Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (40 page)

With breakfast over and a few puffs on a Woodbine to complement the food, I made my way to the Guardroom with the others. All of us were dressed in the full regalia that we would be performing in that evening and were thankful to be spared the nudges, stares and sniggers of the other camp inhabitants, who were still comfortably tucked up in their beds. Two luxury motor coaches that had been hired from a Barry company were waiting for us, so I climbed aboard, trumpet in one hand and small pack containing my overnight stuff in the other and settled into the comfortable softness of the luxury coach seat. At 0700 hours, the driver started the engine and we pulled out through the main gate on the first leg of our journey to London. The plan was to stop for a meal at the RAF Halton apprentice school just outside Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire, before continuing on to Earls Court. Nestling down in the snug comfort of my seat and being rocked by the smooth suspension of the coach, I soon fell asleep, although it was broad daylight by this time. Falling asleep was due in no small part to the effects of being disturbed the previous night and then from having to get up earlier than usual. But although I enjoyed the nap, it caused me to miss seeing many of the towns and villages that we sped through on our way east towards Aylesbury. I think most of the others were sleeping too, because the unusual quietness allowed me sleep for at least an hour. Then I awoke and was able to enjoy the unfolding scenery as we sped along. It was late morning when we arrived at Halton, where arrangements had been made for us to have our midday meal. We were also going to return there to spend the night in a “transit billet” after our Earls Court performance, since it would be too late to return to St. Athan that same evening.

As we climbed down from the coach, a vaguely familiar figure detached himself from a nearby group of apprentices and approached us. He was grinning from ear to ear and I suddenly realized that it was Jock Murray, one of the boys who had originally been with us in ITS. He had been awarded a well-deserved place at the Halton apprentice school for doing exceptionally well in the education test that had been administered to us in those early days. Jock had apparently recognized the chequered hatbands that identified us as St. Athan Boy Entrants (apprentices wore solid colour hatbands) and on coming closer had recognized a few of us with whom he had briefly shared the ITS experience. We shook hands and talked and joked around for a while, comparing notes on St. Athan and Halton. He inquired as to what we were doing at Halton and why we were wearing all the “scrambled egg”. We explained about the Royal Tournament and, in turn, learned from him that the Halton bagpipe and trumpet band would also be appearing there another evening. He had many questions about Saints and about some of the friends he had left behind on being transferred. He also half-heartedly complained that his apprentice training would take three years, but it was easy to tell that he didn’t really mind the extra time because of the higher prestige he would gain by graduating as an apprentice. After several minutes of animated conversation, Jock said that he would have to go. In saying goodbye, he told us how nice it was to see all of us again and then, with a wave of his mug and irons, hurried off to join his apprentice friends.

The food in the Halton Apprentice Mess turned out to be remarkably similar to the fare we were accustomed to back in our own St. Athan mess, but we were hungry and wolfed it down. Then, when everyone had finished, we climbed back aboard the coach and set off once again, this time south-eastwards towards London. At first, the going was swift as we travelled through open countryside, small towns and villages, but gradually the landscape became increasingly built-up, with much more traffic in evidence, as we neared the big city. Eventually, our rate of forward movement slowed to a snail’s pace as the coach stopped and started through a series of multiple traffic lights.

By mid-afternoon we were feeling restless and hungry, so Pilot Officer Read asked the coach driver to stop at the next café that he saw, to give us a break and get something to eat. Shortly afterwards we pulled up outside a modest eating establishment, into which we gratefully flocked after scrambling eagerly out of the coach. It must have seemed quite a sight as we all trooped inside, dressed in our heavily-decorated uniforms. Pilot Officer Read insisted that we needed to be properly dressed, with tunics buttoned up and SD hats worn properly, so that our appearance would not be unbecoming to the good name and order of the RAF. The two sweet middle-aged ladies who ran the café were clearly puzzled by this sudden invasion and even more puzzled as to our origin. One of them eavesdropped on a conversation that I was having with one of the other band members, thinking that I didn’t notice. She then approached the second lady, saying in a quiet but clearly audible voice, “I don’t know
who
they are Doris, but they speak with a beautiful brogue. They must be from Scotland.”

We both laughed at this and later told the others that we’d been mistaken for the Scottish Air Force.

The ladies may not have known who we were, but they knew how to take care of our grumbling stomachs. Large platters of sausage, egg and chips washed down with mugs of decent tea soon took the edge off our hunger and thirst. Then we were on our way again, reaching Earls Court around 1700 hours—ten hours after we’d set off that morning from St. Athan. I had been looking forward to seeing the famous sights of London, but was disappointed at seeing nothing more than the type of ordinary buildings and streets that are common to any city. There was no Big Ben to marvel at, no Buckingham Palace or Tower of London and although we were so close to the centre of London that it seemed almost impossible to miss these famous landmarks, we didn’t see a single one of them.

Earls Court was a much larger place than I had imagined it to be. There were people in military uniforms of every description all around us and military equipment from tanks to aeroplanes to horses. The coach dropped us off near the exhibition area and we were then given leave to explore the various service exhibitions for about an hour, before reporting to the arena assembly area—the equivalent of backstage. Then, at around 1830 hours, we all converged on the specified meeting point to prepare for our entrance and grand performance at 1900 hours.

The atmosphere in the assembly area was hectic and the air filled with distinctly equine aromas. I found myself dodging cavalry horses and field artillery pieces as soldiers dressed in ornate uniforms hurried around attending to their mounts, brushing and combing the flanks of the gleaming, sinewy animals. Others brought buckets of water to the stalls where the dark feisty horses were prancing around at their tethers like highly strung prima donnas, as they waited for their turn in the limelight. A thick carpet of dark brown sawdust covered the entire floor; probably to make the footing better for the pampered horses, or perhaps to make it easier to clean up after them.

