Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (13 page)

We had lunch after Mass, although it always seemed to be called dinner since it was the main meal of the day. Afterwards, Ginge Brown came up with the idea of going to the huge indoor pool that we’d discovered just a few days before, and asked if anyone else was interested. I immediately jumped at the chance. Although I couldn’t swim, I certainly wanted to learn. Bertie Bassett and “Cokey” Cole both said they were coming too because they also wanted to learn how to swim. None of us possessed swimming trunks, but we did have the PE shorts that had just been issued to us, so we rolled them up in a white towel (Boy Entrant, for the use of) and headed for a dip.

The pool was accessed through the large gym complex that we had seen a few days previously. Actually, there were two gyms. There was an outer gym with a concrete floor that was used for activities such as callisthenics, which would very soon become part of our training. The second inner gym had an immaculate hardwood floor that included an indoor running track. This was also where most of the gym equipment could be found. A blanket of warm humid air hit us as soon as we opened the door in a corner of the outer gym that led to the pool. The strong aroma of chlorine clung to my nostrils as we made our way alongside the pool to the changing room, taking in the immensity of the huge body of water as we walked through. It seemed enormously long and wide and the large room echoed hollowly to the splashes and voices of the people who were already having fun in the water. The doorway through which we had just entered was at the shallow end and facing us at the far end was a high diving board and a lower springboard. A number of swimmers were busily showing off their skills on the springboard so we stopped and gaped at them for a little while. Other people watched from an upper spectator gallery, applauding each time one of the divers made a clean entry into the water.

When I’d changed into my PE shorts, I followed the others to the shallow end, and eased my way into the water. It wasn’t cold, just a pleasantly comfortable temperature. We recognized a few other denizens of the shallow end as ITS boys, so we joined up with them and for the next couple of hours we all splashed and jumped around in the water, getting used to moving around in it, gradually gaining the confidence we needed before we’d ever be able to swim. Bassett was having a great time flipping somersaults in the shallow water. He would stand up and then plunge his head into the pool. The next thing I’d see was his feet come up and then disappear before his head popped back out again. It looked like fun, so I tried it but only managed to get water up my nose and quickly resurfaced coughing and choking.

“No, no,” he said. “Do it like this,” and he pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger before ducking below the surface once again.

I followed his example and this time managed to turn a complete loop under the water. It surprised me that I could hear the noise made by others splashing while I was submerged, although it sounded muffled and far away. The experience was exhilarating, and I spent the remainder of the time in the pool, flipping somersault after somersault until it was time to go back to our billets and get ready for the evening trip to the mess hall. But I knew that there would be many return visits to the pool—and very soon.

Back at the billet I resumed preparation for the kit inspection on Wednesday morning. Indeed, these preparations consumed the next two days of our lives, interspersed by brief excursions when we were marched, denim-clad, to the tailor shop to collect our items of uniform and to the mess for meals.

Tuesday night arrived, and the kit inspection loomed large in everyone’s consciousness. On Wednesday morning, all items of kit needed to be laid out on our beds in a very precise arrangement, so it was just as important to get everything folded in readiness as it was to iron, clean and polish. A poster prominently displayed in every billet, illustrated the exact layout we needed to abide by.

The bed pack was a basic part of the layout, but on top of it we needed to place our greatcoat, folded in three with the buttons facing outwards. Then, our Best Blue, trousers on the bottom and tunic on top folded in two with the buckle at the fold. The small pack came next with its bottom brass buckles facing towards the foot of the bed, and finally the SD hat, complete with gleaming hat badge and ITS hatband, topped off the stack.

The remainder of our kit had to be displayed in rows across the blanket-covered mattress. The first row consisted of three equal-size stacks of garments, all folded in the prescribed manner. Midway down the bed, a snow-white towel was to be stretched lengthwise across it and tucked under the mattress on either side. On top of the towel we were supposed to set out an array of small articles such as socks and gloves, folded in some cases or tucked into tight little balls in others. The array needed to be balanced so that whatever went on the left side was mirror-imaged on the right. Just about everything we had been issued with and that we weren’t going to be wearing at that particular moment was to be displayed on the surface of the bed, including our brushes and the button stick. We also needed to include personal items such as soap and toothbrushes, and the cleaning materials we had purchased.

