I loved my flying suit. It had multiple pockets that I concealed tissues, chewing gum sticks and lip balms in, rendering my handbag redundant. Even my flying books fitted in to the huge pockets on the bottom of the legs. I was a one man band, with everything I could possible require for the day ahead well and truly attached to my person. You want to borrow a pen? Help yourself to one from the specially designed pen holder on my left tricep. And that wasn’t the best thing about the flying suit. The best thing was that it allowed you an extra ten minutes in bed. This was because the material had a ‘flame retardant coating’ which meant that you weren’t supposed to iron it and if anyone picked you up for looking like ‘a bag of shit’ you could pull the flight safety card. The first time I got to wear a flying suit was eight weeks into my naval career when I embarked on three weeks of ‘flying grading’. Over the three weeks I would learn to fly the Grob 360 and after just twelve hours of flying, I would conduct a sortie from start to finish without any interference from the examiner clinging on for dear life in the cockpit next to me. All without having ever flown before. When I was handed a list of aircraft checks on day one which contained words I had never heard of before (like ‘pitot heat’) I realised this grading phase could prove tricky. When I was told to memorise the checks off by heart, I could already feel them ripping my beloved flying suit away from my body and tightening a tie back around my neck. My instructor was a retired RAF pilot. He had grey hair, crinkly skin around his eyes and looked like he kept Werther’s Originals in his pocket underneath a used hanky. Appearances can be deceiving. On our first flight together he yanked the aircraft around the sky, loop the looping and barrel rolling as though he was determined to see what I’d had for breakfast. By the time we landed any learning that was supposed to have taken place had been well and truly shaken from my brain. I remember thinking, how on earth am I supposed to recreate all that AND navigate my way back to the correct airfield AND land the aircraft gently, as though making love to the runway? The next day the wind was out of limits so flying was off. I spent the day studying my aircraft checks until I could list them word perfect (the fact that I didn’t fully understand what they all were at this stage – worryingly – didn’t bother me). My Divisional Officer’s words kept coming back to me – be more arrogant! By the time I embarked on my second flight I was psyched up and ready to go. I reeled my checks off pat and having lined up on the runway, I clenched the cyclic in my right hand. ‘Okay Nicola, you have control. Let’s see how you handle take-off ,’ my instructor said before adding , ‘pull back confidently on the cyclic so we get a positive rate of climb.’ I hear you Sir, loud and clear. I might look like a little girl playing dress up in her father’s overalls but if you want confident, I can give you confident. I lifted my toes from the brakes and we shot forward along the centre line. When my instructor gave the command I pulled back firmly on the cyclic. The nose pitched up and we climbed into the sky. Sadly what should have been an idyllic moment was spoiled by the screech of my instructor in my ears. ‘I have control!’ he yelled, ‘What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to make me religious?’ It turned out I was a little over-confident with my handling of the cyclic. I rotated it so much that the tail skid scraped along the runway as we were getting airborne. So much for being arrogant.
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Non-Essential? Monthly in the military.
‘You may not click this if you know it’s about periods. You almost definitely won’t share it. But we need to talk about it.’
The above appeared on my Facebook newsfeed today and so naturally I clicked on it, being the curious (nosy) person that I am. I was slightly disappointed to realise it was an article about VAT on sanitary products and not something more novel, intriguing or grizzly.
Then after reading the article in The Independent, I changed my mind.
Taxing sanitary products because they are considered by our government to be ‘non-essential items’ is not just intriguing, it is bloody mind blowing (excuse the pun). And the fact that this is not a new debate makes it all the more curious. If my husband can use a disposable razor without being taxed then surely I should be able to use a tampon.
I am fortunate. I can afford the 5% VAT each month without having to forego my pint of milk but this doesn’t mean I should ignore it. The message it sends out is clear. It implies that a menstruating woman does not need modern sanitary products. Every month I could sit at home and bleed into a cup rather than go to work, go swimming with my children, ride my bike to the supermarket or run some miles for charity. I could do that. But why should I? I certainly wouldn’t have got very far in the military without a tampon or two stuffed in the pocket of my combat jacket.
