Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (35 page)

At the next band practice, those of us who had received the windfall promotions turned up proudly wearing our new stripes, but the effect on the more senior members of the band was not quite what we expected. Although their fury was directed at Pilot Officer Read, their first action was to take it out on those of us who, in their eyes, had been undeservedly promoted. Soon after arriving, I found myself surrounded by a group of angry senior trumpeters. They cordoned me off, together with one or two other “instant” corporals and sergeant trumpeters, and half dragged, half pushed us into a quiet corner where, one by one, we were challenged to demonstrate that our playing ability matched the level required to legitimately earn our stripes.

One of the Sergeant Trumpeters, a Scot, confronted me. “Let’s hear ye playin’ ‘Marseillaise’,” he demanded angrily.

I put the trumpet to my lips and tried to play the tune, but the notes issuing from the instrument were falteringly wide of the mark, even allowing for the stressfulness of the situation.

“All right, that’s enough o’ that! Play ‘Roll me Over’,” my tormentor now challenged.

Once again, I could only produce a miserably poor rendition of the tune.

“Ye canny play well enough to be a Corporal Trumpeter,” he scorned, “ye need tae take them stripes off yer arm!” He glared angrily into my eyes as he hurled out the words.

The other “rapid promotion” candidates fared no better than I did and by the end of the impromptu play-off, all of our accusers were demanding that we remove our stripes. But here, at least, we were able to stand our ground, reinforcing each other as we insisted that we’d been specifically ordered to wear them. We won that challenge, but it was only Round 1. The still-angry senior band members then went as a group to buttonhole Corporal Naylor, giving full vent to their injured feelings when they had managed to corner him. Naylor heard them out, then he and Pilot Officer Read went into a huddle. Finally, they came up with a compromise that was proposed to all of us at the end of band practice. Their solution to the dilemma was that the undeserved promotions would be effective only during our appearance at the Royal Tournament and that we would have to remove the stripes until just before we actually set out for the event at Earls Court.

I was a little disappointed at losing my not-so-hard-won stripes, but a welcome calmness and serenity returned to our band community, allowing us to concentrate on perfecting the figure marching routines and improve our playing of the repertoire, in readiness for the Royal Tournament. And so it would have continued, except that our practice sessions were interrupted for a two-week period by the annual Boy Entrant Summer Camp at RAF Woodvale.

* * *

Ah, Summer Camp! Of all my experiences as a Boy Entrant, this was by far the most enjoyable.

On 22nd May 1957, the entire Boy Entrant population of St. Athan departed from Gileston railway station on two specially chartered trains. Our destination was Woodvale, an idyllic RAF station located just four or five miles southwest of Southport—a relatively genteel seaside resort in the county of Lancashire. Woodvale was positioned in close proximity to the posh Royal Formby Golf Club and was separated from it only by the railway tracks that carried a frequent electric train service between Southport and the distant city of Liverpool. The picturesque little Freshfield railway station was located a short distance from the Woodvale camp, providing us with a convenient and economic means of travel to and from Southport. It can’t be said that we descended on this peaceful setting like an unexpected tidal wave, because Woodvale had also been host to our Cosford brethren for their summer camp, during the two-week period immediately prior to ours. Maybe it would be more correct to say that the invasion of the Woodvale area by boy entrants continued unabated for another two weeks after Cosford’s departure.

It is entirely likely that British Railways knew exactly what they were letting themselves in for, by agreeing to put on specially chartered trains. But, reflecting on the events that took place during the journey, it was probably just as well that we were segregated from normal civilized society, because the journey from St. Athan was not without its own excitement. After all, this wasn’t exactly jankers—we were going on an RAF sponsored holiday, the prospect of which created an atmosphere of youthful exuberance. First, however, we were paraded in the Gilestone railway station yard to receive a briefing from Wing Commander Ranson, who was to be our Commanding Officer for the duration of summer camp. We were stood at ease.

