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My Country Needed Me : Part Two
We passed through the gates, entering a new and strange world where every one except us shouted, at us of course. The shouting seemed to be mandatory and it went on all the time.
I can remember my first meal in the RAF,---pickled gherkins,which looked to me like a big fat caterpillar, floating in
grease.
Next day we were kitted out, and that seemed to provoke the loudest shouting of all. The kitting out took place in a large wooden hut which was lined with tables, before which we trembled in file(the RAF has lots of large wooden huts for all sorts of purposes). The Staff behind those tables gave us a quick glance and decided what size we were. That did not make much difference to the size they gave us, but eventually we had a full set,
including a "hussaf"(short for housewife), a little bag containing needles and thread and blue wool. Surely they did not expect us to do our own mending? Yes, they did.
We spent some time marking our kit with our service number, and it was stamped on everything, especially our minds. No serviceman will ever forget his number.
They did not let us out of camp for three weeks because, they said, in that charming way they had, we were not fit to be seen in public until we could dress properly, and walk as if we knew how.
We learned to march, (easy for me as I had learned in the Church Lads' Brigade), drill, salute the right people, say Sir when appropriate, or Sergeant or Corporal when we had learned the difference. That did seem to be important to them, so we humoured them.
My brilliant career, and my life, almost came to an abrupt end in the fourth week of training. We wore webbing belts with bayonets attached most of the time, but were not allowed to wear bayonets at meal times (did they think we might attack the cooks?). Running down the path between the billets (wooden huts in which we lived), one lad realised that he was still wearing his bayonet, so he stopped, very suddenly. I ran into him and
the lad behind ran into me. Unfortunately the lad I hit was the anchor for the station tug of war team and weighed about sixteen stone. As I weighed about ten stone wet through I just bounced off him and was knocked down by the lad behind me. When we got up we were both bleeding , him from his thumb, me from my neck.
(he had been carrying knife fork spoon and a china mug which probably broke on me). I had a cut about two inches from my jugular vein, which I believe is quite important.
So off we went to the M.I.Room (a sort of surgery). Sadly the M.O. (a sort of doctor) had gone to lunch, so we went for ours. The bleeding did not impair our appetites. Then after lunch I watched fascinated while the M.O. stitched up his bleeding thumb. I'd never seen this done before and was suddenly stricken with terror as I realised that he was going to to this to me. I sat on a chair with wooden arms, and I'm sure I left my fingerprints on the arms as he put three stitches in me. He apologised for not giving any anaesthetic, which he said would hurt more than he would. I was more concerned when he sprinkled the wound, and most of my uniform, with Sulphanilamide
(a war-time discovery, very anti-septic). He then gave the coup de grace by sticking elastoplast from my chin round on to my hair. Can you imagine what it was like getting that off after a week? Hair -raising to say the least.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five