Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (46 page)

But the girls had a sexual agenda as well! In the process of trying to distract us as they attempted to steal our hats, they weren’t always too ladylike and would often subject us to a group-grope. This, for us, was all part of the enjoyment—although we heard lurid tales that these same young ‘ladies’, egged on by older mentors, inflicted near-emasculation on any young, unsuspecting factory lad who might have made the tragic mistake of wandering into their all-female areas. The consequences were always sexual in nature, in ways that were very humiliating for the hapless young male victims.

In spite of these stories, I always enjoyed encounters with the Rhondda Valley girls and loved their high spirits and devil-may-care attitudes. But alas, it was only for that one short summer.

* * *

An air of grim dreariness settled over St. Athan with the onset of November’s gloomy days; days that barely got light before dank darkness descended again. The Rhondda Valley girls had long since returned to their terraced houses, surrounded by factory smokestacks and their black-faced coal-mining men-folk. As they worked in the factories, perhaps they thought back to pleasanter balmy summer days spent at Barry Island, idly flirting with lads in blue RAF uniforms—helicopter pilots, as they might have been led to believe, maybe the occasional one with a little bit of an Irish lilt in his voice. Meanwhile, the very same “helicopter pilots” were huddled inside the protection of their working greatcoats as they battled against biting, horizontal, wind-driven rain that opposed their march to workshops, in their ongoing pursuit of technical knowledge.

November then gave way to December and thoughts of going home on Christmas leave loomed large in everyone’s mind. Not only that, but the spirit of Christmas had begun to make itself felt. For one thing, there was to be a Christmas concert in the Astra for the inmates—starring none other than the inmates themselves.

When volunteers were called for, Richard Butterworth and I promptly decided to go into show business, notwithstanding the fact that we didn’t possess a single ounce of stage talent between us. But performing in the concert sounded like such a good skive that we just couldn’t resist it.

A notice came around inviting volunteers to present themselves at the Drill Shed on a certain evening for concert auditions—no previous experience necessary! Well, if they were looking for people with no previous experience, they had certainly come to the right place, as far as Richard and I were concerned. We eagerly made our way to the Drill Shed on the appointed evening, bubbling over with excitement at this opportunity to be discovered as big stars. The large group that had already gathered by the time we got there were busy adding their names to a list, under the supervision of the officer in charge of the concert. Eventually the list came into our hands and we entered our names, squadron and flight number in the appropriate columns. We left the “Talent” column blank, although in retrospect we could have legitimately entered “enthusiasm”.

When everyone had signed up, the officer looked over the list and gave us a little pep talk. Then he split the “artistes” into smaller groups according to their talents, holding separate discussions with each group before dismissing them. Approximately twenty untalented lads remained, including Richard and me. The officer walked slowly back to where we were all huddled, half expecting that he would dismiss us. But instead, he smilingly divided us into two smaller groups and directed each group to start coming up with ideas for a skit that we could develop and then perform in the concert.

We scratched our heads for some ideas as the evening jankers parade started to form up, forcing us to move to a more remote area of the Drill Shed. Although the move was an inconvenience, it triggered a flash of inspiration in one of our number, who then came up with the brilliant idea for a dysfunctional janker-wallah parade skit. We all liked the idea and excitedly proposed it to the officer, who gave it his warm approval. What followed was a series of several evenings devoted to the development of ideas, scripts and repeated rehearsals for the ten-minute time-slot that we would be allotted on stage.

It wasn’t difficult to pack the Astra when admission was free and so on the night of the concert, it was bursting at the seams. The “jankers-parade” team sat in reserved seats in the auditorium, able to enjoy most of the show until it was time to go backstage and prepare for our own presentation. It’s always amazing how much talent there is amongst ordinary people and the boy entrant population was no exception. We were entertained by singers, acrobats, amateur magicians, piano players, guitar players, comedy teams and more than one skiffle band that used washboards and tea-chests as basic musical instruments (this particular form of music having been made popular around that time by the likes of Lonnie Donegan). Then it was our turn!