I didn’t really have any issues when it came to my period before I joined the military. Apart from the standard cramps and smattering of spots on my forehead it was just a normal part of my life that didn’t stop me from doing anything.
Sunbathe in a bikini? If the sun is out then hell yes.
Pound the treadmill wearing lycra leggings? Of course, although I might go a bit easy on myself.
Go hiking across Dartmoor for a week with no access to a toilet or proper washing facilities? Umm, well I don’t suppose I have much choice in the matter if I want to pass my initial officer training…
I wasn’t even supposed to be on my period the week of ACE (the assessed command exercise), which was the culmination of the first seven weeks of officer training at Dartmouth and would determine whether or not I continued on to the next stage. Perhaps it was the worry of being assessed, or the thought of sleeping out under a bivouac in the pouring November rain, but on the morning I was due to step out onto the moors my period put in an appearance. My pockets were already stuffed full of nutty (sweets), gloves, string, a spoon, tissues, a compass, a whistle and more nutty – and now I needed to fit tampons in there too?
I was told to go to sick bay (the medical centre), so I did. The doc gave me some huge capsules to swallow that were supposed to stop me menstruating although they didn’t work. I spent the next few days changing my tampon crouched in a field and storing the used ones in a plastic bag in my pocket. On one occasion a female officer collected the plastic bag and disposed of it for me. On another occasion, I found a portaloo and couldn’t believe my luck.
Hygiene in the field is of utmost importance in the military. I tried to make the best of a less than ideal situation (baby wipes, hand sanitizer – you get the idea) and fumbled my way through. However, this would not have been possible without modern sanitary products.
I can’t say it was fun. A lowlight would have to be squatting to wee in the dark and then having a flare light up the sky around me, illuminating me mid pee with my knickers round my ankles. My body did seem to be plotting against me as on top of it bleeding when it wasn’t supposed to, I kept tripping over the babies heads as we yomped over the moors ( I don’t think my size 3s could balance out my Bergen which weighed nearly as much as me). Each time I fell, I was trapped like a tortoise underneath its shell until one of my team rolled me over and heaved me up. God damn it, you’re a dancer, I chastised myself. But I suppose dancers don’t have to carry their house across a stage full of potholes.
I ate a lot of chocolate on that exercise. The guy I was sharing a bivouac with had concealed several giant bars of Dairy Milk in his Bergen and shared them with me at night whilst the rain pelted on to our poncho that we’d stretched out above us.
One night, the rain was torrential. My buddy shoved a couple of chunks of chocolate into my mouth before telling me that we needed to move our bivvy. Despite being cuddled up in my sleeping bad I was already shivering and the prospect of getting drenched was unappealing. However with my mouth full of chocolate I wasn’t in a position to complain and before I knew what was happening my buddy was pulling up tent pegs and cutting strings loose with his knife.
Together we moved our bivvy on to higher ground where the water was unlikely to pool. This proved to be an excellent decision (which I can’t take credit for) as an hour later we were dry in our sleeping bags whereas others in our division were floating.
This officer training lark is all about team work though, so a mouthful of chocolate later I was up and out in the rain dragging bivouacs up the hill. I also remember lighting a cigarette for one of the overseas cadets who was shivering with just his eyes and nose visible out the hood of his sleeping bag and feeding chocolate like it was an illicit drug to anyone in need of a pick me up.
Completely forgot I was on my period.
Military Mentality?
Having written just two blog posts I find myself STUCK. I write a sentence and then delete it, write and delete, write, delete…It’s possible to lose an hour doing this, maybe even an entire evening, or – who am I trying to kid? – a whole week. So I have decided to just write. Anything that comes into my head. So that is what I am doing (and I apologise in advance).
I set up this blog as part of an MA in Professional writing that I am currently struggling through. I’m not the blogging type – whatever that is – but I will stick with this. It’s a slow, steady process this writing lark and not one that I’m particularly comfortable with.
