Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (43 page)

With some care, the exact hole dimension could be marked out on the aluminium with a compass scribe, but our instructor kindly tipped us off that, by some strange coincidence, the hole dimension was precisely the diameter of a two-shilling coin, commonly referred to as a “two bob bit” in those days. Obviously, a two bob bit was the perfect template by which to mark out the hole, but not everyone had such financial resources, especially on the wrong side of pay day. One thoughtful lad, named Henry, shrewdly concluded that the disposable protective cap that fitted snugly over the plug might also be the same diameter as a two bob bit, since it was such a close fit around the plug. It just happened that he had a two shilling coin that day, and was therefore was able to test out his theory by inserting it into the little cap, noting with some satisfaction that its fit was indeed very snug. The ghost of a smirk flickered briefly across his face as he toyed with the idea of trick he could play on someone, and then, as the idea took root, he poured some molten solder into the cap to a depth that roughly equalled the thickness of the coin. When the solder had cooled and solidified, he shook it out onto the bench and compared it with his two shilling piece. The weight seemed about right, and it was almost exactly the right size, which a little filing soon took care of. Before long, Henry was holding a freshly minted reasonable copy of the real coin in his hand, which he then dropped into a pocket of his overalls to await the approach of a likely victim. It wasn’t a very long wait.

“Anybody got a two bob bit?” yelled Tim, one of the other boys, who was getting to the final stages of rounding off the hole in his metal plate.

Henry felt for the fake coin in his pocket, “Here, Tim! Catch!” Henry flicked the coin with his thumb, spinning it through the air towards Tim’s waiting hands.

As soon as he caught the fake, Tim knew there was something different about it. Peering at his capture, he exclaimed, “Hey, what’s this?”

Grinning broadly, Henry walked around the bench and took and retrieved his handiwork, and then told Tim about how he had come up with the idea. Tim playfully punched Henry in retaliation for playing the joke on him, as they both laughed out loud. Other boys working nearby were intrigued by the Tim and Henry’s sudden outburst of laughter, and very soon a small group began gathering around as Henry proudly showed off his fake coin and related how he had come up with idea as a practical joke.

That would have been the end of it, right there and then, if all of the onlookers had simply treated it as a slight distraction before resuming their own tasks. But it wasn’t to be. The sight of the newly minted counterfeit coin brought a crafty gleam to the eye of one particular member of the small audience.

Bernie was a product of the London’s East End, with an upbringing that had exposed him to much of the seamier side of the London underworld. The gleam in Bernie’s eye betrayed that he had recognized what seemed like a perfect opportunity to acquire some ill-gotten gain, based on Henry’s innocent experiment with the solder. Going around the workbench as innocently as he could possibly appear, Bernie collected several of the discarded protective caps and stuffed them into his tool bag. Then, when the instructor wasn’t looking, he quietly set to work making a replica of the fake coin that Henry had initially produced. Later that evening, he and two cohorts tried out the prototype two bob bit on the YMCA cigarette machine. It didn’t work right away, because the machine also checked the weight of any coin tendered, so Bernie was obliged to do some fine-tuning during the workshop practice sessions over the next few days. Finally, one evening, he rewarded when the YMCA’s cigarette machine dispensed a free packet of cigarettes. From that point on, there was no stopping Bernie and his friends. Using as many of the little cardboard caps for moulds as they could lay their hands on, the boys set about mass-producing more and more coins, inundating cigarette machines all over Barry and the local area with the fake two-shilling pieces.

Perhaps if the YMCA folks and local vendors had found only an occasional dud coin in their cigarette machines they might have treated it as a minor irritant, but the widespread proliferation of clunky counterfeit two-bob bits soon resulted in a plethora of phone calls to many of the area police stations. It didn’t take a great deal of detective work for the local constabulary to trace the source of the coins, since Bernie and his friends, conspicuous in their Boy Entrant uniforms, had been proudly, but very stupidly, showing off their ill-gotten gains and boasting about their exploits to all and sundry.

Within a few days, the Barry Police Superintendent requested a meeting with the Station Commander at RAF St. Athan, and opened the discussion by depositing a heavy bag of some eighty dud coins on the CO’s desk. Less than an hour later, the matter had been placed in the hands of the SIB – the RAF Special Investigation Branch – whose operatives were very much snoopier than the regular Snoops. The SIB quickly deduced the general area whence the fake coins were originating.

One morning, shortly afterwards, those of us in the workshop practice class were interviewed, one at a time, by an intimidating, civilian-suited SIB officer. Bernie and his band confessed after one or two days of this treatment, probably thinking that their punishment would be a week or two on jankers. But they were in for a nasty shock. Those in high authority wanted to send a very clear message that what had transpired was a serious offence. As a consequence, all of the boys involved were sentenced to several days of detention in the Guardroom. Sadly, poor Henry, whilst being completely innocent of the crime spree, was also sentenced to the same length of time behind bars because he was the individual who had manufactured the first fake coin and was therefore deemed as guilty as Bernie and the others.

By all accounts, having to do time as a prisoner in the Guardroom was a very unpleasant experience. I’m thankful that this particular misfortune never befell me, but I did hear first-hand from others unlucky enough to spend some time “inside”. I also had a few opportunities to get a small taste of the Guardroom experience during some of my sessions on jankers, when a number of us would be sent there to perform fatigues. Mind you, this only happened when there were no “guests” in residence and the Snoops needed some outside labour to maintain their highly-bulled floors and brass-work in the pristine conditions that seemed to make them feel comfortably at home.

