Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (56 page)

When I returned to the transit billet, the occupant of the other bed had also returned. Not surprisingly, it was Butterworth, who had arrived earlier in the day. In fact, he had already been to the Station Orderly Room and begun his “arrival” process, but didn’t get far because most of the Sections he needed to visit had closed for the day. We sat around and chatted about our experiences while on leave, until it was time to go for early tea at the mess. After that we spent some time exploring the station to find the important places, such as the camp cinema, and since the NAAFI seemed dead we decided to see the film that was currently showing.

The Shawbury Astra was much smaller than its namesake at St. Athan and the audience behaved quite differently as well. They joked around a lot more and there seemed to be much more camaraderie than the standoffish entry-ism that permeated everything in the Boy Entrant world, including going to the cinema. It was there that I first heard the standard RAF cinema audience’s reaction to a particular screen credit that follows every “Tom and Jerry” cartoon—an Astra staple in those days. When the producer’s name, Fred Quimby, appeared on-screen, the entire audience, as one, shouted out, “Good old Fred!” This, I found out later, was a universal ritual in the regular RAF, but it startled both of us on hearing it that first time. The feeling of being a part of this new adult community made me feel good inside. But I was tired after an almost sleepless night during the sea crossing from Belfast, so we had an early night and agreed to “arrive” together next morning.

After breakfast, I presented myself to the Station Orderly Room clerk. He munched his way through a bag of Smith’s crisps as he otherwise silently noted my details, before handing me a blue card that looked exactly like the one I’d taken around to clear from St. Athan. My name appeared on the “Arrival” side, together with a list of the Sections I needed to visit. The Station Establishment would then be aware—and no doubt feel suitably reassured and relieved—that a fully trained LAC in the trade of Electrical Mechanic (Air) had now joined its strength. Richard waited around until I got my blue card and then accompanied me to the Sections he’d already visited, until I caught up to where he’d left off. After that, we tackled all of the other Sections together.

Probably the most important signature for us to obtain was identified on the Arrivals card as “Tech. Wing Adj.” We would be working within Technical Wing, so the Tech. Wing Adjutant was responsible for assigning us to whatever duty we were considered best suited, in light of our hard-won qualifications. The Technical Wing Adjutant was a junior officer whose main job was to deal with the Wing’s daily routine, on behalf of the senior officer in overall charge of the Wing.

After obtaining directions from one or two passers-by, we found our way to the Tech. Wing office in one of the large hangars on the perimeter of the aircraft ground-handling area, otherwise known as the Pan. The Wing “Discip.” Sergeant took our blue cards and made some notes, then told us to wait a moment. With that, he disappeared through the doorway of an adjoining office. Very soon he returned and told us that we were to go in and meet the adjutant. We walked cautiously through the open doorway, then stopped and saluted. Simultaneously, our jaws must have hit the floor because the adjutant wasn’t quite what we expected. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, a WRAF Flying Officer in her mid-twenties whose neat short dark-brown hair framed a face of such classical beauty that it could quite easily have belonged to a film actress. To say that I was absolutely stunned is only putting it mildly.

“Ah! Butterworth and Carlin,” she said, looking up from her desk. She wasn’t wearing a hat and Service protocol therefore dictated that she couldn’t return our salute. Instead, she stood up and came around the desk, then reached out her hand to shake each of ours in turn.

“Which one are you?” She asked as she politely and gently shook my hand, her eyes twinkling with amusement at the impression she obviously knew she’d made on both of us.

“Welcome to Shawbury. We’re very glad you’ve joined us,” she said with a radiant smile that revealed her perfect white teeth. She returned to sit behind her desk before continuing, “Now, what trade are you?”

“Electrical Mechanics, Air, Ma’am,” we answered together.

“Oh, gooood,” she responded, “We can find plenty for you to do—we’re a little short-handed in the Electrical Section at the moment.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully and then continued in a more upbeat voice, “I’m a little familiar with St. Athan. So you were Boy Entrants then?”

“Fifteen and a half, Ma’am,” we both answered independently. This was more of a pat answer than an accurate one; I had been two months past the 15½-year mark when I joined the Boy Entrants’ Service, whereas Richard had somehow managed to enlist one month before achieving the lower age limit.

She frowned at this and then looked down at some paperwork on her desk. “Then, technically speaking, you’re both still Boys,” she announced, still looking at the paperwork on the desk. Quietly, almost to herself, she said, “That could be a problem.” When she looked up at us, the twinkling eyes had been replaced by a more serious look.

The Adjutant’s pronouncement surprised, shocked and horrified both of us. We thought we’d left Boys’ Service behind at St. Athan, so what was all this about? Could she possibly be thinking of sending us back there?

“Where are you billeted right now?” She asked.

“In the transit billet, Ma’am.”

“Are you aware that QRs (Queen’s Regulations) forbids anyone under the age of eighteen living in the same accommodation as adult servicemen?”

It was our turn to frown. After all, it wasn’t our fault if we were breaking QRs. “We thought that was just when we were Boy Entrants at St. Athan Ma’am,” I responded, speaking for both of us.

She gave a little laugh, “Oh no. It applies anywhere in the service.” The laughter that had briefly flitted across her face was quickly replaced by a concerned look. “I’m not sure how we’re going to deal with this, but for the moment you’d better remain in the transit billet. I’ll have to get in touch with Personnel Records to see what we can do.” With that, she looked towards the open door of the office and called out “Sergeant!” in a slightly raised voice.

