Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (10 page)

“What are you sprogs doing in here?” He sneeringly demanded.

“Just getting some cigarettes,” I replied.

“You’ve got your own NAAFI over there at ITS,” he growled, “this is the 2 Wing NAAFI and we don’t let sprogs like you in here.” He stopped, waiting for some kind of response.

Meanwhile, the NAAFI lady completed the transaction and handed me the cigarettes and some change. As this happened, several others gathered around in a circle, hemming us in.

“Didn’t you understand what I just said?” The toughie resumed, while his friends sneered at us and egged him on.

“Yes,” I answered, and then said by way of explanation, “We didn’t know we weren’t supposed to come in here.”

There was more sneering by the others, as they made fun of us while taking turns at pushing us around in the circle. To say I was scared is an understatement. At that moment, I just wished that the earth would have opened up and swallowed me.

“Well you know now,” the tough guy finally retorted, “so just take your stuff and get out…and don’t come back again or you won’t get off so easy next time.”

The gang surrounding us supported this threat with “yeahs” and calls of “get out of here.”

We didn’t need any second bidding, but just muttered, “Yes”, and then beat a hasty retreat to the sound of loud jeers and catcalls, all the while expecting that someone would pounce on us from behind before we could make it to safety. That was my first encounter with the Wings people while I was an ITS sprog. It wasn’t entirely my last, but that came later.

* * *

The next morning, Thursday, the 18th of October, we were split into several large groups, each under the supervision of a DI. My group was shepherded into the same large room where we’d been the previous day. When we had been seated, hand-book-sized Bibles were passed around to everyone for the administration of the oath, although Roman Catholics were invited to come forward and all place their hands on a large Catholic bible. Several of us went to the front of the room to take advantage of this offer. Induction then commenced when we were each given a card printed with the following:

An officer then told us to stand up, take the Bible in our right hands, or in our case place our hands on the Catholic Bible, and read the oath out aloud all together from the card, stating our own names when we reached the dotted line.

When we had completed this brief swearing-in ceremony, the officer congratulated us on being brand new recruits into the Boy Entrant service of the Royal Air Force. Then, when we were seated once more, an orderly distributed a package of paperwork to each of us. First amongst these was a blue “Arrivals” card about eight inches long and six inches wide. We were instructed to print our names neatly in block capitals on a line at the top of the card, last name first, first name last. Another line was reserved for our service number, but we were warned to leave this blank for the time being. Underneath, there were several columns of names such as Bedding Store, Pay Accounts, Sick Quarters, Bicycle Store, and many more, each with a blank underline alongside that was obviously intended for someone’s signature. We were then led into another series of rooms in which numerous separate tables and chairs had been set up. Uniformed airmen were stationed at each of these tables, which we were obliged to visit in a certain order. At the first table I visited, the orderly stamped a long number on a blank piece of paper, which he handed to me; he then took my blue card and stamped the same number on it. He told me that this was my service number and advised me to keep the white scrap of paper somewhere safe until I had memorised it. I did exactly what he told me to do, hardly realizing that in the course of time the number on the paper would become as familiar to me as my own name. I was then instructed to sign on a sheet of paper attesting to the fact that I’d been issued with my service number, after which the orderly signed my blue card on the blank line against “Records” and handed it back to me.

As the morning wore on, we trooped from table to table, each one representing a particular Section of the station Administration, where our personal details were noted and fed into the bureaucracy. The person manning each table signed my blue card on the line appropriate to his particular interest in me; Pay Accounts, Rations Clerk, and so on. Eventually, everyone in my group visited every table and our cards were filled with signatures proving that we had been duly recorded and processed into the Royal Air Force. By then, it was time for lunch.

After Corporal Kaveney had shepherded us out on to the roadway, he gave the order, “Fall in, in threes!”

Having spent some time as a Sea Cadet, I knew what this meant as did several others, but not everyone understood. Eventually, the corporal managed to get us lined up in three columns, facing toward the building that we’d just left.

“Flight, attennnn-shun!” He commanded.

We all seemed familiar with this command, so everyone knew to bring both of his feet together and stand erect with arms vertically down by his side. Corporal Kaveney seemed to be reasonably satisfied as he surveyed the motley crew in front of him.

“Okay, good,” he announced with a moderate amount of praise in his voice. “Now pay attention while I demonstrate the actions on being given the commands “Stand at ease” and “Stand easy.” He then proceeded with a brief demonstration of the movements in time with the commands that he gave himself. Then it was our turn.

We relaxed as he now he explained, in barking military fashion, that when he gave the order “Right dress”, we were each to turn our heads smartly to the right, and raise our right arms horizontally to touch the shoulder of our neighbour with end of our closed fist. Those at the right end of columns were to continue looking ahead, and the two boys at the end of columns 2 and 3 were to raise their arms to the front and touch their fist to the shoulder of the individual in front of them.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s try it. Flight, ri-ight dress!”

Much shuffling of feet ensued, as Kaveney urged us on with shouts of “C’mon, c’mon, look lively. We haven’t got all day.”

After a few minutes, the ragged appearance of our ranks was replaced by three reasonably straight lines of equally spaced boys in an assortment of civilian dress. Apparently, our training had begun.

The corporal stood us easy again, and now demonstrated that when he gave the Right Turn order, we were to swivel our feet and bodies to the right so that we would face in the direction of the road. At this point the right foot would also be pointing in the correct direction, but the left foot would be at an awkward angle, so we were to then bring the left foot smartly alongside the right foot. The interval between first and second movement was to be timed by numbers that he instructed us to call out aloud, turn—two—three, and then bring the left foot smartly alongside the right foot. Following this demonstration, he brought us back to attention so that we could try it.

