Sand In My Shoes: Coming of Age in the Second World War: A WAAF’s Diary

(#ulink_27ad8864-9d2f-5bfc-9ce9-d188af161a06) to corporal, and where the so-called ‘phoney war’ eventually gave way to the Battle of Britain and the bombing of London. RAF Station Hendon also had its share of air raids during this period.

In May 1941 I was commissioned and posted to RAF Medmenham as a photographic interpreter.

(#ulink_14f00e35-5be2-52c3-8457-4fd62fadd8b6) This, for me, was the least enjoyable period of my WAAF career, but it led in January 1942 to an overseas posting to Egypt. There I remained for two years, except for an interlude when the WAAF members of our unit were evacuated to what was then Palestine. (We owed this abrupt departure to General Rommel and his army who had come dangerously near to occupying Cairo.) In this, final section I have included excerpts from my husband's own diary.

In January 1944 I was given a compassionate posting back to England. My husband, after service with the Eighth Army through the desert, Sicily and Italy, had also returned home to join the preparations for the Second Front. As a result I became pregnant and left the WAAF in the summer of 1944. In November that year the first of our three sons

(#ulink_e9f86971-b61b-5143-9acf-dad1e6209dbc) was born.

Joan Rice

(#ulink_21332068-d47e-5a0d-8170-41e5d916f634) Imperial Chemical Industries plc.

(#ulink_86a9d811-7c2f-554f-b299-3e2114b026d7) Aircraft Woman 2nd Class.

(#ulink_14cc1eb8-7bb8-58ea-8ff0-2a63976131e4) Photographs of enemy territory were taken, brought back and examined for any relevant information.

(#ulink_58e1db86-c4d3-5459-8a81-5be4e01b91f5)

1944 Tim. Lyricist, author and broadcaster

1947 Jonathan. Author, broadcaster and lecturer

1950 Andrew. Advertising guru (South Africa) and broadcaster

PART I Hendon, The Phoney War (#u40cf5856-3134-5030-ad94-f36206ff0be2)

1939 (#u40cf5856-3134-5030-ad94-f36206ff0be2)

20 September 1939

I'm a member now of the WAAF but I must begin from the beginning. On Tuesday afternoon I went along to Ariel House, Strand, to see if I could be enrolled. A few of my particulars were taken and I was told to wait until the recruiting officer could see me. I sat on a bench with a lot of other women and the hours went by. After long ages she did see me, looking very snappy with red hair and the Air Force uniform which, barring the awful shoes and stockings, is quite good. She talked a lot about did I know what I was doing and service discipline, and saying they wanted people badly at Hendon with good shorthand and typing, then sent me to another woman to fill in a form. That done I was told to return for the medical exam this morning. I have passed and am now in the RAF. I begin with 2s 3d a day in contrast to those not on special duties who only get 1s 4d, and I may (I hope) have to go abroad. I am now waiting to be called up to Hendon.

I'll explain my reasons for joining. Firstly, doing one's bit. I suppose that's there, though it doesn't seem particularly in evidence at the moment. Secondly, this life will get me away from home, make me adult and independent. Thirdly, it's a change and adventure. Fourthly and at the present most strongly, I want to swank around in a uniform.

I had lunch with Mother at the Bolivar today. There were girls, smart and sophisticated, drinking with men at the bar. I felt about fifteen. I want to be able to be at any time at ease, with poise and sophistication. I hope this new life will help me. It will be experience. Sitting in Claygate isn't going to teach me about life. The WAAF should. When the war is over I want to be fully equipped to go back immediately to my goal of successful writer. If I'm alive and there's any civilisation alive, I'll do it. Meantime this diary goes with me to Hendon.

8 October 1939

I am sitting on Betty's

(#ulink_67664891-af03-546c-ac04-f72da8426604) bed (a Shell colleague, now living with my parents). Opposite on my own is a pile of belongings and a far too small suitcase. Herewith the events leading up to my last day at home (excuse legal phrasing but I have just returned from making my will). I look at my packing and have the same sick and ‘wish I hadn't done it’ feeling in my tummy that was there on going back to the convent (boarding school) evenings. Only tonight have I realised that I'm going into this new unknown living. Even at Bunty's

(#ulink_e34365f2-7a21-5077-817f-59dadc36b7db) (a school friend with whom I had been staying), when she and her mother made up absurd adventures about me in the Air Force which ended with me dropping from the air onto a submarine, and much laughter in which I joined, it was impossibly far away. Even when Mother phoned and said I was to go on Monday it was still impossible to happen. Now it is my last night at home and no one but you must know how I feel or I's probably cry. Because of that it's going to be good for me. I've got to be adult. I've got to be self-assured. I've got to be able to go anywhere and not be shy. At least I'll have you with me.

