Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (9 page)

Around lunchtime it seemed a good time to make our way back to the billets, so we departed from the YM, taking the little concrete pathway down to the road and then turned left, heading towards what looked like a boiler house. On our left we passed the tall brick-built water tower that served as the major station landmark and approached an intersection where the main camp road crossed the road on which we were currently walking. We needed to turn left here, which would then take us back past the Square that we now knew wasn’t there for the purpose of taking casual strolls! As we neared the intersection a faint musical sound came to my ears, growing louder by the second. And then, from the direction of some hangars that I had noticed earlier, there came a parade of Boy Entrants marching in columns of three and led by what appeared to be a drum and bugle band, the latter being the source of the music. But it couldn’t be a bugle band, because the instruments appeared to be longer than bugles and in fact looked like brass trumpets minus the valves. As the band approached our position, the trumpeters and drummers ceased playing, save for only a single rhythmic beat from the bass drum to keep the marchers in step.

The band leader was taller than the most of the other boys and carried a drum major’s mace that he spun and twirled around in a dazzling display of dexterity, occasionally tossing it into the air as he swaggered along at the head of the column, then skilfully catching it on the way down. I noticed, however, that there were several dents on the ornate silver head of the mace that bore silent witness to the fact that not every toss in the air ended in a successful catch. A row of drummers marched immediately behind him, some with side drums and others with deeper tenor drums. Behind them a hefty fellow carried the big bass drum strapped to his chest. He was the one beating out the time with one drumstick for the marchers. Most members of the band, those that surrounded the bass drummer, carried the trumpet-like instruments tucked under their right arms, with the flared trumpet end pointing rearwards. Then, as the band drew nearer to where we stood, the leader grasped the narrow end of the mace in his right hand and then fully stretched his arm above his head to hold the mace in vertical position, so that its head was the high in the air and visible to all members of the band. At this signal the side drummers started to beat out a tattoo in synchronism…drrr-drrr-dit, drrr-drrr-dit, drrr-drrr-drrr-drrr-drrr-drrr-dit. Simultaneously, one of the trumpeters at the rear yelled out what sounded like an incomprehensible order. At the first drrr-dit, the trumpeters thrust out their trumpets at a full arms length in front of them with the mouthpiece pointing vertically up and the flared end pointing down towards the ground. Then, at the end of the third and longest drum roll, they brought the trumpets to their lips, in perfect unison and started playing. The sudden blast of noise startled me since I was so close, but it wasn’t unpleasant. I didn’t recognize the tune and in truth, not everyone seemed to be playing perfect notes, but what they may have lacked in musical skill they certainly made up for in enthusiasm.

The band turned right and then proceeded down the road that we had been following up to this point, marching past the boiler house and towards a complex of billets that I could see in the distance. By this time, the column of marchers was passing in front of us. They were all carrying bundles of khaki coloured clothing of some kind under their left arms, but exactly what these bundles were, I couldn’t tell. As our small group stood there gaping, one of the marchers yelled in our direction, “Hey you sprogs, go back home while you still have a chance!”

Immediately, a boy entrant with a stripe on his upper arm, who was marching alongside the column, loudly ordered the commenter to be quiet or he’d be put on a charge, whatever that was. We continued to watch as the last of the parade passed in front of us before it too turned right to follow the band down the road that took them away from us. Meanwhile, the sound of the drums and trumpets became ever fainter as they marched off into the distance, until finally it finally ceased altogether.

What we’d just witnessed was the 2 Wing Drum and Trumpet Band leading Numbers 3 and 4 Boy Entrant Squadrons from Workshops for the midday meal break. And later, I learned that the instruments were indeed valveless trumpets. One other thing I had noticed was that most of the marchers wore berets, not the big hats that we had seen at Cosford.

