Bluebirds (2 page)

He said curtly: ‘How many recruits did you say you're expecting, Company Assistant Newman?'

‘Twenty, sir.'

‘And where do you suppose we are going to put you all?'

She had gone pinker still. ‘I don't know, sir.'

‘Nor do I,' he said grimly. ‘Let's hope Squadron Leader Robinson can sort something out. We had no idea you were arriving yet.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. I thought you would have been informed.'

She had a nice voice – well-educated but not affected. It was a point in her favour but he was far from mollified.

‘So would I. Evidently they thought it better to take us by surprise. How did you get here?'

‘By car, sir. I have my own. Sergeant Beaty came with me.'

He thought sourly: Christ, they'll be cluttering up the place with their bloody cars if we're not careful. Women drivers everywhere. He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the rim of his desk. A thick-set man of forty-one with a natural air of command, Palmer had served in the Royal Flying Corps towards the end of the First World War and then stayed on afterwards in the newly-formed Royal Air Force. He had spent all his adult life in the Services.

‘Just exactly
what
are you women supposed to be doing here, Company Assistant Newman? Perhaps you can explain that to me.'

Felicity Newman could feel the sweat gathering on her forehead and beneath the roll of hair at the nape of her neck. She had been in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force for precisely two months and this was her first posting as a newly-commissioned officer. It was also her first encounter with an RAF Station Commander.

She swallowed. ‘As I understand it, sir, our function is to replace RAF officers and airmen wherever possible in order to release them for active service.'

There was silence in the office for a moment. The Wing Commander was picturing his station manned by a pack of females. It would be almost funny, he decided, if the situation were not so deadly serious with Hitler rampaging through Europe like a power-crazed lunatic. This was no time for jokes. The war against Germany had
been on for over a month and anything could happen at any time. Every instinct told him that these women were going to be nothing but a damned nuisance, creating far more problems than they were ever likely to solve. They ought to be kept out of it. War wasn't their job. Except for nurses to look after the wounded, it was strictly for men. If they must do something then let it be civilian work – pouring tea, dispensing soup and sandwiches in canteens, knitting socks and scarves for servicemen, all that sort of thing . . .

He took a deep breath. He must be fair. He didn't want to be unkind to the girl but the position had to be made very clear to her from the outset. There was no room for any misunderstanding or tomfoolery.

‘I appreciate your very laudable wish to help your country in wartime, Company Assistant, but some things should be explained to you. I am not, personally, in favour of women serving on this station; or on any other station, come to that. I did not ask for you. I do not want you. I do not believe that your place is here, nor that you could possibly replace my men. Do I make myself clear?'

Her reply was almost inaudible. ‘Yes, sir.'

He cleared his throat, wondering if he had gone too far. Been too harsh with her. There was always the possibility that she might burst into tears and create an embarrassing scene. He made himself say more gently,

‘However, since you
are
here, we shall all have to make the best of it. There may well be some areas where you and your recruits can help us – cooking, cleaning, that sort of thing . . . And clerical work. But I'm afraid I am not convinced that women have a more active part to play in the Royal Air Force, such as you have indicated.'

He saw that her face was now scarlet and there was a glistening trickle of perspiration running down the side of her face. He felt a bit of a rat. But a rat he must be if he were to keep these women under control. Her eyes were still fixed on the wall over his right shoulder. He found that irritating. Damn it, why wouldn't she look at him.
He wasn't going to eat her. He encountered her sergeant's basilisk stare. If they were going to send these females, why in God's name couldn't they send better-looking ones than that? He discarded the gentler tone.

‘There is one thing you must understand. This is an operational fighter station in wartime, and you and your recruits will be under my command. I will not tolerate any interference with the efficient running of RAF Colston. Understood?'

‘Perfectly, sir.'

He dismissed them with relief and watched dourly as they wheeled about and marched out of the room. Unreasonably, the fact that they both did so smartly annoyed him still further.

In the corridor outside the two WAAFS passed a small group of RAF officers who turned round to stare at them, their faces registering a variety of emotions – astonishment, amusement, disapproval, even downright dismay.