9 October 1939

First Day in the life of a WAAF. It began with rain and nearly missing the train at Claygate; more rain, heavy bags and misery in the Strand; more rain, going the wrong way and arriving late at Hendon. Soaked and surly I filled in a ‘history sheet’ and went in the rain to my billet which is, or rather are, the old married quarters of the RAF. After that we went up to get our equipment which at the moment consists of one oversized raincoat and a service gas mask. Then we had to walk in the rain to the aerodrome to be vaccinated by a very large, very silent, very alluring doctor. Next the lunch, a dubious stew and a paper piece of tart eaten on one plate and a tin-topped table. After that a gas lecture and a mask demonstration. Next tea, a fish cake and bread and jam, and then à la liberté.

I have managed to cultivate a friendship with a girl called Joyce

(#ulink_f03b1640-7585-5efb-b1da-90f4b529ce73) who has a car and we went out on a voyage of shopping and discovery. We discovered little except that the car wouldn't go and spent most of the time pushing it. Coming home I put on slacks and the rest of our house mates came in – the NCO

(#ulink_aa13d90f-8a3d-500f-862d-6ceded364590) (a nice girl called Mike) and a girl called Scotty with a squashed-in face – and we drank tea and listened to them talking. I must go to bed now. It's heroic writing this.

15 October 1939

It's unbelievable that to go from Hendon to home all that needs to be done is a short train journey. The two worlds are so much further apart than a journey through a wasteland; howling wind and outer darkness seems fitting to bridge the gap. Even now at home this evening I belong here no longer. I should have had my leave from Sunday night to Monday night, but on Saturday evening I learnt that I'm to be transferred to Ruislip tomorrow and so was allowed home before the change. I'm lucky to get a permanent job so quickly. Hendon is a training centre for the WAAF and most people are there longer than I've been. The thing I've hated most about Hendon is having no definite work but hanging around a crowded orderly room all day with nothing to do and everybody looking at you as if you should be busy. In fact, had I written this up last Tuesday (can I possibly have been in the Air Force only six days?), I would have reflected on the deepest depths of despair to which the human soul can reach. I was so miserable I could no longer think nor reason, just move in a fog of despondence. Fortunately misery cannot go on being misery eternally (that's why hell's such a dumb idea), and my emotions rose until now, when I'm glad that while the war is on I'm in the WAAF.

After this war I might be quite well off. Shell are saving one pound a week for me for the duration in addition to my Provident fund (staff who volunteered for war work were still considered as employed by Shell), and I've heard that we may get gratuities at the end of the war. I'll have to go back to Shell for a bit for decency's sake and then Heigh Ho for the world and adventure. I haven't told you yet all about life in the WAAF but I'm going to have a bath and will maybe write more later.

(Much later in the afternoon. Raining and raining and raining outside and us all warm before the fire.) We light a fire in the downstairs room and sit around it, singing sometimes with a girl called Renee,

(#ulink_076a6ea6-3bf6-5062-acd3-05ca8d013238) just back from Germany, playing the accordion, and sometimes talking and going one by one to the bath if we have managed to coax the boiler into a blaze. I like all the girls in our house except the one called Scotty who unfortunately is in the same bedroom as me. I think there's something wrong about her. I've heard Mickey

(#ulink_af2526c7-67b2-5507-9f74-8f164579c456) and Joyce talking about it but they won't tell me. I must look innocent. It's very annoying.

The working part of the day is, as I've said, foul (I am a trained secretary) but you can get out of most of it by going to games and drill. The food is really quite good if the way of eating it very primitive. I shudder to think of my table manners when this war is over, but I shall be tough what with marching, early rises and hard beds. They have some very good cheap cinema shows in the aeroplane hangars, concerts for the troops and games in the evening like fencing and badminton.

16 October 1939

Would you believe it? After all I'm not being moved. When I got back from leave yesterday I was told that the commanding officer wanted me to stay, and Frances (our NCO) told me kindly that she likes to hang on to efficient people. Well, I'm all for it. I like it here now. I like my billet companions except the before-mentioned Scotty, but there's hope she'll be going soon. I like the free concerts and cheap cinemas and railway service tickets, and the coming glory of a uniform and being different to the herd. I've also heard there's a library on the Station and that a hairdresser has been installed to shampoo and set for 1s 6d a time.

I'm all for the RAF. I'm beginning to be proud of the company and myself and spent the evening polishing my shoes, washing my stockings and pressing my mac. I like most of all being independent. (I mean free from the bondage of a life at home that there must be in the best of them. You can't grow up till you leave your parents. I know that now.)