“Flight, ri-ight turn!”

We all made it. Now we were to march as a column.

“When I give the order ‘By the left, quick march’,” Corporal Kaveney now instructed in clipped tones, “you will step off with your left foot, and swing your right arm up shoulder high.” He paused momentarily to take a deep breath before giving the order, “Flight, by the le-eft, qui-ick, march!”

This didn’t work out quite as smoothly as the right turn. Some boys, who seemed to have difficulty in differentiating between left and right, stepped off with their right foot instead of their left and, in the process, trod on the heels of the boys in front. The latter reacted by either hopping in pain, or turning around and angrily confronting the person responsible for inflicting the injury. The combined result of both reactions caused others in the column to collide and stumble, bringing total disarray to the marching formation. The DI ordered us to halt.

“That was a shambles,” he shouted. “An utter bloody shambles! Let’s try it again shall we?”

So, we had another try, and yet another, until we eventually started moving off down the road in what can only be described as semi-military fashion with our guardian DI calling out the step, “Yeft, yoyt, yeft, yoyt, yeft, yoyt, yeft—yeft, yeft, yeft, yoyt, yeft. Get those bloody arms up shoulder high you lot in front!”

He called a halt when we got to the Mess, but it was more of a controlled crash. I caught a momentary glimpse of the corporal’s pained face as he closed his eyes and shook his head, silently mouthing, “Mother of God, give me strength.” Then we were dismissed, with the admonition to be back on the road in thirty minutes.

The RAF served the main meal of the day at midday in those days—we called it dinner. Usually, it consisted of three choices of meat, with potatoes prepared in various ways and vegetables—always the canned variety. There was soup if we wanted it and a few choices of dessert to follow. Sounds mouth-watering, but it certainly wasn’t
cordon bleu
dining by any stretch of the imagination, just very plain fare. I never knew of anyone who over-ate; we just took in enough to dispel the feeling of hunger. But the desserts were enjoyable, usually some kind of sponge-cake or pastry concoction with a jam filling and a ladleful of warm custard poured over it.

Thirty minutes later we were out on the road again, falling-in in threes. A repeat of the Right Dress manoeuvre, then a left turn that most of us accomplished this time—although some still needed to figure out their right from their left—and we were off again, headed for Sick Quarters and the Dental Section.

The Dental Section was first. It operated like a production line. We were each called in turn to sit in a dentist’s chair while a Dental Officer inspected our teeth. He called out the state of each tooth to a dental orderly, who recorded the information on a standard dental chart. On completion of the examination, the Dental Officer commented on each person’s dental hygiene. I’m ashamed to have to admit that in my case he pronounced my hygiene as “poor”. I had never been encouraged to go a dentist at home because it cost too much.

After the dental examination, we marched to Station Sick Quarters where we were subjected to the old push, prod, turn-your-head-and-cough routine, but with an added bonus—we were to be inoculated against Typhoid A & B and Tetanus—TABT in the medic’s lingo. And so, after being examined, we queued up to run the needle gauntlet. Some boys fainted as the needle was buried none too gently into their arm by a burly male nurse. Others didn’t even get that far, their knees folded up at the mere sight of the hypodermic, or maybe it was the strong medical aroma that permeated the room. Personally, I made it through the ordeal and although my fear of needles was equal to most others there that day, I was at least able to remain conscious during the process.

The dental and medical examinations took up all of the afternoon, most of the time being spent on filling out questionnaires about whether or not we had ever been afflicted by any of an amazing variety of exotic diseases, and then having to wait around until everyone in the group had been through the various inspections and inoculations. By now my left arm, the one that had been subjected to the needle, was feeling sore and becoming stiff. It was not only very painful to the touch, but hurt badly as I swung it shoulder high during the march back to our billets. I wasn’t the only one affected in this way. As I found out later, the pain and stiffness was an unpleasant side effect of the TABT inoculation, which was also usually accompanied by flu-like symptoms.

By the time I got back to the billet, I wanted to do nothing more than lie down on my bed while trying not to jar my arm against anything that would aggravate the pain. As I lay there, some of the others in the billet, who had not yet been subjected to the inoculation process, were sitting around on a bed on the opposite side of the room talking and smoking. During the course of their conversation, the door at the end of the billet opened and Corporal Hillcrest came through en route to his bunk. One of the group, who had apparently developed a friendly relationship with the corporal, called out “Hi Corp, how ya doin’ today?”

The corporal stopped by the bed where the group was gathered, smiling his usual friendly smile.

“I’m fine,” he replied. Then, in what seemed to be an afterthought, he innocently asked, “By the way, did any of you boys take the oath of allegiance today?”

“Yes Corp, we all did,” replied the boy.

On hearing this response, the smile abruptly vanished from Corporal Hillcrest’s face and was replaced by a hate-filled sneering look. Before our very eyes, Dr Jekyll suddenly became Mr. Hyde.

“Well, you’re in the Royal Air Force now,” he screamed, “On your feet laddie. Put that cigarette out and stand to attention when you’re addressing an NCO! From now on, when an NCO enters a room the first person to see him will come to attention and yell out ‘NCO present!’ Is that understood?” All of this issued from the corporal’s mouth in a continuous stream of words delivered in a screaming voice not more than six inches from the poor unfortunate boy’s wide-eyed frightened face.