As we continued our walk in the relative quiet that now surrounded us, I reflected on the comment that the marcher had flung at us. I’d never heard the word “sprog” in my life before that day, although its meaning was fairly clear from the context and I soon learned that it was RAF slang for a new recruit, sometimes also known as a rookie. But with regard to the comment, as far as I was concerned the marcher was wasting his breath because I hadn’t the slightest intention of taking his warning to heart. For me, the journey here had been a long one, in more ways than one, so I certainly wasn’t going to give it up now.

When I arrived back at the billet, many of my travelling companions were still lounging around reading, playing cards, or just chatting. Corporal Hillcrest came through the rear door on his way to his bunk. This time, he was in uniform, wearing a sharply creased battledress blouse and trousers and heavy boots that were studded with hobnails on the soles and steel tips at the heels. An immaculate blue/grey webbing belt with its gleaming brasses was clipped snugly around his waist. The loose material of the beret he wore on his head was pulled sharply down over his right ear. Some of the lads called out “Hi, Corp” in a familiar manner. He acknowledged the greeting in a friendly way, and stopped to chat with them and answer their questions. During this exchange, we learned that we were in the Initial Training Squadron, or would be when we took the oath of allegiance. Usually, the squadron was known just by its initials, ITS. Hillcrest was one of several drill instructors attached to ITS.

Long before coming to St. Athan, I’d heard scary stories about drill instructors, but this chap didn’t seem the slightest bit fear-inducing. In fact he would come into the billet and chat with us most evenings. Usually, during these visits, he would pick up a broom and use it to sweep the main area of the floor, whilst chatting and patiently answering our unending questions about life in the RAF. On occasions, he would even ask us, in friendly manner, to sweep the areas around our own beds.

Hillcrest also demonstrated the use of the strange-looking implement I had noticed nestled with the brooms on the day of our arrival. It turned out to be a floor polisher and was known as a Bumper. RAF issue wax floor-polish, which was bright orange in colour, was usually dolloped onto the linoleum floor and then spread around and worked in by pushing the bumper backwards and forwards over it. “Swinging” the bumper was very hot work and took a lot of energy, especially as the polish spread out and the liquid component evaporated, leaving behind a stubborn coating of wax paste. Buffing off the wax to obtain a polished surface entailed placing a felt pad underneath the bumper head and then repeating the process, although it did get a little easier as shine started to appear. The result, after a lot of hard work, was a brilliantly gleaming billet floor.

The billets started to fill up as more new recruits arrived that day and the next. In the meantime, I continued to explore my new surroundings with several others of the Irish contingent. We discovered the Navy Army and Air Force Institute, better known as the NAAFI (pronounced “naffy”), which operates recreational and canteen facilities on most military installations, where servicemen can relax, buy snacks, watch TV, or play games such as darts, snooker, billiards, and table tennis. There was also a separate NAAFI shop where I was able to buy some more Woodbines, having smoked all the ones I’d brought with me.

During this time, we met most of the drill instructors, the DIs, who would be in charge of our training. In addition to Corporal Hillcrest, there were also Corporals Blandford and Kaveney who were both married and therefore lived with their wives and families in the Station Married Quarters. The squadron disciplinary sergeant went by the name of Clarke and he manned the squadron office. Sergeant Clarke seemed reluctant to take part in any of the activities connected with the obnoxious horde of teenage boys who had suddenly burst into his calmly ordered life. Most of the time, he walked around with his nose in the air, exuding a detached demeanour that seemed to say I’m-above-all-of-this-distasteful-stuff, like some Jeeves-like butler.

Within two days of our arrival at St. Athan, we were all gathered into a large room and instructed to be seated at some tables and chairs arranged in parallel rows. Sergeant Clarke then handed out mimeographed form letters to each of us and told us that we were to address them to our parents and sign them. The letter briefly advised “Mum and Dad” that the supposed writer had arrived safely at St. Athan and was being well cared for. It also went on to say that his civilian clothing would be mailed home in the coming days. We were allowed to add a personal sentence if we wished, so I scribbled a few words about how long the journey had taken, about the fog, and what the local weather was doing. After signing my letter, I folded and placed it inside the ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ envelope that I had also been given, then licked the gummed flap and sealed it before passing it along to the end of my row of tables, from where it was collected by Sergeant Clarke.