I'm sitting writing this before the fire, waiting till Pat finishes with the bath. Upstairs Mike and Frances and Mickey are cleaning their rooms in readiness for tomorrow's billet inspection, and I've just heard them say that another lot of propaganda pamphlets went off from here to Germany today. Despite events like that though you might be miles away from any war here – there's no time to talk about it. Ah ha, this diary now contains a STATE SECRET.

19 October 1939

We had a concert tonight over in one of the furthest aeroplane hangars, and the first half was broadcast as from ‘Somewhere in England’. A great many photographs were taken of the female artists with the RAF and the male artists with the WAAF, and also numerous news-reels. As I was unfortunately at the back of the hall I doubt if my bright camera-smiling face will flash over England. In the interval Joyce and I pushed our way through the mob and got Will Hay to autograph our programmes. The programme was too long and somewhat patchy, the community singing being the best, especially our rendering of ‘I'll See You Again’ and ‘Tipperary’ which always makes me want to cry.

We marched back in the dark with Ely (an NCO) running up and down the long, long line shouting at us to keep in step and not hold hands and not talk and not sing, and then at the gate being nice again and saying ‘Goodnight – sleep well’. Now we're sitting in our bedroom in various stages of night attire and translating one of the German pamphlets illegally obtained and feeling like we're having a secret meeting.

20 October 1939 (early in the morning before reporting for duty)

The night before last the Special Police on the aerodrome gave a dance and forty of the WAAFs, which included all our house except Mickey Johnston, went to it. It was pretty putrid really, the most oafish soldiers, and while Mike, Joyce and Scotty got lifts home, Pat and I came home with a frightful soldier, very fresh, whom we just couldn't shake off. Renee was sitting on the doorstep waiting for us and Mike had the late pass key! After waiting in the cold for about twenty minutes and calling Mike every name we could think of (my vocabulary has increased considerably since living here), we broke in the back window and made hay with Mike's bed and removed her pyjama cord. With that and other things we didn't get to bed till well after twelve and had to be up at some ungodly hour.

Last night I accepted the invitation of the girl next door but one to go fencing with her, but after a long windy walk across the aerodrome we found the instructor wasn't there. However, she took me back and gave me hot soup and we made plans for our lives after the war. I'm never, never going back to shorthand typing. I'm going to Prague, probably to work in the British Institute and write the rest of the day. Mickey did that and will show me the ropes.

23 October 1939

I was ill with a cold all day Sunday after a horrible night upstairs sleeping with Mike as I just couldn't face a night alone with Scotty (Joyce being on leave). The day was pleasant with a continual string of visitors in the morning, tea and coffee and biscuits and books, and an afternoon almost asleep with the sun through the open window, and outside in the garden Renee and Deirdre gardening and laughing at Deirdre's jokes; and then in the evening Mike and Frances buying me chocolate and buns to supplement the invalid diet. Today, by a little push and a kindly fate, I snitched from a more senior typist an all-day job for the deputy commander and worked away at it voluntarily till 7.30 on the reasoning that nothing done for the Powers on High is wasted. It was a list of the girls to be posted permanently to Hendon and we – Frances, Mike, Joyce, Mickey and I are on it and SCOTTY IS NOT. If you know Scotty who smells and doesn't wash and who is loud, man-mad and crude you would understand our rejoicings. We've made wonderful plans for transforming our house when she's gone, washing it out and bringing comforts from home. I am so happy here now – it's a wonderful life.

29 October 1939

Sitting before the fire in the lounge, home on forty-eight hours' leave, a summary of thoughts and events seems appropriate. As the first is always easier I'll start with that and hope that the events will fit themselves in as I go along.

Why I like the RAF. I like having no responsibilities. I like not having to worry about clothes and food and money, and what I am to do next. With all that taken care of and enough for me to do to keep me from being lazy, my brain can give all of its time to its work and here I am positively popping with ideas, and I prefer the ideas. Fortunately both Mickey and Frances write and when Scotty's gone (she goes Monday!) we shall have the downstairs bedroom for a living room and the little upstairs one for us three to retire and work in. Leaving this ‘no outside worry’ way of living to come home has unsettled me. I didn't want to hear how business is bad and how my mother had cried one night missing me. When this war's over I'm going away. I'm never being in a safe job again, and she'll not want it and perhaps they'll be poor and Shell will be a safe steady job. I won't stay. When this war's over, diary, I swear I'll be writing you in the capitals of Europe and the stranger places of the world, but I want not to have to feel guilty about it.