I’m determined in a ‘I WILL finish this 10 mile run in under 1 hour’ sort of way, rather than a ‘If I just carrying on plodding through the countryside I’ll enjoy the sunshine and eventually reach the road,’ sort of way.
More is more and less is less.
Do not kid yourself that by sitting in contemplative reflection for hours on end you are one step closer to saving the world (unless you fly fighter jets for a living, head up Benson and Hedges or something of that ilk).
Of course that is my military side speaking. That is the part of me that has been marched, scrubbed and screamed into action.
If things aren’t working, try harder.
If you’re late, get a new battery for your watch.
If you’re tired, get down and gimme 20 press ups.
Although it’s been three years since I left the navy, I still have this mentality to an extent. A minute drill sergeant exists somewhere inside my head and he will not let me rest. That is why I am writing this ‘stream of consciousness’ or to put it more bluntly, drivel.
Now this can make me very productive, rather like a sausage machine. You can rely on me to produce consistent results, on time and on brief. But I’ve noticed that civilian employers tend to adopt a more vegetarian outlook; instead of just valuing reliability, efficiency and productivity, they value variation, colour and sustainability as well.
Securing a job after leaving the military is not easy. Adjusting to a civilian work environment is not easy. Remaining calm when a colleague doesn’t show up to a meeting, doesn’t respond to your email, takes the day off because of a ‘cold’, is not easy. The forces try to prepare leavers for the civilian working world; however the reality is rather different to the prep and can come as quite a shock. Yes employers will value the many skills a military veteran has, however nowadays companies are increasingly focused on ‘cultural fit.’ Basically, your interpersonal skills and general personality are just as important – if not more important – than the qualifications and skills you have carefully typed in size 11 Arial font on your CV.
Here lies the rub.
Qualifications and skills are relatively easy to add to, tinker with, down play if you must, but personality? I tend to think of personality as fairly enduring and besides, even if you faked your way through an interview you would probably end up hating your new job because you lack ‘cultural fit’.
The feedback I received in my last interview was that I was ‘too military’. My answers were too structured, too well thought out and delivered too calmly. My prospective employer wanted to catch a glimpse of the ‘real me’, the approachable me who is human and makes mistakes and can laugh about those mistakes, learn from them and grow.
Thankfully I still got the job, but this feedback made me think. When I was in the military I wasn’t military enough (I think ‘pink and fluffy’ is the description people used which is odd as you can be approachable without being sickly sweet like candyfloss) and now that I’ve left I am too military. Where does that leave me? Do I not properly fit into the military or the civilian working world anymore? Am I destined to be a ‘military wife’ after all and join the choir whilst my husband pays for our food, our house and our lives?
I think it leaves me unlabelled. Uncategorised. Which, I must add, is a good thing. I have my own way of doing things and although I can learn and adapt, I can’t be melted down like chocolate and poured into a silicon mould.
It means I have choices.
It means I have an identity that is getting stronger each day.
And besides, I needn’t worry because I don’t believe in destiny.
Sweet Shop
I joined the Royal Navy in 2003, a month after my nineteenth birthday. As the coach pulled up outside Britannia Royal Naval college I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. This was to be my home for the next nine months or so. This amazing building set high on the hill overlooking Dartmouth and the river. It looked like a castle, or a boarding school from an Enid Blylton book, magical and full of secrets I was yet to discover. As I marched across the parade ground in my civilian skirt suit and heels, I felt proud to be embarking on such an adventure.
I was sharing a room (or a cabin, as I was to quickly learn) with three other women and we bonded over bars of Dairy Milk, stories from our past and a shared hatred of ironing. These women would laugh we me, cry with me and fight with me over the next few months but no matter what, we knew we were in it together.
None of my uniform fit me and I had to wear my own clothes for the first few days while everyone else paraded about in their freshly starched trousers and blue shirts. It was clear that clothing stores weren’t used to catering for smaller sizes and the college staff weren’t used to seeing people wearing them. I lost count of the number of times someone called my size 3 combat boots ‘cute’.
