After much effort, I got the kettle boiling for hot water bath while I starred at the pictures Tom and I took while holidaying in France and Belgium, naturally before the war. My skirt was off and I unclipped the similarly ugly stockings from my garter belt, and finally peeled off the fake knickers or ‘blackouts’–rigid black knickers with stout elastic at waist and knee–that were also military issued. It was an extremely ugly one and barely fitted over my rather large breasts. I unbuttoned my blouse, exposing the standardised bra WAAFs were provided. Peeling off my WAAF jacket, I headed straight for the bedroom that I missed. It was probably my tireless work for the last few months that earned me a very short weekend off and the approval for Emma to drive me, using more that the allocated fuel. With the Battle of Britain in full swing, my other home was just outside RAF Northolt wasn’t ideal. We choose the outskirts of Birmingham to escape the capital’s dirt and grim and to enjoy the farmlands around the Midlands. Sigh I thought, as I entered the cottage Tom bought for us. Despite his family’s background, he rose through the ranks by merit and was the youngest squadron leader deployed to France in the early days of the war. Tom was of the upper class and had a degree from Oxford before signing on to the RAF. It was probably why in 1939 I chanced upon a handsome young brute who became the love of my life. I actually detested discipline and rigid lifestyles, but was always fascinated by uniforms. This was probably one of the reasons why I bothered to join the WAAF, despite my mother’s fears. Despite many calls and informal calls through the RAF, I couldn’t gather any information on his last whereabouts and only could keep hoping his was still alive. Emma was talking about my fiancé, Squadron Leader Thomas Peter Mark Mallory, who was missing in action since the last days of the Battle of France. She was right, I thought, as I unlocked the fence and entered the nice cottage in the outskirts of London. I’ll see you 0730 on Sunday.” My driver wanted to press it further but just saluted and drove off. “That would do Corporal,” I said, using my rank. “It’s your fiancé ain’t it, ma’am…Maggie? I know it’s been a fortnight but I’m sure…” And remember, off duty, it’s just Maggie,” I said, All the other WAAF officers said I was lucky to have her attached to me. She was a podgy girl much shorter than my five-foot two frame, but an extremely amicable NCO and a great driver. I turned to face my driver and friendly assistant, Corporal Emma Jenkins. I continued staring at the waves of fighters when suddenly… I stared up and gazed at the Hurricanes of 12 Group, who were probably heading to provide relief planes to 10 or 11 Group. The roar of aircraft replaced the chugging of the vehicle which screeched to a halt.
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