Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (37 page)

“Silence in the ranks,” he shouted, “remember you’re on parade!”

That brought us back down to earth and our attention back to what he had been about to say a few minutes earlier.

Later, I learned that there were actually three Spitfires based there and that they belonged to the Meteorological Flight. The weather kites, as they were called, flew daily and each of these occasions was a very special event to be savoured. Indeed, I never got tired of seeing that graceful shape in its natural element and hearing the somehow deeply satisfying growl of a Merlin engine at full throttle. At the time, I recognized it as just a Spitfire, but I’ve learned since then that all three were PR Mk XIX Spitfires and they were the last three of this famous aircraft to see operational service in the RAF. In fact, that year, 1957, was their final year, which probably means that we unknowingly witnessed a small piece of RAF history when we saw them in operation during our short stay at Woodvale.*

(*
For an update on the fate of the Woodvale Spitfires, see Appendix 2
)

“Pay attention lads,” the sergeant’s grin was replaced with a more serious look, “we’re going for a route march on the beach. So I want you to go back to your tents and get your denims and hats off and leave them there, then report back here on the double, just in your P.E. gear.”

On our return, we discovered that a second Regiment sergeant had joined the party to assist the first sergeant. Together, they set us off marching along the tarmac peri-track on our way to the beach. As we were marching, the sergeants began encouraging us to sing a marching song. I think that one of them may even have started us off on our first song, but soon we were all singing “Green Grow the Rushes-O”. It consists of something like ten or twelve verses, but I can only remember the first five, which go like this:

I
’ll sing you one-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your one-O?

One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.

I’ll sing you two-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your two-O?
Two, two, the ruddy SPs
Covered all in blanc-ho-ho
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.

I’ll sing you three-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your three-O?
Three, three, arrivals!
Two, two, the ruddy SPs
Covered all in blanc-ho-ho
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.

I’ll sing you four-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your four-O?
Four for the squadron markers
Three, three, arrivals!
Two, two, the ruddy SPs
Covered all in blanc-ho-ho
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.

I’ll sing you five-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your five-O?
Five for the blankets on your bed and *
Four for the squadron markers
Three, three, arrivals!
Two, two, the ruddy SPs
Covered all in blanc-ho-ho
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.

*This line was frequently replaced with “Five for the wank stains on your bed and...”

We marched south and when the perimeter-track curved away to our left we continued in a straight line across the airfield grass, until we picked up the sandy dirt-track by which we had first arrived at the tent encampment. But instead of continuing on to where the track became a tarmac road, we were brought to a halt before a wide gateway in the fence separating the camp from the railway line. The singing stopped as one of the sergeants opened the gate and then looked up and down the line to make sure that there were no approaching trains. When satisfied that all was clear, he signalled to the other sergeant to march us across the level crossing. Both sergeants then stationed themselves so that one watched out for trains coming from the north, while the other guarded the southern approach.

On reaching the far side of the railway line, we passed through a second gate, which the first sergeant had opened in advance of our crossing. After passing through this gate, we began to encounter loose sand. The sand made it progressively more and more difficult to keep in step, as we began to make our way between sand dunes and pine trees towards the sound of distant waves breaking on a shore. Then, just when marching any further seemed to be next to impossible, one of the sergeants called out for us to break step. Shortly after that, we emerged onto a long wide beach.

As we moved away from the sand dunes, but continued to head in the general direction of the Irish Sea, the sand gradually became damper and firmer. Both sergeants began calling out the step again, “Left, right, left, right,” making us resume marching order. When we reached the seashore and were only a few yards from getting our feet wet, the first sergeant lead the column into a slight turn that brought it parallel with the shallow breakers. No sooner had this happened than the second sergeant called out, “Double,” and we were off at a trot along the long beach, the wind in our hair and the firm damp sand underfoot. It was an exhilarating experience and somehow set the tone for what summer camp was all about: fresh air, fitness, team building and good clean fun.

We ran for what must have been five miles all told, before returning to the level crossing and back across the tracks for our midday meal. The singing picked up again as soon as we got back on the grass, but this time we needed no encouragement—it just issued forth spontaneously.

That afternoon, we were assigned to be the camp fatigue party, washing dishes and tins at the mess tent, picking up litter around the camp and helping to empty the rubbish bins. Thankfully, we weren’t expected to empty the thunder buckets—that dubious privilege belonged to a contractor who came around each day with a tractor drawn tank-on-wheels. It was always advisable to stay upwind of him whilst he made his rounds.

There were two good things about being on the fatigue party; one was that we finished early and the other was that the cooks prepared a special meal for us before the rest of the herd turned up for tea. Being finished early and having a square meal under our belts gave Butterworth and me the idea of going to explore Southport. The electric trains ran every half hour, so all we needed to do was get out of our denims, get washed, put on our best blues and then catch the next available train. It wasn’t very long before we were standing on the Freshfield station platform with only a few minutes to spare before the next train was due.

“You know,” said Butterworth, “If I went across to the other platform I could be home in Liverpool in a very short time.” I looked at him, wondering if he’d changed his mind about Southport. “But I’m not going to,” he continued, “why would I want to go there?” He asked rhetorically. I understood. His home life had been as unhappy as mine.