Prisoners in detention were incarcerated in small single-occupancy cells with a thick, heavy steel door that shut off their contact with the outside world. The door was featureless on its cell-side, save for a small peephole. The peephole was closed off by a small hinged cover on the exterior side of the door that permitted someone to view the interior of the cell, but prevented the inmate from seeing out. A tiny window of frosted glass, high up on the outside wall, permitted only a little daylight to penetrate the cell’s dim interior.

The sleeping arrangements were certainly not designed for comfort—consisting only of a raised wooden platform without a mattress. A rectangular-shaped piece of wood with a shallow hollow scooped out of its upper surface was permanently affixed to one end of the platform to serve as a pillow. The edges of the hollow were rounded off as a small concession to comfort on this otherwise Spartan bed. The only other permitted comfort was the use of sheets and blankets, which of course were required to be made up into a bed-pack every day, including weekends.

A prisoner’s day started at 0530 hours, when he was awakened by one of the night shift Snoops. It was usually a rude awakening, initiated by the illumination of the single stark light mounted high up on the ceiling. After getting washed and dressed, all under constant supervision, a prisoner would be ordered to perform a session of fatigues, typically bumpering the Guardroom floor and then making tea for the Snoops. At least he would get a cup of tea for himself, if the Snoops weren’t feeling too mean-spirited.

At around 0730 hours, a couple of boys from his squadron, who had been specifically detailed for this duty, would arrive to escort him to the mess for breakfast. When marching there, one of the boys took up position in front and the other at the rear. In a way, it was a mildly comical sight as all three marched through the camp in a line, like a mother duck and her two ducklings. Whilst in the mess, the prisoner was kept isolated from everyone else except his escort as he ate his meal.

Prisoners were still required to participate in the normal daily class activities, but were marched to and from these by the escort. After workshops, they were kept busy with more fatigues, until being confined to their cells early in the evening, where they were expected to study and transcribe notes from that day’s class-work. “Lights out” for cell inhabitants came early, at around 2100 hours, but I suspect they welcomed the darkness that enabled them to get some sleep and put another day of their sentence firmly behind them.

* * *

Mid-summer of 1957 brought the 27th Entry near the end of their training and the time for selection of the Flight Sergeant Boy. As always, one senior Entry member in each of the four squadrons had risen to the exalted rank of Sergeant Boy. In No. 3 Squadron, to which I belonged, Dave Williams became the anointed one.

Dave didn’t seem to be cast in the same mould as the other sergeant boys of my experience—past, present or future. To begin with, most sergeant boys were tall strapping fellows, but Dave was of average height to the point of appearing diminutive in the company of the other three sergeant boys. The difference didn’t stop there—Dave was also popular with most of the lads, which wasn’t always the case with other sergeant boys. Although strict in the disciplinary sense, when he caught someone in a minor breach of the rules, he was much less inclined to pull out his little pad of Forms 252 to put them on a charge than his predecessor. More often than not, he would let the miscreant off with a caution.

Each sergeant boy was top dog in his own squadron, but with the Entry’s passing-out parade approaching, it was time for one of them to be elevated to the unique rank of Flight Sergeant Boy. This rank, denoted by a small brass crown worn above the three sergeant stripes, carried with it the awesome privilege of being the Parade Commander at his Entry’s passing out ceremony. This meant being in full command of the entire passing out parade, from start to finish—a task normally carried out by the Station Warrant Officer on all other parades of similar significance.

All four of these young men who were contending for the prized rank of Flight Sergeant Boy had gained their sergeant stripes by the achievement of excellence in their trade test results throughout all of their training; by acting responsibly and never committing any disciplinary infractions; by maintaining above-average personal grooming and appearance and by exhibiting mature leadership qualities. In Boy Entrant language, the word “keen” was commonly used to sum up all of these attributes.

Permanent staff in each squadron usually identified people with such characteristics shortly after their arrival in the Wings and then began the process of cultivating them like potential prize-winning plants. The first step for these keen chaps was a promotion to Leading Boy, which usually put them in charge of a billet and rewarded them with the privilege of their own private bedroom, or “bunk” and a modest pay increase. Several boys would receive such promotion, but only two of these would gain further promotion to Corporal Boy, to be put in charge of either ‘A’ Flight or ‘B’ Flight, their vacated Leading Boy positions being filled by further promotions from the ranks. Eventually, one of the Corporal Boys would be selected as the squadron Sergeant Boy, with another cascading series of promotions to fill the gaps left by his elevation.

At every step of the way, the previously-mentioned attributes were the yardstick by which these individuals were measured and subsequently promoted, so it may be surprising to learn that these were not the qualities used to select one of the four sergeant boys for elevation above his peers to the unique rank of Flight Sergeant Boy. In fact, the greatest factor in deciding who would win this most coveted of ranks hinged around which of them had the loudest voice when it came to calling out commands on the parade ground.

In order to demonstrate their parade-ground voices, all four sergeant boys were obliged to participate in a “shout-off” on the Square, before a judging panel of drill instructors. Each candidate was required to bellow out a number of the commands that would actually be used during the passing out parade. The person who was able to shout the loudest, the clearest and whose voice lasted the longest was selected as the anointed one. Much to everyone’s surprise, our own Dave Williams was the clear winner and so it came to pass that, for the only time during my entire stay at St. Athan, No. 3 Squadron had the proud honour of producing a Flight Sergeant Boy.

The 27th Entry’s passing out parade followed soon after, on the 25th of July, 1957. The Reviewing Officer was Air Marshal Sir George Beamish, Knight Commander of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath (KCB) and Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Technical Training Command—the Command to which we all belonged whilst in training. Sir George was a fellow Irishman from my home county of Londonderry, although I wasn’t aware of that at the time, and had enjoyed an illustrious career during both war and peace.