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went on about various things but I only half heard him. His name, it seemed, was Simkin, and he was not an aircrew cadet like the rest of us but a regular and a member of the groundstaff; he worked in the kitchens. He spoke scornfully of us raw recruits and pointed out that we would have to “get some service in” before we were fit to associate with the real members of the Royal Air Force. I noticed, however, that despite his own years of allegiance he was still an AC2 like myself.
    Almost an hour passed with my heart thumping every time the door of number four opened. I had to admit that the young men leaving that room all looked a bit shattered and one almost reeled out, holding his mouth with both hands.
    “Cor! Look at that poor bugger!” Simkin drawled with ill-concealed satisfaction. “Strike me! He’s been through it, poor bleeder. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, mate.”
    I could feel the tension mounting in me. “What room are you going into, anyway?” I asked.
    He did a bit of deep exploration with his match. “Room two, mate. I’ve been in there before. He’s a grand bloke, one of the best. Never ’urts you.”
    “Well you’re lucky, aren’t you?”
    “Not lucky, mate.” He paused and stabbed his match at me. “I know my way around, that’s all. There’s ways and means.” He allowed one eyelid to drop briefly.
    The conversation was abruptly terminated as the dread door opened and a WAAF came out
    “AC2 Herriot!” she called.
    I got up on shaking limbs and took a deep breath. As I set off I had a fleeting glimpse of the leer of pure delight on Simkin’s face. He was really enjoying himself.
    As I passed the portals my feeling of doom increased. The Butcher was another Hector McDarroch; about six feet two with rugby forward shoulders bulging his white coat. My flesh crept as he unleashed a hearty laugh and motioned me towards the chair.
    As I sat down I decided to have one last try.
    “Is this the tooth?” I asked, tapping the only possible suspect.
    “It is indeed!” boomed The Butcher. That’s the one.”
    “Ah well,” I said with a light laugh. “I’m sure I can explain. There’s been some mistake …”
    “Yes … yes …” he murmured, filling the syringe before my eyes and sending a few playful spurts into the air.
    There’s just a bit of enamel off it and Mr. Grover said …”
    The WAAF suddenly wound the chair back and I found myself in the semi-prone position with the white bulk looming over me.
    “You see,” I gasped desperately. “I need that tooth. It’s the one that holds my …”
    A strong finger was on my gum and I felt the needle going in. I resigned myself to my fate.
    When he had inserted the local the big man put the syringe down. “We’ll just give that a minute or two,” he said, and left the room.
    As soon as the door closed behind him the WAAF tiptoed over to me.
    “This feller’s loopy!” she whispered.
    Half lying, I stared at her.
    “Loopy …? What d’you mean?”
    “Crackers! Round the bend! No idea how to pull teeth!”
    “But … but … he’s a dentist isn’t he …?”
    She pulled a wry face. “Thinks he is! But he hasn’t a clue!”
    I had no time to explore this cheering information further because the door opened and the big man returned.
    He seized a horrible pair of forceps and I closed my eyes as he started flexing his muscles.
    I must admit I felt nothing. I knew he was twisting and tugging away up there but the local had mercifully done its job. I was telling myself that it would soon be over when I heard a sharp crack.
    I opened my eyes. The Butcher was gazing disappointedly at my broken-off tooth in his forceps. The root was still in my gum.
    Behind him the WAAF gave me a long “I told you so” nod. She was a pretty little thing, but I fear the libido of the young men she encountered in here would be at a low ebb.
    “Oh!” The Butcher grunted and began to rummage in a metal box. It took me right back to the