“No, we can have a much better time in Southport,” I replied.

We both grinned and at that moment the Southport-bound train swept almost silently into the station, its arrival announced only by the squeal of its brakes.

Southport seemed to be a more genteel place than Barry Island, but the one thing that both resorts had in common was a funfair, which we made a beeline for as soon as we got off the train. And there we revelled in the attention of girls of around our own age, who were attracted to our uniforms. They were mostly holidaymakers and out for the afternoon without their parents. The girls’ fascination with our uniforms gave us the perfect opportunity to break the ice, enabling us to ‘chat them up’ very easily. From there, it was only a short step to take two of them on some of the more exciting rides, where they pretended to be scared and cuddled up to us. We, like the gentlemen that we were, put our protective arms around them to make them feel safe. For the whole afternoon, it was one thrill ride after another with the sweet young ladies clinging to us for dear life. Then we went with the girls to a secluded spot for a little snogging—and whatever else we could reasonably get away with.

CHAPTER 9

The Royal Tournament

T
he very next morning it was my turn to be the duty trumpeter and the first order of business was to play Reveille. But if it takes a trumpeter to wake up the camp, then who wakes up the trumpeter? Actually, the arrangement was fairly simple. Six of us had been nominated to be 2 Wing’s trumpeters during summer camp and we were therefore all housed together in the same tent. The duty trumpeter for a particular day placed a white towel across the end of his bed before turning in for the night and then, in the morning, the camp Orderly Corporal was supposed to come to the tent and wake him up. It was a good arrangement in theory and had actually worked for the previous morning’s trumpeter. But something went sadly wrong on this particular morning, because the Orderly Corporal for that day failed to make an appearance at our tent. I slumbered on, oblivious to all. Fortunately, one of the other boys woke up and after glancing at his watch he realized that Reveille was late by a good ten minutes. Seeing the white towel still in place across the foot of my bed, he vigorously shook me awake. Since there was no time to get dressed, I hurried out of the tent, dressed only in pyjamas, with my trumpet clutched tightly in my hand and headed for my place of duty at the camp flagpole. The Orderly Officer and Orderly Sergeant were already hoisting the colours—the RAF Ensign—when I arrived there and worse yet, the Wing Commander had put in an appearance, wanting to know why Reveille hadn’t been sounded. He gave me a disgusted look as I rushed forward, dressed only in my PJ’s.

“The Orderly Corporal didn’t wake me, sir,” I tried to explain, but my mouth was dry from just having woken up, so all that came out was an incoherent mumble.

“Get on with it,” he growled, “and never let me see you show up on parade looking like that again!”

Being greeted by the Wing Commander was bad enough, but my troubles were far from over. I pushed the mouthpiece into the trumpet and put it to my lips. The metal was stone cold in the chilly morning air and, to my horror, I found that my lips felt paralysed and I couldn’t make them change shape to play the notes. All I seemed to be capable of squeezing from the trumpet were some unearthly discordant noises. But at least I achieved the desired effect of awaking my slumbering fellow-campers, although it certainly wasn’t Reveille by any stretch of the imagination.

Not surprisingly, all of the good advice came after the event. One of the more experienced trumpeters in the tent said, “When you have to play Reveille, you should keep the mouthpiece in bed with you all night, so that it’s warm when you come to play it in the morning.”

It was advice I would certainly remember when my next stint as duty-trumpeter came around, but right at that moment I was just feeling glad that I hadn’t been put on a charge for any of the breaches of good order and discipline that I’d dragged through the dust that morning. Let’s see: late on parade; improperly dressed on parade; incompetent playing; and I’m sure the Wingco could have come up with quite a few more things if he had decided to throw the book at me. I was dead lucky that he let me get away with just a curt remark.

* * *

One of the main objectives of summer camp, from the RAF’s point of view, was to teach us about teamwork and to show us how to pool our combined initiatives for efficient problem solving—like the compass-reading exercise that our RAF Regiment sergeants put us through one day, for example.

We were divided into small teams, given a hand-drawn map and a compass, taught how to take compass bearings on prominent features and then navigate a complicated course by following the compass bearings noted on the map through a series of area landmarks, such as a high sand dune or distinctive pine tree. It was a lot of fun, as most of the activities were and at the same time taught me, for one, how to find my way by using a map and compass.

Another exercise was the task of setting up a means of transferring personnel and equipment across a “ravine”, using nothing more than ropes, poles and pulleys. The sergeants coached us on how to set up a trestle-like structure on each side of the ravine, braced with ropes and pegs, which we then used to support a strong line strung across the ravine. The acid test came when someone was supposed to make a trip across this makeshift bridge to prove that it was fit for its purpose, by riding on a crude sling contraption that we’d rigged up to travel along the line on a pulley. We were so confident in our own handiwork that there were absolutely no volunteers, but then we managed to persuade a young National Service Pilot Officer from the Education Section to make the first trip across. We were all chuffed that the bridge held up under his weight and that he made it safely across. But then, we knew all along that he would.