The officer cadets were split into four divisions and allocated a divisional officer who was a Lieutenant in the navy with many years experience. This was the person who would guide us, encourage us, discipline us and ultimately mold us into officers worthy of a commission. Knocking on Lieutenant Brown’s office door for my joining interview, I felt the first flutter of nerves. I wanted to make a good impression.
He was older than I imagined because he had worked his way up through the ranks rather than joining directly as an officer. His handshake was firm and he looked me in the eye with a confidence that comes from years of experience. We chatted about my background and what I hoped to achieve. He told me I was too nice to be a pilot and that I’d have to toughen up if I was going to make it in the Fleet Air Arm. ‘Be more arrogant’ he said, which surprised me, and although I didn’t say it I thought to myself, ‘No, I can do this job without changing my personality.’ We moved on to talk about expectations and again, I was surprised at what he said. ‘You will be like a kid in a sweetshop,’ he said, referring to the majority of cadets being male, ‘Just remember you didn’t look like Claudia Schiffer before you joined and you still don’t.’ I’m sure he meant well giving naive nineteen year old me this piece of advice but at the time I just felt slightly put out. Romance was the last thing on my mind; and of course I didn’t look like Claudia, she was a blonde and I was a brunette. ‘You can look but don’t touch,’ he continued, giving me wink.
Sailor’s Hornpipe
I’m currently visiting my sister in Western Australia. She lives in a new apartment block with its own private gym and Jacuzzi. Her flat is minimalistic retro chic, with black marble worktops, a formica dining table and a pair of mustard bar stools. It feels as though you are permanently on holiday here.
Yet impressive at it is, I am more in awe of the flat’s location. There isn’t a view of the Swan river, Scarborough beach or bushland with kangaroos; but it is next door to the Western Australia Ballet Centre. Every time I walk past and hear the crescendo of the piano and the shuffle of ballet slippers over a sprung floor I come to halt and listen. As I listen I imagine walking up the steps at the front of the majestic white building and pirouetting into one of the studios.
Dancing is where my story begins. My first memories are of sitting in a circle with my legs stretched out in front, pointing and flexing my toes in time with the other girls in pink leotards. As I grew up, dancing was my one constant. I thrived on hairspray, fishnet tights, bright lights and sore muscles. ‘A dancer’ was my answer when people asked what I wanted to be or who I was. It was part of my identity.
As a teenager, I was plagued with self-doubt. I am not special in that respect, in fact I think it is something most people experience as their body changes, their opinions form and responsibility beckons. Preparing to leave sixth-form, nothing made sense. I had a place at university to study law but I had no real understanding of what this involved, other than it being seen as an appropriate choice for someone predicted a string of As in their exams. After doing the rounds of careers advisers, university open days and psychometric testing, my hopes of making it on the stage as a dancer seemed childish and futile.
When the opportunity arose to join the Royal Navy I saw it as a get out clause; it was a career with prospects which had accommodation, food, physical exercise and ready made friends thrown into the bargain. I could earn money rather than saddle myself with student debt. And to be a pilot, well that would show everyone I could be successful in life, wouldn’t it? So I thrust myself into a world where the lights were significantly dimmer and the shirt sleeve creases significantly sharper. The colour pink was ridiculous, make-up was frowned upon and fishnet tights – well they were for hookers.
I danced as much as I could in the navy. Constant relocation made joining civilian dance classes more difficult but not impossible. I tended to go to salsa classes where I could just turn up as a one off and dance with whoever was willing. Once during officer training, I arranged a hip hop dance class for my division as an alternative to an early morning run. There were a few dropped jaws, several nervous giggles and the odd obscenity when people realized that they were expected to dance, at 6am, in the Royal Navy, without so much as a whiff of alcohol. However, towards the end of the session when the sweat was dripping and hearts were pounding no one could deny that dancing was as exhausting as a cross country run but a lot more fun.
An Officer and a Lady 