The Scottish Mail on Sunday - You
‘Every day at work could be my last’
As the UK’S first female bomb disposal expert, making life or death decisions was a routine part of the job for Lucy Lewis. She reveals how she learned to think like a bomber… and why she still checks under her car
This could be it,’ I mutter to myself. I am 26 years old, a duty bomb disposal officer, the first woman ever to be listed on the Operational Bomb Disposal Officer Roster, and this is my first emergency callout. We are on our way to investigate the report of a bomb found when a homeowner was digging in his garden.
I am in the passenger seat of a speeding Land Rover, its blue lights flashing as we try to keep pace with the police escort up ahead. I glance back to check the kit: boxes of sensitive detonators and enough plastic explosive to practically vaporise us. The hairs on the back of my neck prick up in nervous anticipation. I grit my teeth. This is what the training was for. When we arrive at the bomb all eyes will look to me for guidance. I’ll be making decisions that are the difference between life and death. Since the beginning of the Blitz in 1940 it has always been men who deal with the unexploded bombs and munitions that war leaves behind. Today, for the first time ever, it will be a woman – me.
‘THE RISK WAS SO HIGH THAT ROADS WERE CLOSED, TRAINS DIVERTED, HOMES EVACUATED’
★★★★
In 1987, I was working in airport security when I was selected to join Operation Raleigh, a development charity. I only applied because my employer sponsored the selection weekend and I wanted to show that I was keen for promotion, but my dormant sense of adventure was awakened by helping to crew a tall ship voyaging up the Amazon and on to the Caribbean. Two years later,
I set off to Sandhurst to enrol in the Women’s Royal Army Corps (WRAC), the only part of the non-medical Army that women could join at the time.
At 25, I was the second oldest in the company and felt woefully inadequate beside some of the bright, fit, capable and confident young women, many fresh from University Officer Training Corps.
We had to learn to be soldiers before training to be officers. This involved an inexorable schedule of inspections, drill, weapons handling and map reading. We were so short of time that we often didn’t eat lunch. Nor did we actually sleep in our beds – or even sit on them, because of the hours spent ironing each piece of bedding. Having finally managed to position the centre crease of the striped bedcover so it lined up perfectly with the razor-sharp crease down the centre of the pillowcase, I unrolled my soldier’s thin grey roll mat and slept on the floor.
Random ‘change’ parades were a common feature of Sandhurst training. Staff Beech, our fierce female staff sergeant, called out a uniform and we raced to put it on and stand as a squad to be inspected in minute detail for creases, fluff or any missing items. A twisted shoelace or speck of dust in the welts of your shoes was enough to ruin everything. ‘You are only as strong as the weakest link’ is the message we were painfully grasping, as well as the necessity of having all your kit ready for immediate use at all times. Both are life-saving military lessons.
Besides being immaculately dressed, cadets had to keep their ID, room keys and paper and pencil about their person at all times, but the women’s uniforms had no pockets whereas the men’s had six. Our Sandhurst solution was to put everything inside our hats. During freezing winter parade practice, the men wore layers of thermal trousers and thick socks while we shivered in cycling shorts under our skirts and 15-denier tights.
The main difference between the men’s and women’s training was the unspoken pressure to perform. All cadets were under constant scrutiny at Sandhurst, but women were under a far greater weight of expectation. Any weakness or mistake would send us all backwards, so the stakes were high. The feeling that we are being set up to fail, however, is one that all female cadets experience. The hardware at Sandhurst, such as the steeplechase and obstacle courses, is all designed for men, so short telegraph poles that are meant to be used as stepping stones for a confident male stride become a completely different, far more difficult obstacle. Even the weapons represent an additional barrier. The grip on the standard issue Browning 9mm pistol is designed for a large male hand.
Alongside the lessons on managing in a male world, we were armed with wily defences against any ‘difficulties’ we might encounter. This advice was always very much by the book – but the real knowledge you need is delivered privately, after we’d left Sandhurst. On one notable occasion, we were given some never-forgotten advice by a stout lady of a certain age, Colonel Knight. ‘To be a social success as a woman, in any walk of life, not just the Army, one only needs to get two things right – what to wear and when to leave,’ she instructed. ‘Although all military invitations specify a strict dress code, it is the small details that are so important. Tights are totally unacceptable and must never be worn. I, for example, when going to a mess dinner, wear stockings with a suspender belt and a garter and a minimum of six pairs of knickers. The first pair are my normal pair from Marks & Spencer and their sole duty is to stay on. On top of these I wear a black leather thong, a leopard-skin pair with a zip up the front, a pair of PE knickers, followed by a see-through crotchless pair – all topped off with some spotty pantomime bloomers.’
You could have heard a pin drop. There was, she explained, an after-dinner game that involved the two most junior officers swapping places without being seen by crawling under the table. Each steals an item from someone at the top table – where a lone woman is likely to be seated. Usually, this is one of the Colonel’s spurs, but with a woman present, the winner is the first man to reach the opposite chair wearing the female officer’s knickers on his head.
‘Can you imagine their relief when they see that you are ready with a pair of knickers balanced on each foot, ready for them to take as they go past? Everyone will know you’re game for a laugh. Your reputation will soar. You must,’ she added, ‘be prepared to play their games but always on your own terms!’
On our return from our final Sandhurst exercise, when we had passed all the required military skills tests and convinced the staff that we deserved to become commissioned officers, we were informed of our first postings. We didn’t get a choice, so speculation was rife and nerves ran high. The next two years of my life depended entirely on what came next. I held my breath.
‘You are going to be a bomb disposal officer with 33 Engineer Regiment EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) in Chatham!’
If I passed, I would be the first female operator to be on the Duty Bomb Disposal Officer Roster alongside the men. Any