Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (30 page)

He and Marianne left together before the film ended, but this didn’t go unnoticed either and their departure was accompanied by another huge cheer as he escorted her out by way of a side aisle.

Later that evening, when Bill returned to the billet we crowded around him, wanting to know all the lurid details. He was grinning from ear to ear and milking the moment for all it was worth as he proudly described how far he had been able to get—that is, if we were to believe his whole story.

Physically, the Astra occupied the north end of the drill hall and gymnasium structure. Apart from a neon sign above the main entrance, its rows of utilitarian theatre seating inside and the curtained stage that supported the silver screen, it bore little resemblance to the plush cinemas in the external civilian world. The walls were of plain brick that had been painted a drab yellow and above our heads the skeletal steel trusses that supported the roof lacked the benefit of a false ceiling to modestly cover their nakedness. The acoustics were dismal, but it didn’t really matter very much given the juvenile fare, such as “I Was a Teenage Werewolf”, that was served up to the eager Boy Entrant audiences.

The price of admission was very reasonable, at around one shilling, which was much cheaper than those same plush civvy cinemas. But that didn’t stop some people from trying to sneak in without paying anything at all. One of the several dodges employed to this end depended on someone actually buying a ticket. Once inside he would make his way to the toilet, where he unlatched and opened a window, allowing several of his friends to climb inside. Another more elaborate scheme took advantage of a management blind spot. Cinemagoers were permitted to temporarily leave during the intermission to buy snacks at the YMCA across the street. Re-admittance was based on a cursory inspection of the torn off ticket stub as proof that a ticket had been purchased. Little did the Management suspect that a few wily lads were busily retrieving discarded ticket stubs from the cinema floor and then taking them to the YM at intermission time. There, they either gave the stubs to friends or sold them to eager buyers at a discount price. With all this going on, I just wonder if the St. Athan Astra was ever able to make a profit during the Boy Entrant era.

The Astra was more than a place of entertainment. Occasionally, we were marched there to view educational films that acquainted us with the horrors of venereal disease, or VD as it was more commonly known. All of the films, which had been made by the US military authorities for their own military, graphically featured stomach-churning close-up views of the symptoms of unpleasant sexually transmitted diseases such as syphilis and gonorrhoea. As the images flitted across the screen, an American narrator warned us about the risk of catching these terrible diseases if we didn’t “take precautions”, whilst most of us were thinking that we weren’t lucky enough to even be slightly at risk of catching any of them. Fortunately, the films were in black and white, which at least meant we were spared the horror of having to view the graphic symptoms in full colour. Later in the billet, when we told the senior entry boys where we had been, one of them smirkingly told us that it was common knowledge in the service that only very senior officers or padres caught VD from a toilet seat—everyone else got it the old fashioned way. Topics like this that centred on sex were endlessly fascinating for a mere 16-year-old.

In fact, my 16th birthday occurred in February, shortly after going into the Wings. I got a small parcel from home and one from Aunt Maggie, both of which contained sweets. When the other boys saw this, they immediately guessed the reason. I was then quickly hustled outside and tossed in a blanket sixteen times—and one for luck—to mark the occasion. I had protested loudly, but several strong arms grabbed me, while someone pulled one of the blankets out of my bed-pack. Outside, the blanket was spread out and the corners grasped by four individuals. I was then dumped unceremoniously into the middle, only to have my feet quickly jerked out from under me as the lads pulled upwards on the corners, tossing me into the air and then catching me in the blanket as I came down. Going up wasn’t so bad, but they deliberately allowed my rear-end to make contact with the ground on each downward trip. I laughed along with everyone else, but suffered a painfully bruised bum for several days afterwards.