The curtain rose on our skit to reveal a straggly line of janker-wallahs in various states of disarray. One boy stood with a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, another was heavily bandaged and on crutches, while yet another was dressed partially in uniform and partially in civilian attire. The Orderly Sergeant, as played by one of the group, was very timid and repeatedly requested the parade to come to attention, but none of the janker-wallahs paid him the slightest bit of notice as they busily interacted with each other. All of this was already getting laughs, but the appearance of the Orderly Officer brought the house down. In a stroke of casting genius, the concert officer had cast the smallest of our number, namely Richard, as the O.O. Rich really got into the role, as he marched confidently on stage and bawled at the parade to get fell in and stand to attention, achieving immediate compliance from the suddenly intimidated defaulters and gaining feigned admiration from the Orderly Sergeant.

The defaulters’ inspection followed—this was the main thrust of the whole skit. Richard started at one end and picked on each member of the group for some problem or other, satirising the things that happen on real defaulters’ parade inspections. One individual was ordered to turn out the contents of his small pack, which in real life was supposed to contain several specific items, such as pyjamas, small kit (toiletries), boot brushes and button stick. But this particular small pack was wide of the mark. Instead of containing the correct items, the audience was treated to the sight of multiple ladies’ lacy undergarments tied together in a seemingly never-ending string that Richard laboriously dragged out from the interior of the bag. That got a big laugh. Our hero then asked another defaulter to hand over his canteen so that it could be checked to make sure that it was full of fresh drinking water. This was the favourite inspection item on a real defaulters’ parade and heaven help the poor sod whose canteen contained water that didn’t taste fresh, or if it wasn’t completely full. Butterworth uncorked the canteen and raised it to his lips and pretended to take a swig, then staggered around the stage after taking a hefty gulp of something that was obviously much stronger than water. He steadied himself and recovered his composure, but just when everyone thought he was going to make a big scene with the unfortunate janker-wallah, he took another swig and then another until the canteen had apparently been emptied. Then, he gave it back to its owner and told him, with a distinct slur in his voice, that it was the freshest water he had tasted in a long time.

Sobering up remarkably quickly, he moved on to the next defaulter, a well-built lad who was at least six feet in height. Richard, all four feet of him, looked the tall lad up and down, supposedly inspecting his buttons. Then he leaned forward, bending over at right angles to his waist and appeared to inspect the tall lad’s boots. Meanwhile, Lofty, as he was known for obvious reasons, leaned forward from his waist and bent down over the top of Butterworth so that the upper parts of both their bodies were parallel to each other. He remained there during the whole time that Richard was bent over, returning to the upright position with split second timing as Richard also started to straighten up.

Next Richard, apparently suspicious that something had just occurred which threatened his authority, came up very close to Lofty and assumed a confrontational stance. In response, Lofty pulled himself more erect and puffed out his chest in a silent yet assertive attempt to counter the pint-sized Orderly Officer’s attempt at dominating him. Not to be outdone, the O.O. re-exerted his authority by peering upwards in the direction of Lofty’s cap and announcing, “Boy Entrant, your hat badge is filthy,” although he very obviously couldn’t see the hat badge from his position. Then, with barely a pause, he turned to the Orderly Sergeant and barked, “Sergeant, take this man’s name and make sure he has cleaned his badge by the next parade. And tonight, have him do his fatigues at the mess!”

As expected, this remark brought loud boos and catcalls from the audience because it was one of the worst fatigues that a janker-wallah could be given, usually involving the scraping of congealed food residue off cookhouse pots and pans.

The inspection continued until all of those on parade had been dealt with, sometimes to the defaulter’s advantage and at other times to the Orderly Officer’s. Meanwhile, I had been waiting in the wings for my cue. Alas, my great moment of fame was merely a brief walk-on part, but I tried to make the best of it. Unlike the defaulters, I was properly dressed in working uniform and, on making an entrance from stage right, I marched smartly across the stage to where Butterworth stood. He, meanwhile, had turned expectantly to face me. Of course my “keen” march across the stage brought loud boos from the audience, who all naturally identified with the underdog janker-wallahs. I came to a smart halt in front of Butterworth, giving a kind of little skip that drill instructors liked to perform when they came to a halt face-to-face with an officer. My arm came up in salute and quivered there for a few moments in exaggeration of another drill instructor favourite. Richard returned the salute. I then leaned forward and pretended to say something confidential into his ear, then straightened up and stood stiffly at attention.

