Taken from the BBC WW11 peoples records - below is an extract of W.A.A.F Heather Simpson who joined the W.A.A.F in 1942 and was at Cardington from September 1945 to May 1946.
"In September l945 I received one last posting - to Cardington in Bedfordshire This move was long overdue, for when I had gone to the Recruiting Office in 1941 I had been promised quick promotion if I opted for the Administrative Branch. I had been made a Corporal within 6 months, which certainly was quick, but in 1945 I was still a Corporal. It often happened that one was posted to another Station upon receiving promotion and a year or so earlier a posting with promotion to Sergeant had come through for me. Derrick and I hadn't liked this at all and Derrick had hastened to our Commanding Officer and begged him to stop the posting by saying that I couldn't be spared from my duties at the Medical Training Depot. The C.O. was unable to refuse such a heartfelt plea and did as we asked. This happened on a couple more times and on each occasion he blocked the posting. We were lucky to have such a kind and understanding C.O. We always appreciated what he had done for us and spoke of him with affection over the years. But when the posting to Cardington came through he told me, "I'm sorry I couldn't stop it this time, but never mind, you will soon be demobbed". So there was nothing for it but to tearfully pack my kitbag and depart.
Cardington was the training centre for all Barrage Balloon operators, but training had all but ceased by this time. The great grey balloons flopped sadly overhead like party balloons drooping and abandoned after the party was over. The wind slapped and buffeted them and whistled through their ropes.There had always been a connection with balloons at Cardington. In the l920s and '30s it had been the Royal Airship Works and in the gigantic hangers the huge airships, R100 and R101 were designed and built. I remembered the excitement Gracie and I had felt when, sitting on the open-topped No. 75 bus on our way home from school, we had seen the famous Rl0l making its majestic way across the sky. Soon after that, while taking a party of distinguished people on a demonstration flight, the great airship, of which everyone was so proud, burst into flames, killing everyone on board. We had all spoken in hushed tones of the Rl0l. Its loss seemed to have been a great national tragedy. Was this the reason why Cardington seemed to me to be a sad place? I wondered if its desolate air was caused by the wind moaning round the no longer wanted barrage balloons or by the disappointed ghosts of the men who had worked so hard to build the ill-fated R101.
Cardington would always be an ugly, cheerless place with its rows upon rows of Nissan huts intersected by concrete paths and long concrete roads, but a big joy to me was the little N.C.O.'s room that I had to myself at the end of one of the huts. There was just space enough for a bed and a locker and an old ammunition box, which went under the bed and in which I could keep my personal belongings. In the corner about three feet from the bed was a small iron fireplace. Each evening I lit my fire, which glowed red hot and filled the little room with a most luxurious warmth. I was very reluctant to go out in the evenings. I wanted to stay in and stoke up my fire. If the temperature dropped below 80 degrees I began to feel chilly!
I was at Cardington for about eight months, but the time went quite quickly. I was able to meet Derrick every week-end and on one occasion we both applied for 48 hour passes so that we could travel to Sidmouth to buy an engagement ring. Where else could we buy it?
It was nothing but vanity, but I was glad to display a Sergeant’s stripe on my sleeve before I left the WAAF. I really did do a Sergeant's job at Cardington, being in charge of the Admin office with just one clerk to assist me and being responsible to my officer for the whereabouts and well-being of all WAAF personnel.
The war was over and many trained Air Crew were redeployed to Admin and office work, jobs which they did with relaxed good humour. One of these men was a Sergeant Air Gunner called Junior. He had a chip on his shoulder because, although fully trained, he had never flown on ops. He had a chip on the other shoulder because I wouldn't take his protestations of love seriously. "Junior is very fond of you", his friend told me, "He says he does love you, but he wishes you weren't a Sergeant". "Oh, why's that?", I wondered. "Don't you know?" The friend sounded shocked. "Don't you know that no man wants a woman to be his equal. No man loves a clever woman". Poor old Junior. Didn't he know that the world was changing? Womens’ Lib. was a long way off in 1945, but many women had done men’s work during the war and they were beginning to think a little differently about their role in life.
There was another nice old Sergeant at Cardington, probably no older than 40, but with an extremely lived in face; a face that reminded one of empty beer bottles, overflowing ash trays and countless excuses for coming home late. "Aren't you frightened of going back to Civvy Street?", he asked. I said I wasn't. "Surely you are a bit frightened", he almost pleaded. I began to understand when he told me later, "She's sent back my clothes". Evidently "she" didn't mind having fun with him when he was on leave, but didn't want to be bothered with him permanently. I realised that someone of his age, with no roots, would feel very reluctant to leave the security of service life. It was equally hard for many married men who had been away from home for the best part of six years and were preparing to return to a wife and children who had become strangers. As for me, I couldn't wait."