| Subject: WRAC Memoirs |
Author:
Dave Parker
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Date Posted: 21:03:11 03/09/05 Wed
I have two, very striking, memories of the fair members of the WRAC. The first one as a boy soldier, a mere 15 years old, and still at the stage of worshipping all women and placing them on pedestals. We where on our annual practice camp and, due to bad weather and a cock-up in food supply (nothing new there then!) we had gone into a regular Regt to take advantage of the offer of a hot meal. To our great delight (and lascivious, lecherous thoughts) the meal was being served up by members of the WRAC, our first encounter with these wondrous creatures.
When my turn came to be served with the sausages, I had the temerity to ask, in true Oliver Twist fashion, for an extra one. To my absolute shock, horror, I was answered, in the strident tones of an 'Essex girl', "Where do you fackin fink you are? On yer fackin daddies yacht?" Needless to say, the deafening noise of women crashing to the ground from the highest of pedestals, together with my face radiating near sun surface temperatures, added a few years, instant experience, to my life.
The other 'close encounter' with WRAC was when I did a CAPE tour in the North West of the country. We where billeted in Saighton (spelling?) Barracks in Chesterfield and the only permanent staff, at that time, was a Company of WRAC. We, 9 men, where housed in a block not a condoms throw from their 'club', the Snake-pit. There are many, many stories to come from this adventure but, the one I'm about to relate best sums up the typical squaddie image of the WRAC. The main prop that we used to entice gullible young men into accepting the Queens shilling, was a 175mm Pack Howitzer, towed by a three quarter ton Land-Rover. One, fateful evening, returning from a hard days graft (fnar, fnar) in Liverpool, we lost an argument with a petrol tanker on the Chester By-pass and rolled the landi and gun, resulting in the gun breaking down into quite a few pieces more than was designed. A recovery was requested from the girls at Saighton Barracks and, after a couple of hours of chasing off scallies who where trying to nick bits of the gun that was scattered over the traffic island that we had neglected to manoeuvre around, a mini bus arrived, driven by the biggest 'girl' I have ever seen in my life. Not fat, BIG! She must have been 6' 5" and built like the proverbial shitehouse. While we three, shook-up (but otherwise uninjured), accident victims ponced around collecting the smaller bits of the gun and throwing them into the back of the mini bus, SHE collected the barrel and every other heavy bit completely unassisted by us. Incidentally, we never did recover the brass breech block!
Completely off topic, Jim, another version of your drill instructors patter whilst inspecting a WRAC:
"Next time you come on parade girl, wear some knickers!"
"How do you know I'm not wearing any Sarge?"
"You've got dandruff on your f***ing toecaps!"
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