Sergeant Beaty sniffed. ‘They don't seem to know what to make of us, do they, ma'am?'

Felicity, badly shaken by the interview with Wing Commander Palmer, did not reply. She had naïvely expected that the RAF would welcome them with open arms. The Wing Officer at her training course had talked enthusiastically during her lectures.
You will be living under the same conditions, sharing the same dangers and carrying out the same duties as the members of the Royal Air Force. You will form an integral and vital part of that great Service.

There was a burst of laughter from the group of officers. It was a fair guess that it was directed at them.

The lorry swept in through the main gates of RAF Colston, waved on by the guard. It jerked to a halt and the two airmen came round from the front cabin to lower the tailgate. They were grinning broadly.

‘Jump to it, girls! Everyone out.'

They clambered down awkwardly, unfamiliar with the knack and hampered by tight skirts, high heels, hats and handbags, exposing thighs and suspenders to the delight of the two airmen. It had stopped raining and they stood on the kerbside with their luggage strewn about them. Other airmen had appeared and grinned from a distance. A window in a nearby building was flung open and more faces gawped and leered. There was a piercing chorus of wolf whistles.

Anne went and sat on her suitcase. She found a cigarette in her shoulder bag and lit up. Pearl, the redhead, squatted on a canvas holdall beside her. Her hat, perched precariously on a mass of curls, had a jaunty yellow feather stuck through its brim.

‘Posh place this . . . nice buildings, flower beds, all this grass and trees . . . Doesn't look much like the Air Force, except for
them
.' She jerked her head in the direction of the grinning and gawping airmen. ‘What makes all men think they're God's gift to women? I don't fancy any of that lot. Where're all the pilots, that's what I want to know. Fancy a swig?'

She proffered the whisky flask taken from the depths of a large rexine handbag.

‘No, thanks.'

‘Bit too strong for you, eh? Good for the nerves, though.' Pearl took a swallow and replaced the cap. ‘How did you get into this lark, anyhow, a nice young lady like you?'

‘I just tagged onto the end of a recruiting queue. Spur of the moment really. Quite honestly I was bored at home.'

Pearl's eyebrows shot up towards her hat brim. ‘Blimey! I've never been bored, dear. Never had the time, see. Been working my guts out for six years since I left home. I thought if I joined up it might make a bit of a change.'

Anne said politely: ‘Really? What were you working as?'

‘Barmaid. Pub called the Red Lion in Fulham. Don't suppose you'd know it. I'd been there two years. Before
that I was a waitress in a caff in Tooting. That was hell on earth. Run off your feet all day and treated like dirt. At least in a pub you've got the bar between you and the customers. You wouldn't believe how some of them can behave.' More windows had opened and there was more whistling and yelling. Pearl sighed. ‘Doesn't look as though this is going to be much different.'

As Felicity approached the group of recruits, her heart sank. They looked distinctly unpromising. She could see unsuitable frocks and shoes, fur coats, frivolous hats, jewellery, elaborate hair styles . . . all the sort of things of which Wing Commander Palmer would most disapprove. And none of the girls appeared remotely orderly or disciplined. One was sitting slouched on her suitcase, smoking a cigarette, while a blowsy-looking redhead beside her was stowing something away in her handbag that looked suspiciously like a spirits' flask. A small, thin girl was weeping unrestrainedly into her handkerchief and a peroxide blond was twisting to examine a ladder at the back of her stocking, her short skirt hitched even higher. The amount of luggage was alarming, all probably containing even more unsuitable clothing. She hoped her eyes were deceiving her, but surely that was a birdcage among all the rest.

None of her misgivings showed in her face or voice, however, as she addressed the motley little band for the first time.

‘You must be tired after your journey. Sergeant Beaty here will show you to your quarters in a moment and you can get settled in . . .' Felicity paused. The blond had turned her attention from her laddered stocking to her painted fingernails which she was studying intently. The rest of them were listening, so far as she could tell, though the thin one was still crying, her sobs and sniffs clearly audible. Felicity raised her voice a little.