On the floor at the foot of the bed we had to place one pair of our highly polished bulled boots that had their laces pulled tight and the ends tucked away out of sight. These were flanked on either side by our plimsolls, with laces similarly tightened.

If getting our stuff ready for kit inspection wasn’t enough, we also had to polish the billet floor until it too gleamed. This meant slopping dollops of orange floor polish on the linoleum, then spreading it out and rubbing it in with the bumper. After that, we put a “pad” made from an old blanket under the bumper to buff the floor into a shine. Everyone swept and bumpered his own bed-space and we all took turns at bumpering the central billet floor until it gleamed. In the morning we would only have to give it a quick once-over again with the bumper, and it would be ready for inspection.

As 2130 hours, lights-out time, approached we were all more than ready to collapse into bed, but there was one last ritual to be completed—bed check. This was a nightly routine that took place during all phases of Boy Entrant training. At 2100 hours or thereabouts, the Duty ITS Corporal made his rounds of all billets. As he entered our billet, someone yelled out the mandatory alert, “NCO present!” We all sprang to attention.

“Stand by your beds,” the corporal ordered.

Each of us made our way to the end of our bed, and stood there to attention, facing the centre of the room. The corporal then walked the length of the room to make sure that each bed had a Boy Entrant standing alongside it. When he had satisfied himself that everyone was present and correct, he dismissed us with “Carry-on,” as he went on his way to pay a visit to the next billet on his rounds.

I put my kit in neat piles under my bed in readiness for the morning, and then went to the washroom to clean up before turning in for the night. At 2130 hours, the lights were switched off and then, as we lay in the darkness, the sound of a trumpet playing “Last Post” played softly over the Tannoy, the billet public address system. This was from Radio St. Athan—not a true radio station, but a closed system that was wired to speakers in every billet throughout the camp. The solo trumpeter’s notes played out clear as a bell, interspersed by a soft orchestral rendition of the “Evening Hymn”. This was no Boy Entrant trumpeter, but a professional recording, made by someone who could really play the instrument. The music stopped and there was silence, all talking had to cease by 2200 hours, but we were all too tired to talk anyway. I fell fast asleep recalling the strains of that beautiful music that somehow seemed so comforting in this seemingly hostile new world that I had gone and committed myself to.

A different trumpet sound woke me up at 0700 hours. It was Reveille! At almost the same time the door of the billet was flung open and the Duty Corporal was in the room yelling, “C’mon, c’mon, let’s have you. Out of bed. Feet on the floor!” Incredible as it seemed, one or two individuals continued sleeping regardless of the racket going on around them, so the corporal shook them roughly by the shoulder to wake them. The

heavy sleepers each grunted and one muttered something completely unintelligible before coming fully awake.

There was a Service myth about being unceremoniously awakened in this manner. Supposedly, a sleeping person was immune from being held accountable for the first few semi-conscious utterances made when awakened in this way. I don’t really know if this was true, but if so, it theoretically granted us the right to indulge in downright insubordination to our superiors during that brief moment. In reality, I never knew of anyone who actually put it to the test.

Wednesday morning. It was the big day! We scrambled out of bed, got washed, and struggled with the unfamiliarity of putting on our new uniforms. The collars again—they were so difficult to work with, but the lace up boots took time for a group of people who had been used to wearing shoes. Most of us skipped breakfast; there was so much to do before the kit inspection at 1000 hours. The process of just laying everything out took about an hour, but then the billet needed to be cleaned up as well. We swept and bumpered our bed-spaces, then swept the central floor and gave it a final bumpering. Corporal Blandford, who was the NCO in charge of our particular billet, had shown us how to move around on the floor like skaters, using pads made from old blankets to protect the shine on the lino. So we glided backwards and forwards on the pads as we tried to get everything ready for the big event. We even had several pairs of pads available at both entrances to the room so that anyone entering could pick a pair up, and then drop them off at whichever door they left from. The Flight office was located in one of the small rooms at the front of our billet that usually served as a Corporal’s bunk, so through traffic was heavier for us than for most other billets. Blandford and most other NCOs who traversed the billet to the Flight office used the pads to protect the floor, but as we were to discover, there would be one notable exception.

