Recollections: RAF uniform-ity

If Prune can do it, why not you?

Tee Emm, April 1943

Walking down Piccadilly the other day we saw a sight which staggered us. And that definitely is something, because we’re not the type to be staggered by anything we see in Picadilly.

To make a short story long, we had been standing at a corner watching R.A.F. officers go past. Amongst other things we were musing gently on the extraordinary variety of ways in which officers’ uniforms can be worn, and soon we found ourselves thinking how extremely sloppy a uniform looks if not worn properly. More so than civilian clothes, because civilian clothes are of all types and shapes and colours, and can be worn in various ways, while uniforms are meant to be all worn alike. The very word “uniform” tells you that.

Pilot Officer Prune and Corporal Murray Fraser looking sharp in their great-coats.

Dad is with nephew Murray in front of Houldens' home at 76 Pilgrim Avenue, Winnipeg.

Now one of the big ideas in dressing all members of a Service in the same clothes is that they can not only look alike but also look smart. And when something that is meant to be smart is badly worn it always appears more sloppy than something that isn’t meant to be smart. All of which is merely a long-winded way of saying that you can wear many types of civilian great-coat in many ways, but there is only one way of wearing an R.A.F. great-coat – and there is only one type of great-coat. Or you can wear, say, a civilian felt hat bashed in and out and round about in any way you please, and no one noticed it much; but when you wear a uniform cap with the stiffening wire pulled out and the thing drooping down all round your head like a tired pancake, you do get noticed.

Girls love a man in uniform.

And the notice is unfavourable – though you may think the general effect is pretty dashing. Apart from its being unfavourable to you personally – because we are told that the Provost Marshal’s boys can pull you up for it – it is also unfavourable to the Service.

Prune and Fraser rocking the casual look. Britain, 1945

On this subject of uniform, and the Service, we had in Tee Emm, exactly a year ago, an article called “What’s in a Uniform.” (What was in that particular uniform turned out to be Waff Winsum, but that’s neither here nor there – “Wish it was here,” says P.O. Prune.) We’d like to repeat that extract.

“We are members of a fighting service, and we are, or should be proud of that fact. Being proud of belonging to the R.A.F. means, amongst other things, that we do not want to give it a bad name in any way. And one of the ways in which we can give it a bad name is by going about sloppily dressed and not caring how we look. For hundreds of years now infantry regiments have vied with one another in smartness of turnout, in showing their pride in wearing the King’s uniform. They felt that if they looked smarter than other regiments it meant that they were better than other regiments; they thereby enhanced the regiment’s reputation. The R.A.F., too, has no small reputation; it is up to us to reflect that reputation in our bearing and personal appearance.”

Ad from Contact, Trenton's wartime magazine

And a happy gang on leave at the Royal York. Dad (right) is in his summer uniform.

In other words, tidiness and smartness are a reflection of efficiency. A badly-turned-out officer of the R.A.F. walking down Picadilly just behind a smart private in the Army is a bad mark against the whole Air Force. The unconscious implication is that the Air Force is less efficient than the Army.

Another small point, but worth considering, is that it is hardly fair on the many airmen who may see a slovenly officer, and think to themselves “Why should I have to be smart when our officers go around looking like nothing on earth?” So they cease bothering and pretty soon get picked up by the Service Police, who funnily enough don’t take that as an excuse.

It's hard to look spiffy when you're dragging a duffel bag around.

To continue making a short story long what we want to emphasise – at risk of being boring – is that there is no real merit in being untidy. Your uniform is not really yours in the sense of the word: it is the King’s, and if you can’t show pride in it you aren’t showing pride in the King’s service. And if you can’t show pride in it you aren’t showing pride in the King’s service. And if you can’t show pride in your Service you oughtn’t to be in it.

Particularly should you show this pride when on leave or otherwise moving about among civilians and sister Services. What you do on the Station depends largely on your Station Master; but in Piccadilly it depends on yourself – up to the point where it may suddenly and unpleasantly come to depend on the Provost Marshal. A friendly warning!

Still buttoned up, but more relaxed now that the war is over! Britain, 1945

Which brings us to what we started to tell you about, i.e., the sight which staggered us in Piccadilly. It was P.O. Prune, up in town to keep a date with a frippet. And for once he was smartly dressed.