‘You have been members of the Women's Auxiliary Air Force only for a very short time and it will all
seem rather strange to you at first. However, it's not too early to ask you to be sure to conduct yourselves at all times in a quiet and orderly fashion on this Station. You will be closely observed by the RAF –' Someone at the back of the group sniggered and there was a ripple of tittering. Felicity flushed, realizing the literal truth of her words. The number of airmen in the vicinity had grown considerably as she had been speaking. She went on firmly. ‘They are waiting to be convinced that we in the WAAF are capable of playing a serious and responsible part alongside them in this war. Please don't give them any grounds for doubting this.'

She paused again. To her own ears she was sounding horribly pompous . . . like some priggish old school marm. A sudden loud squawking from beneath the birdcage cover caused more giggles. It sounded like a parrot, but whatever kind of bird it was it certainly couldn't be allowed to stay. She must deal with that as soon as possible. The blond girl was now turning round towards the nearest barrack block window where a row of male heads watched the proceedings with interest. One of them shouted something and the blond waved. This was too much. Felicity raised her voice still further.

‘What is your name, please?'

The girl's neighbour nudged her. ‘She's talking to you. Wants to know your name.'

The blond removed her gaze reluctantly from the window. ‘Gloria Gibbs.'

‘Well, Gibbs, in future when I'm speaking to you, you will please pay proper attention. And when you answer me, you must call me ma'am.'

Gloria looked sulky. ‘Ma'am? I've never called nobody that.'

‘All WAAF officers are to be addressed as ma'am. You'll soon get used to it. And you call Sergeant Beaty here, Sergeant. It's quite simple, but please be sure to remember it.'

‘Wot about that lot, then?' the blond asked cheekily,
with a jerk of her head in the direction of the airmen. ‘Wot're we supposed to call 'em?'

There were more giggles, less subdued, and a whooping whistle from the window. Felicity felt her flush deepening.

‘That will do, Gibbs. We'll come to that later.'

She handed them over to Sergeant Beaty who had been glaring ferociously at both the recruits and the men. She found that she was shaking and hoped that it didn't show. In training they had been taught that it was vital for an officer to have control and respect from the start and she was afraid that she had not handled her first encounter with her airwomen very well. She had sensed Beaty's fuming impatience behind her left shoulder and the sergeant had leaped forward to take charge, barking orders like a savage sheepdog released to round up a wayward flock of sheep. The recruits were herded into an untidy crocodile and, as they moved off, there was an enthusiastic chorus of appreciation from all the airmen. Gibbs, Felicity noted, was not the only one, this time, who waved back.

They straggled along behind the sergeant, past more buildings and three huge hangars. Without warning, an aeroplane roared low over their heads. They ducked and Enid fell to her knees, clasping her hands over her ears. Winnie, alone of them, stood stock still, gazing upwards. As the 'plane turned she could see the cockpit and the shape of the pilot's head, and the coloured rings on its side that showed it belonged to the Royal Air Force. She put down her suitcase and shielded her eyes with her hand to watch it fly off into the distance.

‘Don't dawdle, you at the back there! Keep up with the rest!'

The sergeant was bellowing at her angrily, the other girls all staring. Winnie blushed. She picked up her suitcase and hurried after them.

At the far side of the station, away from other buildings, lay a small group of wooden huts with corrugated roofs
and stovepipe chimneys. The sergeant marched to the nearest hut and they trooped inside and stood staring in dismayed silence. Two rows of iron bedsteads lined the walls, a spartan-looking pile of bedding at each head, and battered metal lockers in between. The windows had no curtains and were criss-crossed with strips of anti-blast brown paper. Unshaded bulbs hung from the ceiling. There was an unlit stove at each end of the hut and water lay in pools on the wood floor where the roof had evidently leaked. It was cold, damp and cheerless, and there was a lingering, unpleasant smell of stale cigarette smoke, sweat and something that might have been old socks.