By 0945 hours we were all standing by our beds finally and officially dressed in our full uniforms for the very first time. Most of us fidgeted, frequently checking our buttons to make sure we hadn’t inadvertently smudged them, or making minute adjustments to items of our kit where it lay on the bed. Corporal Blandford hovered around outside the hut watching for the inspecting officer, but also occasionally checking our individual displays or uniforms to make sure everything appeared acceptable. Getting a bunch of raw recruits to this stage was a big reflection on him, so he certainly wanted the inspection to go well.

During one of the periods that Corporal Blandford was outside, the rear door suddenly opened. We all sprang to attention, but it wasn’t the inspecting officer, it was our erstwhile friend Corporal Hillcrest. Instead of using the floor pads, he just ignored them and deliberately stomped the entire way down the centre of the billet floor, from door to door, all the while displaying a nasty little smirk on his face as the hobnails and steel heel-tips on his boots carved scratches in the linoleum. Corporal Blandford returned a short time later, after Hillcrest had disappeared into the office, and when he saw the damaged floor surface he must have strongly suspected who the culprit had been.

“Did Corporal Hillcrest come through here?” he asked of no one in particular, while arching one eyebrow.

“Yes corporal,” several of us replied.

Both eyebrows came down together as Blandford’s face took on a grim look. He said nothing more, but he didn’t have to; his expression said it all. It didn’t take any great measure of intuition to learn from this little incident that Corporal Blandford, together with Corporal Kaveney as we later learned, considered Hillcrest to be a snide little snake-in-the-grass who was thoroughly disliked by his peers. In fact, Blandford helped us to plot a small act of revenge on Corporal Hillcrest for this and the other tribulations he would subsequently inflict on us, but that was several weeks later. For now, we had no choice but to tolerate Hillcrest’s spiteful act.

The inspecting officer, Flight Lieutenant Hubbard, who was actually our Flight Commander, entered the billet with his entourage.

“Billet, attennnn-shun!” barked Corporal Blandford, as he sprang to attention himself and threw a stiff salute in the officer’s direction.

Flight Lieutenant Hubbard, returned the salute by raising his brown leather-gloved hand to the peak of his hat in a relaxed officer-like way, “Thank you corporal, stand the billet at ease.”

Blandford immediately turned to us and gave the order, “Stand
at
ease! No talking!”

Starting at Niall Adderley’s bed, Hubbard led the way down one side of the billet and back up the other, followed in single file by Sergeant Clarke and Corporal Blandford. Hubbard stopped in front of each person and as he did so, the Boy Entrant under scrutiny came to attention, as we had all been instructed to, and gave his name and the last three digits of his service number. The officer examined him closely and then his kit layout, picking up some items to look at them more closely. Occasionally, he made a comment to Sergeant Clarke, who then scribbled something into a small pocket-size notebook that he carried in one hand. Most of the time this was due to a problem with a Boy Entrant’s kit—maybe some buttons that weren’t quite as clean as they needed to be. When this happened, the Sergeant lingered behind to make a note of the offender’s name and number before catching up again with the inspecting party. It took some time to get to me since I was halfway down the opposite side of the billet, but when it was my turn I came to attention like the others.

“Sir! Carlin, 153,” I managed to say in a loud voice, in spite of the nervousness that had me quaking in my boots.

Flight Lieutenant Hubbard stood immediately facing me and looked at my buttons, at my hat badge and then down at my boots. He stepped back a little way and took in a full-length view to check my general appearance. Were the creases sharp enough? Any wrinkles in the uniform? He stepped forward and reached up to adjust my hat. It was an anxious moment. Then he looked at the kit laid out on my bed for a few minutes.