“Bring him on,” Richard loudly commanded.

I turned towards the wings, from where I’d just emerged and beckoned. At this signal, four brawny boys staggered out from the wings carrying a bed on which a “defaulter” apparently lay sleeping in his full janker-wallah regalia of webbing and large pack. They carried the bed to one end of the parade line-up and placed it gently on the ground. Richard approached the person on the bed, then came to a stop and took a deep breath and yelled, “Defaulter, wake up!” The person in the bed reacted in a startled fashion, as though he had been suddenly and rudely awakened.

“Why are you in bed, lad?” Richard inquired.

“I’m on light duties, Sir,” was the boy’s reply, as he simultaneously held out a crumpled piece of paper that was supposedly a much coveted light-duties chit.

“Oh, I see,” retorted Richard, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “so you can’t do any heavy work, eh?”

“No Sir,” said the still-prone fellow, who also shook his head vigorously to give added emphasis.

“Well, in that case we’ll send you to the mess along with Lofty and you can bake some fairy cakes while you’re there. I think that should be light enough work for you!”

By this time the audience was laughing uproariously, including the Station Commander and several of the senior officers who had been seated in the front row. And, with that, the curtain came down on our skit, to thunderous applause. It couldn’t have been a more fitting end to our career in show business.

* * *

Christmas edged ever closer, its imminent arrival having an increasing tendency to focus young minds on warm thoughts of very soon going home on leave. Meanwhile, the really cold winter weather had yet to set in. December was damper, greyer and more dreary than cold. We were getting up in darkness and then marching to work when it had barely got light, in a world filled with the perpetual drip of water from every inanimate object that possessed the slightest elevation above ground level. Premature nightfall enveloped our return from workshops in the early evenings. The surrounding darkness was lit occasionally by the headlights of passing cars that illuminated the non-stop drizzle, leaking continuously from the heavily laden clouds drifting eastwards from the Atlantic on their slow but relentless journey across the British Isles. But, at least there was one bright note to sweep away much of the dreariness in our otherwise depressed lives—the 28th would be passing out in mid-December and in doing so would hand over the baton of Senior Entryship to the 29th Entry—like an early Christmas present.

Most members of the 28th had mellowed considerably from the high spirits that we’d seen when they first became Senior Entry. They seemed to have come to the realization that it paid to be nice to the underdogs at this stage of the game. After all, they didn’t want anything untoward happening that might detract from the joy of their upcoming graduation. And just to make sure, the soon-to-be graduates hoarded their white webbing, their carefully pressed best blues and their highly bulled boots under lock and key during this vulnerable period, when they weren’t actually cleaning them or wearing them to dress rehearsals. Bull boys, who had been buried under mounds of drudge work in the past, were now relieved of their menial duties because of a sense of paranoia that seemed to grip those preparing to pass-out.

Several of the 28th would not be wearing white webbing belts during the passing-out parade. Instead of sharing in the euphoria with their fellow Entry members, they would be parading with the “supporting entries” in what must, for them, have been a very disheartening experience. That was because, for one reason or another, they had been unable to meet the academic standards necessary to graduate with their own Entry and had therefore been relegated to ours for one more attempt. A little tap-dancing was in order for them—up until now, they had been wrapped in the blanket of protection that their original 28th Entry membership bestowed. But that protection had very quickly evaporated with the 28th Entry’s passing-out parade and these marooned individuals knew it. Now, their once-cocky attitudes had been replaced by a desperate outreach towards a more conciliatory accommodation with the Entry that would be adopting them for the next few months. It must be said that most made the accommodation with few problems.