* * *

Safety precaution lectures in our education curriculum weren’t confined only to the remote possibility of extra-curricular activities. There were other dangers that we would come across when working in and around military aircraft. Our technical training therefore required that we become intimately familiar with the lethal systems that we would almost certainly encounter later, when we were dispersed from Boy Entrant service to work on operational aircraft. The most obvious dangers were aircraft weapons systems—guns, bombs and missiles—but there was one other dangerous system with which we were more likely to come into frequent contact that wasn’t actually a weapon, although it could be every bit as lethal. Ironically, it was (and still is) an item of so-called safety equipment. This is the ejection seat—the system of last resort that saves the lives of aircrew members by rapidly removing them from a stricken jet aircraft when all else fails. Since we were expected to work in the cockpit around ejection seats within very restricted spaces, it was essential that we knew how the seat operated and how to ensure it was safe.

Western military aircraft equipped with ejections seats display a warning on their exterior in the form of a red inverted triangle with the words “Ejection Seat” printed in white letters within the triangle and the word “Danger” printed around its three sides. The warning is not an overstatement because, although intended to save the life of the person sitting in it, the seat can very easily kill or, at the very minimum, severely injure anyone who behaves carelessly on coming into close contact with it. On being activated, this amazing piece of equipment performs a number of actions that taken together will safely preserve the seat occupant’s life. Yet the general public knows very little about it, other than brief stories in the media that might typically state something along the lines of “the pilot ejected safely”.

Simply stated, the ejection seat is mounted on a large gun that shoots the seat out of the aircraft when its occupant activates the firing mechanism, usually immediately on having decided that something has gone so badly wrong that the plane has become uncontrollable and is doomed to crash. But that’s just the beginning of the story and not the end. As soon as the initial ejection has occurred, the seat takes on its role as a life support system, performing several necessary actions that culminate in the seat’s occupant being returned safely back to earth.

From the inception of the ejection seat, RAF aircraft have been equipped exclusively with those provided by the Martin Baker Company—the company that pioneered the original concept and development of the seat.

As an electrical mechanic in training, my ejection seat education consisted only of familiarization because, as the armament instructor patronizingly informed us, “You electrical people will no doubt be disappointed to learn that there isn’t a single electrical device on any part of this seat.” By that time, the ejection seat had already benefited from considerable development and new aircraft were equipped with models such as the Mark V or Mark VI. Understandably, however, these up-to-date models weren’t available for us to “boy entrantize” them, which meant that we had to be trained on a much earlier model known as the Mark II. Using a disarmed seat as an instruction aid, our instructor explained that from the moment of initiation, the entire operation became a self-sustaining process from ejection until the pilot’s parachute landed him safely on the ground.

As has already been mentioned, the reason that people such as us needed to be familiar with an ejection seat’s potential danger, and be able to behave in a knowledgably safe manner when around one, was because of the likelihood that we would come into close contact with armed ejection seats in the performance of our everyday duties. There was also another reason. Part of our job would probably involve assisting aircrew members to strap into an ejection seat and help them to get out of it at the end of a sortie. We therefore had to be capable of arming the seat just before flight and making it safe when the aircraft returned. This meant being able to tell at a glance whether or not the seat was “safe” by looking for the safety pins.

Understandably, the intensive and frequent training on ejection seats was very important, even though as electricians we had no direct role in their maintenance. The training didn’t stop when we left Boy Entrants’ service and took our place in the regular RAF. As new marks of seat were introduced, we would always receive training before being permitted to come into contact with them.

* * *

As January and February gave way to March, our routine remained the same: Workshops during the week, a day out in Barry on Saturdays and church parade on Sundays.

It was on one of those Sundays, just as I stood up to leave the church after Mass had ended, that I was surprised to hear a female voice suddenly exclaim my name: “Brian Carlin?” There was something vaguely familiar about the voice, but I couldn’t quite place it until I turned around and recognized a long-time family friend from my home parish making her way up the aisle towards me, against the crush of people intent on leaving the church. Her name was Maureen Doherty and although she was a few years older than me, there was a connection. We had both gone to St. Malachy’s school, as had both of our mothers before us. What’s more, they had been good friends during their school years and the friendship continued through their adult years. I had also been in the same class as Maureen’s younger brother John, from when we had both started school until we left. Maureen had moved away from Coleraine to become a nursing sister, some years prior to this encounter and I had vaguely followed her career because John had always eagerly bragged, to anyone who would listen, each time she achieved some particularly notable career milestone.