Pilot Officer Read and Corporal Naylor were waiting for us and had apparently used the time to survey the arena where we would be performing. They had some news for us.

“Gather round lads and pay attention,” said the diminutive Pilot Officer.

A few people continued talking, seemingly unaware that everyone else had fallen silent in anticipation of what the officer had to say. Those around them quickly shushed them to be quiet.

After pausing long enough to make sure he had our undivided attention, he began, “We will be going on first as the “opening act”, so as soon as we’ve finished here I want you to get formed up at the arena entrance and be ready to start.” He paused for a moment, read something from a small piece of paper that he held in his right hand, seemed to gather his thoughts and then continued, “Corporal Naylor and I have made a survey of the arena area. We were distressed to find that some equipment has been set up in the arena for one of the later events and so the area available for our figure-marching is only about half of that in which we practised.”

This was something of a bombshell. We had practised marching in a certain size area that we expected to be near enough identical to the real thing. Would we be able to carry it off in an area size that we weren’t used to? And even if we could do it without some disaster befalling us, the half-size area seemed to indicate that we would finish in only half the time allotted for our routine.

Pilot Officer Read continued, “Corporal Naylor has suggested that when you reach the end of the routine, continue on and start all over again without stopping. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes sir,” several people answered.

“Okay then, that’s what we’ll do!” He announced triumphantly, apparently with the utmost confidence in our ability to get faultlessly through the amended routine, even though it was a major departure from what we had diligently practised week after week. “Now lads, I want you to put on your best show ever and make St. Athan proud of you,” he continued. “Good luck! Now go and form up for your entrance.”

With that he walked towards the entrance to the arena, where the massive doors that temporarily hid us from the arena area dwarfed his slightly built figure. We followed behind him and then formed up in our eight ranks, facing the closed doors, with our trumpets on our hips in the “at-ease” position. At some unseen signal, the massive doors began to slowly glide open and while they were still moving, Drum Major Featherstone gave the order for us to quick march. As always, we stepped off with the left foot as our drummers beat out their two threes and a seven and by the time we actually entered the arena we already had our trumpets to our lips and had started to play.

The repertoire had been well established during our many practice sessions and we had memorized the names and order of tunes to be played. These included, but weren’t limited to,
Swinging the Prop;
Come and Join Us; The Marseillaise; On Ilkley Moor B’at ’At; Swinging the Cat; Roll me Over in the Clover;
and
The St. Louis Blues March.

The sawdust that covered the backstage floor area also covered the entire floor of the arena and while it may have been good for the horses, it made the act of marching very difficult for Boy Entrants. Instead of the hard even surface that we were accustomed to, there were humps and hollows, hard spots and soft spots. At first I thought I would stumble and fall in an embarrassing heap on the arena floor, as I’m sure my fellow bandsmen also thought, but I got used to it and made adjustments to my stride that compensated for the difficult surface. What I found more irritating than marching on the sawdust was the sparsely-occupied spectator seating. Perhaps disappointed is a more appropriate word to describe my feelings, because most of the seats were empty, although people were slowly trickling in to fill them. It seemed that after all the build up we had been subjected to, not to mention the hours of practice that we’d put in, we weren’t playing to anything remotely resembling a packed house. But then I thought of it in another way—we were there! We had made it to London and were appearing at the Royal Tournament, even if we were just the warm-up act, playing and figure marching while the audience members were finding their seats, as they probably anticipated the more interesting main events that would come later in the programme.

We went into the figure marching routine, resplendent in our braid and regalia, as our leaders and markers made adjustments for the smaller area in which we were forced to operate. It all worked out well. Our Boy Entrant wheel badge figure was smaller in diameter than the one we’d practised, so we had to slow up the pace and almost mark time as our wheel rotated. Then, when we came to the end of the routine, at the point where we would normally have marched out of the performing area after reforming back into our eight ranks, we just went straight back into it again. It wasn’t necessary to repeat the musical repertoire because the trumpet majors and Corporal Naylor had allotted enough tunes to last for the entire duration of the display. In the end, we proudly completed our mission of bringing Boy Entrant trumpet band music to the masses and if by chance any of them might have been watching, they probably wouldn’t even have noticed that they had just witnessed two performances for the price of one.

It was customary, at the end of each performance, for the display members to form up facing the royal box and then their officer would take his place out in front of them and give a salute to the royal personage in attendance. At the end of our performance, Pilot Officer Read, who had been waiting somewhere in the background, marched out in front of the band and, standing stiffly to attention, threw a text book style salute in the direction of the royal box. Alas, Her Majesty the Queen wasn’t there to take it. In fact, no royal personage was present, not even a minor one. A senior officer filled in for her instead. That was a little disappointing too, because we’d been told that we would be performing before the Queen.

After leaving the arena, our little officer gallantly congratulated us on a fine performance and commended us for the skilful manner in which we’d changed the routine to accommodate the reduced performance area.

“And now, lads, you can stay and watch the rest of the tournament.”

With that, we were ushered to a block of seating that had been especially reserved for us and watched an enjoyable show, the likes of which I’d never seen before.

It was fantastic! Each of the United Kingdom services was amply represented in all of the performances, but added to that were service groups from the Commonwealth, some of them keenly military and others colourfully exotic.

The show began with the Royal Navy Field Gun Competition. A large group of naval ratings, dressed in their traditional short-sleeved, collarless white gun-shirts and bell bottoms gathered into white gaiters above their boots, ran into the arena and started setting up the very same equipment that had hampered our performance only minutes before. This was accompanied by a fast paced rendition of
“You Can’t Get a Man With a Gun”
over the arena sound system.