After breakfast the next morning, which was Wednesday, we were shepherded into the same room again and, after being seated, a plump sweaty-looking little Pilot Officer took the floor. His opening statement is forever burned in my memory, “My name is Pilot Officer Morgan-Williams,” he said, “and I’m here to tell you about the R. A. F.” He enunciated each letter separately—“Arr Ay Eff.”

Morgan-Williams’ puffy white face was crowned by a thick oily mat of slicked-down jet-black hair and the pale upper part of his face stood out in contrast to the heavy dark shadow that covered its lower half. In fact, he looked more than a little foreign to me, an impression that was reinforced by what sounded like a strong foreign accent when he spoke. I later discovered he was Welsh, and that his “foreign” accent was overwhelmingly shared by a rather large Welsh population that was spread out for many miles from the gates of Royal Air Force St. Athan. Morgan-Williams, a teacher in civilian life, was in fact doing his 2-year National Service stint by serving in the RAF Education Scheme teaching RAF history, the subject on which he now proceeded to lecture us. We learned that the service had first come into being as the Royal Flying Corps during the First World War, as a branch of the army, but then evolved into a separate service in 1918, changing its name to the Royal Air Force at the same time. Because it was the first “air force” ever to be created as a separate entity, it has always had the distinction of being known simply as “The Royal Air Force” in contrast to all other air forces that have their national identity incorporated within the title.

The portly little Pilot Officer finished delivering the history lesson and left. Now it was Sergeant Clarke’s time to brief us on more down to earth matters.

“Pay attention, now,” he called out in his strained manner, as though the very act of addressing us was painful for him. “Tomorrow you will be inducted into the Royal Air Force and you will be asked to take the oath of allegiance.” He paused to let this sink in. “Now, if there is anyone amongst you having second thoughts about going through with this, this is your last chance to back out.” He looked around briefly to see if anyone had reacted to this solemn announcement and then continued, “If you should decide
not
to continue with induction, the Royal Air Force will provide you with a travel warrant back to your home town and you will be free to return there.” He paused again and looked around, “Okay, anyone who doesn’t wish to be inducted tomorrow, put his hand up.”

A small number of boys decided to take advantage of this final offer and were politely but quickly ushered out of the room. The sergeant then addressed those of us in the majority who had remained.

“Following induction, you will be known as the 29th Entry. Your training will consist of three months of initial training here in ITS, followed by fifteen months of technical training after you have passed-out of ITS and go to the Wings. On completion of your technical training, you will pass out of Boys’ service into the regular RAF, with the rank of Leading Aircraftsman.” He paused for breath and then added, “The training you will receive here at the Number 4 School of Technical Training is the finest in the world—second to none!”

Such a claim could easily be taken as a gross exaggeration, but having personally been the beneficiary of the training he spoke of for the greater part of my life, in retrospect I have no doubt that he was completely truthful in this regard. Of course, he was referring specifically to the technical training we would receive, but in a wider sense his words also included another form of training that came as part of the package. This other training, which also turned out to be second to none, involved the acceptance of discipline and learning to live in an ordered world, whilst developing initiative and the ability to be self-assertive. These were traits that would prove invaluable for successful and productive lives in a future that few of us could have imagined at that particular moment.

That evening, after eating in the mess, I entered a NAAFI canteen that I had noticed nearby. The ITS NAAFI was a long way from the mess and I needed to buy some cigarettes, so why not use this more convenient NAAFI, I thought? One of the other boys came with me and as we walked up to the counter, the ambient noise level in the place dropped several notches. It was like in one of those Westerns, where the sheriff walks into the saloon to confront the baddies and everyone in there knows that a big showdown is about to happen. Immediately, we knew that we had made a mistake by coming into this NAAFI, but there was no turning back now. The lady behind the counter didn’t appear to realize anything was wrong and served us, but very soon a tough looking kid with stripes all over his arm came up to us as we stood at the counter.