"We did our pub crawling at Horning Ferry Public House. Nearby was the RAF's WAF Camp Horning, an underground radar tracking station. These WAF's kept track of all UK aircraft. In those days it was all hush-hush secret.

I dated LACW "Tommy" Atkins, sort of a female RAF Corporal. She would come over to Rackheath and we would dance at the Aero Club to Rex Floyd's orchestra. Every month or so Rackheath sent a 6x6 truckload of virile young males to WAF Camp Horning to dance with the young ladies. They had a 3-piece combo and an out- of-tune piano. To spell them off, the girls played Glen Miller records, given to them by 467th guys. All low key and informal.

At intermission they served punch and biscuits. Tommy and I strolled through the gardens and hatched out this plot. She said security was so lax she could smuggle a man inside her Nissen hut and no one would be any wiser. The wheels started to turn. Lowery Spencer, a Link Trainer Operator, bet five quid Tommy and I couldn't pull it off.

The next dance was a month off. Tommy said there always were empty bunks. The WAF quarters were inside an enclosed compound. Guards at the picket post were bored. She suggested I come to the next dance; she'd bring a large RAF overcoat and a WAF cap. I could walk in the center of an after-dance crowd returning to their quarters. Once I got inside the hut I was on my own. Agreed.

I had an all-night pass. Spence agreed to hide my bike outside the WAF gate. I stashed my PJs and clean underwear in a paper bag. I was nervous as a whore in Church at the dance. At the intermission. Tommy took my brown bag to her hut and alerted her bunk mates. They made plans for my arrival, meaning no one would be caught in her skimpies.

When the dance was over, the Yanks loaded into their truck and departed. Tommy gave me the great coat and a WAF cap. I scrooched down in a crowd of RAF gals and got safely past the picket station.

Like kids in "Night before Christmas' , visions of sugar plums danced through my head - sugar plums in lacy underwear and garter belts. Boy, was I in for a surprise!

Tommy took me inside the hut. All the girls were in wrappers or in their work slacks. After ten minutes of giggling and laughter, the "Lobster shift" was off for the OPS building. Someone turned off the light and I undressed. Tommy was a couple of bunks down from me. She said the swing shift didn't know I was aboard. She said it would serve them right for being so noisy when her shift triad to sleep. I was nervous. .

The first swing shift group went straight to bed, undressing in the dark. About a half hour later, three stragglers came in. They had been off base down at the Ferry Pub. One was tipsy; she had had beer for beer with her Yank, paraphrased, she described how the Yank had explored her womanhood. I heard Tommy giggle when Tipsy told how her Yank fooled around and missed the last bike ferry and had to ride around by Wroxham to get to Rackheath. I’d gone that route.

I dozed off, and woke up with Tommy shaking me and putting her finger to her lips. Two females were undressing near the door marked “ablutions. All I could see was that WAFs wore a breast binder that they rapped around their bosom. I was pretty sure they wore bras when they went on pass. After bathing, the girls discussed some watch officer who always brushed against their thighs whenever he got a chance—"A real sod and a pain in the arse.”

I dozed again. Tommy woke me again about 5:00 a.m. Propped on an elbow I watched a WAF put on civvies, then put on her WAF uniform over the civvies. Tommy explained the girl would be "inspected" before going on pass, smalls and all, RAF stockings. She would change at the Rail Station in Norwich, go home in civvies with no hassle from RAF SP’s. Seeing her in her slip made me feel like a peeping Tom, but it didn't stop me from looking.

At 7:00 a.m. Tommy's shift left for the mess and the "Ops". I sneaked out of the compound with her shift and walked briskly down to the gate. I strapped my brown bag to the luggage carrier and rode off to Rackheath and breakfast.
When I took my things out of the bag there was a pair of WAF "passion killer" navy blue bloomers. Pinned to them was this note:

"These knickers should convince your chums that you really spent the night in a WAF hut. All the best, Monica.”

I made a big deal of it, but I had seen more woman flesh in a 3rd class compartment on the train up from London.”