“Okay, pay attention,” one of the NCOs bawled, as the Wingco climbed gingerly up on a stack of railway sleepers, all the better to be seen and heard.

“Boys, I want you to remember that you represent the Royal Air Force and Royal Air Force St. Athan in particular,” he intoned. “So that means that you must be on your best behaviour and respect British Railways property during the journey to Woodvale. I don’t want to hear of any acts of vandalism. Is that understood?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued, “And we don’t want any toilet rolls streaming out of the train windows like we had last year. If that happens, there’ll be trouble. Now let’s go to Woodvale and enjoy ourselves! That’s all!” Then he turned to the lead NCO and said, “All right sergeant, dismiss them and get them on the train.”

The sergeant took over, “When I give the order to dismiss, you will proceed onto the station platform in an orderly fashion. Izzat understood?”

“Yes sergeant,” we chorused.

“When on the platform, you will spread yourselves out along its whole length and not congregate in one area! And keep back from the edge of the platform until the train has arrived and come to a complete stop. Izzat understood?”

Again, we chorused, “Yes sergeant!”

“There are some box lunches over there,” and he pointed to somewhere behind us, “Pick one up as you go onto the platform and you better look after it because that’s all you’ll get to eat until you get to Woodvale.”

Then the sergeant drew a deep breath and in his best parade ground voice bellowed, “Paraaaaade, dis-miss!”

We broke ranks and headed towards the three-tonner that the sergeant had indicated. Its cargo area was piled high with white cardboard boxes. I took one of the boxes from an airman who was handing them out from the tailboard of the lorry and then filed through the narrow station entrance, to wait with the others for the train’s arrival.

Earlier that morning, we had packed the last of our kit—all of it—into our kitbags. There had been orders to paint a large coloured blob on the bottom of our kitbags as a means of identifying the squadron to which they belonged. The kitbags that belonged to our squadron were identified by a red blob, presumably to match the colour of our wheel badge disc. We also learned that while we were away having fun at Woodvale, members of Durham University Air Squadron and some units of the Air Training Corps would temporarily occupy our accommodation at St. Athan, which explained why we had been ordered to take all of our kit with us, even though most of it wouldn’t be needed at Woodvale.

Now, as we stood on the station platform in the cool morning air, impatiently waiting for the train to make its appearance, there was a mild buzz of conversation, but it was mostly forced. We were really all feeling preoccupied, frequently peering along the railway line, hoping to catch our first glimpse of the train when it came into view. After what seemed like an age, but was probably only about fifteen minutes, the dark shape of the locomotive came into view. I could only see the locomotive, but not the maroon coloured carriages that followed behind, as it came directly towards us. At first the train looked like a small speck, framed by the semi-circular opening of the short tunnel that guarded the approach to the station, but it grew steadily larger until only its dark shape filled the tunnel opening. Then it was through and into the light, dragging its carriages out of the tunnel behind it like some magician pulling maroon streamers from the dark interior of his top hat. The engine puffed and hissed loudly past us, its driver’s oil-smeared face grinning in our direction as we stood on the little railway station’s platform. I could feel the wave of heat and caught the whiff of steam intermingled with smoke and oil—a hot kind of smell unique to steam engines of all kinds—as it passed in front of me. Then, when the carriages were alongside the platform, the train came to a halt with a prolonged screech of its brakes and an extra loud hiss of released steam that shut off as suddenly as it had begun. All seemed silent for a moment and then everyone sprang to life. Carriage doors were quickly thrown open and a loud hubbub ensued as we embarked on our summer adventure.

Some of us were detailed to load kitbags and other assorted baggage into the guard’s van and then we were all aboard. A whistle blew, a green flag waved from the rear end of the train and we lurched off on our 250-mile journey. For a second or two, the large driving wheels of the locomotive spun rapidly on the shiny tracks, as the driver deliberately used the heat of friction to burn off moisture that had condensed from the steam onto the wheels and railway track. Then they slowed down and gripped the rails to move the train, slowly at first, but gradually gathering speed to accelerate it at a steady rate along the track.

