Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (47 page)

By now, passing-out parades were becoming ho-hum. The only thing good about the 28th parade was that it meant the 29th Entry’s passing-out parade would be next and more immediately that we would be the new Senior Entry just as soon as the 28th marched off the Square. And so, forming up in the farewell Guard of Honour for the very last time was just about tolerable. The 28th, of course, were all grins, just like the entries that had passed this way before them and those whose turn had yet to come.

We celebrated our new-found senior Entry status in much the same way as our predecessors. I would like to say that we were nobler than they and didn’t stoop to such terrorizing activities as billet raids after lights-out, or mock courts martial of hapless junior Entry victims. But shamefully, we did—and revelled in it! I do feel, however, that the 29th Entry was much less vindictive than those who came before us. As far as I’m aware, no junior Entry member was harmed during any of our activities and most seemed to take the harassment in reasonably good spirits. Of course, that’s a very subjective viewpoint and doesn’t take into account the fear of the unknown that played such a major part in making the experience something of a nightmare for yours truly when I was a mere Junior Entry sprog.

CHAPTER 11

The Final Test

O
n our first full day as Senior Entry, Corporal Longfellow summoned all of us to the common room. He first lectured us on the responsibilities that came with our new status, most importantly that we were expected to play a supportive role to the permanent staff—a clear reference to himself and the other squadron NCOs and officers. We were to set a good example to the younger boys, weren’t to bully them and so on and so forth. He then asked that we hand over our permanent passes (PPs) so that they could be annotated to reflect our latest and final proficiency badges—the small inverted chevrons worn on the cuff of the left sleeve.

I was still a one-striper, having been denied the second proficiency badge because of my unsatisfactory performance in trade tests during the summer term. That’s when I had been skiving in the trumpet band instead of studying. My performance had definitely improved on account of giving up the band, otherwise I wouldn’t have been sitting in that room on that particular day, but the new proficiency badge would only bring me up to a grand total of two stripes. That would still be one stripe short of the three chevrons needed to clearly proclaim my status as a member of the Senior Entry and attract the unquestioned respect and deference that came with it. With only two chevrons, I could imagine myself having to verbally convince subordinate entry members that I was indeed Senior Entry, since the normally accepted three-chevron indication wasn’t in evidence. I needn’t have worried, however.

During lunch break on the following day, Longfellow reconvened our common room get-together. When we had all settled down, he produced a large, bulky, brown envelope into which he stuck his hand and then began fishing out PPs that noticeably contained sets of chevrons folded between their two pages. When each individual’s name was called out, that person came forward to receive the little blue document, together with his set of three stripes. Eventually, my name was called and I made my way up to the front of the room to where the corporal stood. He gave me a little smile as I reached forward to receive my pass and chevrons, but the significance of the smile was lost on me until I looked at the chevrons. They’ve made a mistake, was my most immediate thought, because there in my hand was a set of three stripes, instead of the two I had expected.

My heart pounded as I made my way back to my seat, expecting to be called back at any moment, when Longfellow realized he had made an error. But it didn’t happen. Instead, he continued calling on others to come forward and receive their stripes. I got back to my seat and sat down, then gingerly opened the PP to check the annotation. With great relief, I saw that there was no mistake—a handwritten notation had been entered on the appropriate line, in blue fountain-pen ink, awarding me the third proficiency stripe. The Flight Commander’s signature next to the entry, in darker coloured ink, made the award official.

I was very curious to know why they had decided to allow me to wear all three chevrons, but was afraid to ask in case it focused too much attention on the issue and that I might end up having the third chevron withdrawn. After a reasonable length of time had passed, during which the third stripe remained firmly attached to my sleeve, I was able to rationalize the whole situation. It seemed to me that the second and third stripes had been awarded concurrently, as recognition that I had worked hard to make up for lost ground in my trade knowledge. This rationale, coupled with Corporal Longfellow’s knowing little smile when he handed me the stripes, convinced me that all three were mine to keep. Whatever the reason, receiving them was a tremendous boost for my morale, giving me the feeling that I had genuinely made it as Senior Entry.

* * *

The time for Christmas leave finally arrived and as always, the Irish and Scottish lads were granted two days’ “travelling time”, which enabled us to get away on the day before, when the local buses and trains were relatively easy to board. Just 24 hours later, queues for those very same buses and trains would be as long as tempers were short, when the majority of the Boy Entrant population would be released on leave.

Travelling across the Irish Sea was less of an ordeal than it had been the previous year. Many of us had discovered that the Heysham route, operated by British Railways, was superior to the Liverpool route in every way. The ships were newer and better appointed, the boat-train brought passengers right up to the dock and the harbour was directly connected to the open sea, which meant there was no lock system to add extra time to the journey. Heysham also lacked the pungent smell that characterized Liverpool, so I was spared from having to inhale the acrid fumes of Lime Street station. Another big difference from the previous year was that instead of staying in uniform, I changed into my civilian clothes as soon as possible after getting home.

The “civvies” were courtesy of a recent policy that granted Senior Entry the privilege of wearing civvies when off duty. The policy itself was a joke, because it also dictated that the civilian clothing would consist exclusively of a black or navy blue blazer, grey flannel trousers, white shirt and “suitable” necktie, which was every bit as much a uniform as our best blue. There was, however, an element of “status” attached to wearing civvies. Besides, normal civilian shirts with their attached collars meant not having to suffer the uncomfortable collar stud that pressed into my throat every minute of every day when in uniform. So now I had a modest wardrobe of “civvies” that I had been able to purchase, thanks to the princely sum of twenty-five shillings now received each week at pay parade.

