers-that-be had devised a system of selection.
About sixty of us were marched to the first of a line of huts and ordered to 'File in'. There we were given simple intelligence tests. The girls who were unable to complete these were held back and the rest of us moved on to the next hut for a maths test - this whittled our numbers again and we went on to the next hut for a Morse aptitude test. Perhaps there were six huts altogether - anyway I finally found myself in the last hut with ten other girls, all of us earmarked for training as Radar Mechanics.
To say that the theoretical side even of electricity befogged me is an understatement, but for practical work - using the lathe or soldering iron and building transmitters and receivers - I was equal to any of the students.
Eventually I was posted to a Lancaster Bomber Station in the wilds of Lincolnshire with one other friend from training days - Olive Tooby. From that time on we really began to feel that we were pulling our weight in the War Effort.
Each night after a raid we would lie in the blue darkness of the Nissen Hut counting the returning planes - one - two - three ....... fourteen - fifteen ....... twenty-five - twenty-six, and after an interminable wait the twenty-seventh limped home in obvious difficulty and so low that he barely missed the tree tops at the end of the runway. Some nights, many nights, aircraft were lost and amongst the ground crews were only mentioned with regard to the numbers of new planes to be completely fitted for service.
After one Black Friday - eight aircraft failed to return - all ground sections worked from early morning until well into the next night to bring the squadron up to full strength. The bare planes arrived from the Maintenance Units, like empty houses full of echoes, but within minutes leather jerkined, denimed figures descended on each and the hangars were soon buzzing with activity. Miles of cables to be cleated to the framework and dozens of units to be secured and tested in time for take-off.
We girls worked shoulder to shoulder with the men and one day we discovered, quite by accident, the reason for a chalked cross on the fuselage. It was a warning from one mechanic to his fellows that there were females aboard and roughly translated meant 'Mind your language'. Thus we were spared all but the mildest invective, their consideration and control left nothing to be desired.
One hundred girls on a station with over a thousand men can't spell anything but lots of fun for the females. Regardless of our shape, size, or lack of good looks we were in constant demand at the regular dances and socials.
The Australians were a grand crowd - full of ideas - and their midnight picnics were equal to, if not better than, any American Barbecue, especially when in the midst of austerity they had parcels from home bulging with tins of fruit, tins of cream, tinned chicken and ham and chocolate by the pound.
To enjoy these luxuries was worth all the risks we took to reach the arranged rendezvous. It isn't easy to climb through hedges and barbed wire even in daylight, but in the black of night it was a wonder we suffered no more than torn stockings and a scratch or two. Four of us, all from the same 'hut' did this many times - we didn't dare show a torch-light or even strike a match, and to get past the Guard Room undetected, we removed our shoes and sidled past one by one. The clinker path was hard on the feet and we were glad to replace our footwear at a safe distance.
The picnic site was never far from Camp so when we met our 'Cobbers' we talked in whispers - the loudest noises were made by the tin openers. Though the fare was heavenly, still the greatest thrill was knowing we were "OUT OF BOUNDS' and when all the tins were empty the boys escorted us safely and silently to the shadows of the Guard House. From there we were on our own, we crept back to our hut and into bed, taking care not to disturb the twenty-one sleeping forms around us.
'Leaves' were other sources of excitement, five wonderful days sandwiched between two days of travelling on a crowded, smelly fish train. 'Crowded' doesn't adequately describe it because on one occasion I hurried with my kitbag past coach after coach - the corridors of which were packed to capacity - and just as I was about to admit defeat a soldier called from the train "This door. Miss, hand me your kit, we can't leave a little one like you behind." (I'm five feet and half an inch in my socks). The bag was pulled in through the open window to disappear over the mass of heads, then strong arms reached out and I followed the bag whilst everybody 'breathed-in' until I slid thankfully down between the bodies and felt my feet on the floor. Travelling as tightly as any of the fish in their boxes seemed no hardship - we were all homeward bound.
Directly the war finished I re-mustered to Physical Training and somehow succeeded in passing the exhausting course. With bright new Corporal's stripes I returned to my old Station, there to coach games, organise Inter-command and Inter-station Tournaments, mainly hockey, table-tennis and badminton, those being the favourite games for the girls.
Our Sports Officer was a really keen type who encouraged every activity amongst the well-equipped gymnasium. There were several promising boxers. For the away boxing matches transport was laid on, and the male P.T.I's teased me into going along with them. Boxing is the art of self-defence. I don't know who said that - it sounds very noble said that way, but it's equally true to say it's the art of punching the other fellow into conscious or unconscious submission. It doesn't sound such a gallant sport then does it?
Nevertheless when I first took my seat at the ringside I felt obliged to hide my squeamishness in the face of 99 male spectators. The opening bout was at featherweight and the two youngsters danced about the ring barely seeming to touch each other to my inexperienced eyes - certainly neither inflicted any visible damage on the other and the decision was 'A Draw'.
During the succeeding bouts the weights of the antagonists increased and blood flowed from many a nose. I can safely confess now that for part of the time I kept my eyes tight shut, but with each bout I became more fascinated by the spectacle and when the final contest was announced I was ready to cheer the Bomber Command representative as loudly as anybody in the hall.
Into the ring climbed our best heavyweight hope, a tall, muscular, still passably good-looking young man called Bob. Into the opposite corner came a huge fellow whose cauliflower ear and bent nose plainly showed no lack of experience. During the first round it became obvious that our orthodox boxer was up against a 'Scrapper', the one moving easily, bobbing and weaving, dodging many of the sledgehammer blows dealt out by his more clumsy flat-footed opponent, and getting in straight lefts first to the body and then to the head.
By the third round both men were beginning to tire - they had hit and been hit until the blood spurted freely onto the canvas. Bob managed through it all to maintain some semblance of style, whilst the other chap became less and less accurate with his still powerful blows, any one of which, landed in the right spot, could have floored our man. For an instant the Scrapper dropped his guard. Bob saw his chance, and in he went with a right to the point of the jaw - another right - then a tremendous left jab to the body. It was all over. Victory was ours, with that final exciting bout we had won the Contest. Bob was the hero of the hour, and we all returned to our camp in triumph.
From then on I attended all the boxing matches and watched every round, the sight of bleeding noses and cut eyes no longer filled me with nausea. I even began to appreciate the finer points of the Art.
In September 1945 I was in charge of a squad of W.A.A.F's who took part in the R.A.F. Victory Pageant at the Royal Albert Hall. There was a cast of several hundred, with bandsmen and massed choirs. Ralph Reader was in charge and many famous people took part. My programme was autographed by some of these - Tony Hancock, Henry Oscar, Tony Melody, Albert Moreton, and Ralph Reader himself. We had to form up in the 'dungeons' underneath the main hall itself, and there was much to-ing and fro-ing with people getting mislaid, organised chaos down below, but perfection up on top for the audience.