On seeing that I recognized her, she spoke my name again: “Brian Carlin!” This time it was with more certainty and an edge of pleased excitement. “I never expected to see you here!”

I responded by letting her know that I was just as surprised to see her and then happily answered her questions, telling her when I had arrived at St. Athan and what I was being trained for. Maureen was in civilian clothes, but an officer in a Squadron Leader’s uniform stood closely behind her. She turned and introduced him as her husband. We then talked for several minutes, exchanging information about our families. I learned that although she had served as a nursing sister in Princess Mary’s Royal Air Force Nursing Service, she had now retired from military service and lived in Officers’ Married Quarters with her Squadron Leader husband.

“You’ll have to come over for tea sometime,” Maureen said.

“Yes, that would be nice,” I replied, but it was about the last thing on earth I wanted to do. Going to the officers’ “married patch” would be like walking the gauntlet for a Boy Entrant. I could hardly imagine a less comfortable situation than having tea with a Squadron Leader in his home, although I genuinely appreciated her offer.

After that, we would meet at Mass every Sunday and always have a brief chat. This went on for several months until one day she confided that her husband had received a posting to another station. We wished each other well and said our goodbyes. Sadly, we lost touch after that.

* * *

Bleak winter weather slowly gave way to less bone-chilling days, as the green shoots of spring began to make their welcome appearance on the stark skeletal trees that dotted the camp. Instead of marching head down with teeth clenched against driving sleet and rain that drove in mercilessly from the Bristol Channel, it became a pleasure to hold my head up and savour the cool clear sunlit air of the new season.

By this time, members of the 26th entry were beginning to prepare for their passing out parade. They had been issued with white webbing belts and rifle slings for the all-important ceremony and were spending much of their time between parade rehearsals applying fresh coats of white blanco to the webbing, polishing brasses until it seemed they might wear the yellow metal away and bulling their boots to such a mirror shine that the inspecting officer would have no trouble seeing his face in their reflection. The 26th entry boys in my billet performed these chores as a labour of love. The amount of care needed to achieve the desired standard of perfection was much too important to be entrusted to mere bull boys and, more importantly, all of the blancoing and polishing for the last great hurrah was filled with a great amount of symbolism that needed to be experienced by the lucky graduate himself. For a change the senior entry were performing many of the personal bull tasks that up until now had been dumped on the junior entry. We would have a short respite until the 26th had passed out. The 27th would then, unfortunately, want to exercise their new senior entry privilege, so we would continue to be bull boys for new masters until the 30th entry came up to the Wings from ITS.

In the last few days as Boy Entrants, the graduating entry members were issued with the new badges of rank they would be entitled to wear just as soon as the pass-out parade was over. Most Boy Entrants passed out with the rank of Leading Aircraftsman (LAC), signified by a two-bladed propeller embroidered in light blue silk on a blue cloth backing. This badge was worn on both arms, with the blades of the propeller aligned horizontally. In addition, the senior entry boys had been taken to the clothing store where each had been fitted out with a new battle dress that would be their normal daily working uniform on entering the “men’s service”.

The most significant feature of this new uniform was its waist-length blue serge jacket, known as a blouse, which fitted snugly at the waist but ballooned out from there to fit loosely around the upper body. Although its name might conjure up the mental picture of a female shirt-like garment, it had little similarity to a woman’s blouse. Because it was derived from a uniform that was literally used in battle, the jacket lacked the highly visible brass buttons featured on our Boy Entrant tunics. Instead, a row of ordinary black buttons, concealed within a flap, fastened the battle dress blouse at the front. The only two visible buttons were those that fastened the breast pocket flaps. These latter two bore the eagle and crown motif, but were made of a dull black plastic material. This was in deference to the concept of a battledress uniform, which avoided light-reflecting components, such as shiny brass buttons, that would give away the wearer’s position on the battlefield. The thought of finding ourselves in actual battle didn’t really ever cross our minds. For us, the most important aspect of wearing a battle dress was the achievement of “airman” status, but a close second was the added bonus of finally being freed from the chore of having to clean brass buttons every day as part of our normal routine.