We sat in compartments that were typical of British Railways of that era. There was ample space for six passengers on high-backed sofa-like seats, with armrests that could be folded up or down depending on the whim of the traveller. Three seats faced forward, opposite three that faced rearwards. There was just sufficient floor space to allow someone to walk carefully between the passengers seated on both sides of the compartment. Four framed photographs adorned the wall-space above the seats, as was typical for railway compartments. Usually, these were landscape scenes of places that could presumably be travelled to by train. A mirror filled in the centre space of each wall, between the landscapes. Luggage racks made from what appeared to be deep-sea fishing net were firmly installed above the pictures and it was into these that we tossed our small packs and box lunches before settling down on the seats. A small Formica table protruded from just below the large picture window that filled most of the carriage’s outside wall. Two small sliding windows were situated above the main window, with a small sign advising passengers not to open them any wider than the two arrow marks engraved on the sign. This, the passenger was assured, would provide ventilation without any draught. A sliding door, glazed only in its upper half, sealed the compartment off from a corridor that ran the length of the carriage. The corridor connected with similar corridors in the other carriages, so that a person could walk the full length of the train if he or she was so inclined. Both ends of the carriage housed a toilet with a sign that read: “Do not use toilet while the train is standing at a station”, as did all the other carriages, except that in many such toilets some wag had usually obliterated the word “not”.

Wing Commander Ranson’s admonishment not to stream toilet paper out of the train windows very quickly proved to be a waste of his breath. In fact, no one had probably even thought of it until he put the idea into our heads. By the time the train had reached a reasonable speed, the first solitary streamer of white paper flapped past our compartment window. It wasn’t solitary for very long. Soon, increasing numbers of other toilet paper streamers joined it, as every toilet roll on the train was sacrificed to make the train look like some kind of football special hurtling northwards out of Wales.

Apart from the toilet paper streamers, which were eventually lost as the wind snatched them away and replacement supplies became harder to find, the only other incident of note was the broken window.

The five-hour train journey was boring, but most of us managed to pass the time by occupying ourselves with activities like reading, talking, playing cards, or exploring the contents of our white cardboard lunch boxes, in the hope that they might contain an appetizing treat instead of something just basically edible. (Disappointingly, when it came to the latter, all hope was dashed when I found that it contained only an apple, a bottle of orangeade and two sandwiches, one of corned beef and the other containing a thin wafer of processed cheese, but both displaying the curled up corners indicative of advanced sandwich age.) At least that was typically how we occupied our time in my compartment, but in a nearby compartment we could hear the activity level steadily becoming more raucous. The loud noise coming from the compartment continued for quite some time, but then suddenly there was a sound of breaking glass that seemed to come from both inside and outside the train simultaneously. We all looked up from what we were doing and someone said, “What was that?” Another answered that maybe someone had thrown a glass bottle out of the window, but no sooner had this been said than we heard the sound of several pairs of feet running along the corridor in our direction. The next thing we knew, several people rushed past the window of our compartment clutching what appeared to be their personal belongings. From the state of their dress—shirtsleeves and collarless in most cases—they were obviously in a hurry and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce they were rushing away from where the sound of the breaking glass had originated. One of them slid the door of our compartment open and hurriedly sat down on a vacant seat.

“Hey, I’ve been here all the time if anybody asks,” he panted breathlessly. He paused for a moment to catch his breath and then added by way of explanation, “Somebody just bust a window. We were messing around and then somebody accidentally knocked it out.”

Curious to see for ourselves, a few of us got up and went along to the abandoned compartment for a look. The scene that greeted us was pure mayhem: wind was howling into the small confined area through a large jagged hole in the centre of the windowpane. Shards of broken glass were littered everywhere and loose pieces of paper whirled around like frantic seagulls circling a trawler. Having quickly taken it all in, we returned to our own compartment, since there was little point in hanging around to risk taking the blame.