It wasn’t long before I looked up John Moore and Melvin Jackson. As always, Coleraine was about as lively as a graveyard after the shops closed at 6 o’clock in the evening, so we usually just hung around Main Street, talking and trading banter. It was while we were standing at the corner of Park Street and Main Street one weeknight that my eye registered a familiar figure coming towards us, easily recognizable under the bright fluorescent street lights that had replaced the dim gaslights of several years earlier. There was only one person that I knew of who walked with that unusual gait, but I still couldn’t believe what my eyes were telling me until he came closer. Then I knew for sure that it was my old ex-St. Athan friend, Mick—the guy for whom I had bulled when the 27th first became Senior Entry. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but was instantly recognizable by his peculiar mode of locomotion that combined a strange loping gait with an awkward backward thrust of his right arm, (which had quite possibly resulted from a badly-set broken bone).

“Mick!” I called out.

He stopped and appeared puzzled, obviously taken aback that someone would know his name in this little Irish backwater of a town. Then he smiled in recognition, “Paddy Carlin,” he declared, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“Oh yeah, I remember now,” he responded weakly, betraying the fact that he really didn’t, “are you still at Saints?” He asked, quickly changing the subject.

My friends had fallen silent as the conversation proceeded and I suddenly became aware of how much out of place Mick’s Home Counties accent must have sounded, to ears that were accustomed to hearing only the familiar brogue of my hometown.

“Yeah, we’re Senior Entry now,” I responded, slipping out of my thick native brogue and into a more easily understood hybrid accent that was neither Irish nor English, but somewhere in between. “We pass out in March.”

“God, how time flies,” he uttered. “Anyway, where’s all the life here in Coleraine?” Suddenly changing the subject again.

“There’s not much goin’ on durin’ the weeknights,” John Moore suddenly chipped in, gregariously deciding to join in the conversation. “Coleraine’s a long way tae come from Ballykelly. Ahsn’t Lammavaddy a bit nearer fur ye?”

“Limavady’s a one-horse town,” countered Mick, “and the horse is dead! There’s just nothing there!” It was a good remark and we all laughed, knowing that he was right on target about the little town of Limavady, about 20 miles east of Coleraine and much nearer to RAF Station Ballykelly. We all talked for a little while longer, Melvin not saying much, but John really wading in and enjoying the opportunity to talk to someone new, and “Anglish” at that. Then Mick said he’d have to be on his way and that he was going to see if there was any life in Portrush. He wished me good luck and we shook hands before parting, never to meet again. I couldn’t wait to tell the lads back in the billet that I’d met him in my home town.

* * *

With Christmas leave behind me, I had three months until the passing-out parade in late March to get back into some serious work, if I intended to maintain momentum and pass out with my entry. After my “coffee and biscuits” session with Mr. Dimbleby, I had developed the habit of studying. This was especially important for the periodic tests that we were given at the end of each Phase. I usually teamed up with Richard Butterworth on these study sessions; we would take it in turns to compose questions to each other based on our classroom notes. This helped both the reader and the responder to cram knowledge into the nooks and crannies of our brains, in readiness for the real tests. At other times, the instructors would subject us to “mock” tests that helped us find out how much—or little—we knew about the subjects we were studying. The mock tests were always similar to the multiple choice “ballot” type of exam paper that we would have to pass as one part of the Final Trade Test—the other part of the test would be an oral “Board”, but more about it later. On and exam paper, we were given four possible answers, A, B, C and D, for each question, only one of which was correct. The other three answers ranged anywhere from “almost correct” to “complete and utter nonsense”.

The instructor marked the test by using a cardboard template that he placed over the answer paper. Holes in the template coincided with the correct answer boxes and the answer was counted as correct only if an “X” appeared in the hole. There was no waffling—the answer was either completely right or completely wrong.
It was a popular legend that if someone, having absolutely no knowledge of the subject matter, took the test, they would statistically score around 30% correct. The passing mark was 60%, therefore the same statistical probability strongly implied that a candidate needed to possess a reasonable level of trade knowledge in order to successfully pass the test.

Our instructors were often able to obtain old Final exam papers that they would use to give us as mock tests. It was well-known that some questions appeared on more than one Final paper, so the instructors were diligent in hunting down these old papers to help us get “genned up” for the real thing. But in spite of this intensive tutoring, the Final paper was still considered difficult. It was a cakewalk, however, compared to the “Board”

As mentioned earlier, the Board was an oral test, during which a Trade Standards and Testing Section (TSTS) examiner grilled individuals on the full training-course syllabus, as they toured around the workshops together, stopping at various pieces of equipment and circuit boards. Some portions of the Board involved the diagnosis and rectification of faults on equipment that had been deliberately sabotaged by the examiner. Other segments consisted of verbal question and answer sessions concerning any and all of the equipment we had been trained on.

Since safety procedures and “trade practice” are also an important part of aircraft maintenance, not only were we grilled on these, but needed to observe them when carrying out any of the diagnostics or rectification called for by the examiner. Failing to do so could lead to a huge loss of marks. Because of the many possible pitfalls, we all understandably dreaded the Board more than the Final paper and spent a lot of time grilling each other on questions that an examiner might possibly ask.