Confessions of a Physical Wrac. Rosie Dixon

says the Sergeant. ‘That’s important these days. It costs a few bob to keep one of these places open, I don’t mind telling you. The government’s very worried about it – especially this lot. Between you and me, they’d close the Armed Forces down tomorrow if there was any work for the poor bleeders to do when they were demobbed. Them and all the blokes who make the bullets and the bromide tablets.’

      ‘I still don’t quite understand what that’s got to do with the doormats,’ I say.

      ‘They are nice, aren’t they?’ says the Sergeant. ‘Shall I wrap a couple up for you? They make wonderful gifts.’

      ‘It seems to me you’re more interested in selling things than recruiting people.’

      ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ says the Sergeant. ‘Tell you what I’ll do. You buy three mats and I’ll have “welcome” stencilled on them for nothing. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

      ‘Are you really a Sergeant?’ I say.

      ‘Course I am! On a part-time basis. I’ve taken on the recruitment as well as all the other stuff I handle. That’s how the government’s cutting down on its defence budget. It makes sense when you think about it. I mean, keeping this office open just so a couple of geezers could wander in because it was raining, would be blooming stupid. The country can’t afford the manpower either. There’s so few people coming forward that all the able-bodied men – and women – are needed up the sharp end. Now, what about those mats? Supposing I threw in a free bottle of carpet shampoo?’

      ‘No thank you,’ I say. ‘I’d like some details of –’

      ‘And a sponge. I don’t mind throwing in the sponge. That’s the secret of my success. I’m not proud. When things start going against me I throw in the sponge and do something else.’

      ‘Please!’ I say. ‘What do I have to do to make you understand that I don’t want to buy any mats. I want to join the WRACs!’

      ‘All right. All right! You don’t have to shout. You can’t blame a man for trying to make a living.’ The Sergeant tips his hat on to the back of his head and pulls open a drawer. A pair of silk bloomers are revealed which he throws on to the desk. ‘That was a lovely line. I’ve got two pairs left. You wouldn’t be –’

      ‘No!’ I say.

      ‘Not even if I – no! Right let’s get down to business. I know the papers are in here somewhere. You can write your own name, can’t you?’

      ‘Of course I can.’

      The Sergeant nods and spreads a piece of paper across the desk. ‘Good. Because that is important. An ability to sign a piece of paper with an accurate representation of your own name can take you a long way in any branch of the forces. Now, I’ve got to ask you a few questions. Have you ever had any anti-social diseases? By that, of course, I mean diseases that you get from being over-social.’

      ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say.

      ‘That must count as a “no”,’ says the Sergeant. ‘Now, are you married, divorced, a lesbian, or any combination of the three?’

      ‘I’m none of those things,’ I say.

      The Sergeant nods approvingly, writes something on his piece of paper and turns it round so that it is facing me.

      ‘That’s the clincher,’ he says. ‘You’re the perfect recruit – in fact you’re almost too good to be true. Sign where I’ve put the plus sign. I used to put a cross but it confused the people at records. When recruits signed with a cross they used to think it was a double-barrelled name.’

      ‘Is this all I have to do?’ I ask.

      ‘Just about,’ says the Sergeant. ‘There’s the medical but you’ll waltz through that if you’re sufficiently co-ordinated to sign your name.’

      ‘Hold on a minute,’ I say. ‘You don’t give me the medical, do you?’

      ‘Good heavens, no,’ says the Sergeant. ‘You have a proper doctor for that. You didn’t think I was going to examine you, did you. Goodness gracious, how very unethical. No, I just measure you for your uniform. Take your dress off, please.’

      My sigh of relief expires abruptly. ‘I can’t believe that you’re responsible for fitting out recruits,’ I say.

      The Sergeant clicks his tongue in irritation and throws back a curtain. Revealed to my startled eyes are rows of battle dress uniforms, greatcoats, khaki skirts and even festoons of hand grenades, rifles and machine guns. ‘Do you believe me now?’ he says. ‘It’s another brilliant idea from the Ministry of Defence: Army Surplus with a difference.’

      ‘What’s the difference?’ I say.