The sergeant came through the door with an expectant look on his face. “Ma’am? He asked.

“Sergeant, Butterworth and Carlin are elec. mechs. They’re going to be joining us, so can you please take them to the Electrical Section and introduce them to Chief Tech. Smith. We have a slight problem due to the fact that they’re both under age, but hopefully we can sort it all out.”

“Yes Ma’am,” the sergeant responded. “Right lads, come with me.”

We saluted before turning to leave the office. The beautiful Flying Officer smiled in response, but it was very brief and was replaced almost immediately by a look of determination as she reached for the phone on her desk.

The sergeant signed our blue cards after we followed him into the outer office and then handed them back to us.

“You need to go to the E and I Section next,” he said, referring to the Electrical and Instruments Section. “It’s in the next hangar,” which he indicated by pointing in that general direction. “Go in through the fire doors on the airfield side and then turn right. It’s a couple of doors down.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” we responded, then turned and made our way out onto the pathway that ran along the hangar frontage.

Chief Technician Smith, the NCO in charge of the E&I Section, possessed a seemingly pleasant disposition. He welcomed us to the Section and then introduced us to the other Section members, who were sitting around drinking what looked suspiciously like very strong tea from of an assortment of cups and mugs.

This was the first time that we heard ourselves referred to as brats on account of our Boy Entrant pedigree, although it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The two or three other men in the room behaved in a more friendly way towards us, as did the WRAF girl who was apparently also a member of the E&I Section. She was as thin as a rake and wore a battledress blouse and WRAF issue slacks. We found out a little later that she was known to all and sundry by the nickname of “Splitpin”, because of her slim frame and very long legs. Her resemblance to a split-pin was accentuated by the slacks she was accustomed to wearing.

One of the other lads, a tall cockney named Bert who wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, offered us a cup of tea, which we gladly accepted. He searched around until he found some grimy, tea-stained cups, which he rinsed out with hot water from the kettle by pouring a small quantity into each and then swirling it around before tossing it out into a white-enamelled tin basin that had seen much better days. He then filled the cups with some of the same strong-looking brew that the others were drinking, from an ancient brown-enamelled metal teapot.

“Milk and sugar?” He queried.

When we answered yes, he picked up a tin of condensed milk and poured a stream of its white syrupy-thick contents into each cup from one of the two holes that had been punctured in its top—although not too recently by the look of the yellowish, congealed gunk around the holes. He then added one spoonful of sugar per cup, shovelling it out of what appeared to be an old tin tea caddy and then briskly stirred both concoctions before handing them to us. I can’t say it was the best tea that I’ve ever tasted, but it was wet and warm. I also appreciated the hospitality, since it was coming from people with whom we would no doubt be working in the very near future. We spent a little time with them, listening to their banter, most of which I suspect was put on for our benefit. Then, when we had finished our tea, or as much as we felt was necessary to avoid being impolite, Butterworth and I excused ourselves and went off to finish doing our rounds of the Station to complete the Arrival process.

We completed “Arriving” by lunchtime the next day and then reported for duty to the E&I Section early in the afternoon. The corporal in whose charge we were placed teamed me up with Bert, the tall cockney with the horn-rimmed glasses, and Richard was assigned to work with a spindly Senior Aircraftsman from Yorkshire who always seemed to have a liquid droplet dangling precariously from the tip of his thin beaky red nose.

Bert was a kindly sort of bloke who said to me in his strong cockney accent, “Stick wiv me, me old mite and I’ll see yer oh-roight!”

Our job was to carry out pre- and after-flight servicing, change batteries and check and adjust the generator voltage during engine run-ups, all on Vallettas and Varsities, or “Pigs” as they were more affectionately known. He confided in me about Splitpin and how she would occasionally entertain her many male acquaintances in one of the Ansons. He warned me not to follow if I saw her going into an Anson and close the door. When I told Richard about this later, we were both afflicted with uncontrollable fits of laughter as we took turns in describing to each other how the Anson’s tail-wheel might bounce around on the tarmac when Splitpin was busy “entertaining” her friends.

In recognition of my eighteen months of intense technical training and grooming as a future NCO of the Royal Air Force, Bert entrusted me with the awesome responsibilities of carrying his tool bag when we went out on a job and making the tea in the Section servicing bay. And although this chafed, I somehow understood that we all need to pay our dues. My father had told me long ago that serving time in a trade meant having to put up with menial stuff like this and that there was no option but to take it like a man.

In the evenings Richard and I went into Shrewsbury, since we were no longer fettered by the inconvenience of bed-checks. Shrewsbury was a picturesque town, more so than Barry, with many
olde worlde
buildings that were still in everyday use. On one of the major streets, we came upon an imposing statue of some important person. The statue stood on a massive cubic stone plinth on which was inscribed but the single name “Clive”. We wondered who the heck this character Clive was, but it gave us an excuse to invent all kinds of tall tales about him to explain why the citizens of Shrewsbury had erected a statue in his honour. Later, we discovered that the statue commemorated Clive of India, who had been born in the Shrewsbury area. It was interesting to find that out, but it ruined the fun we’d been having inventing strange identities for him, or at least for his commemorative statue.