Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat Page 29
CHAPTER 9
The Royal Tournament
The very next morning it was my turn to be the duty trumpeter and the first order of business was to play Reveille. But if it takes a trumpeter to wake up the camp, then who wakes up the trumpeter? Actually, the arrangement was fairly simple. Six of us had been nominated to be 2 Wing’s trumpeters during summer camp and we were therefore all housed together in the same tent. The duty trumpeter for a particular day placed a white towel across the end of his bed before turning in for the night and then, in the morning, the camp Orderly Corporal was supposed to come to the tent and wake him up. It was a good arrangement in theory and had actually worked for the previous morning’s trumpeter. But something went sadly wrong on this particular morning, because the Orderly Corporal for that day failed to make an appearance at our tent. I slumbered on, oblivious to all. Fortunately, one of the other boys woke up and after glancing at his watch he realized that Reveille was late by a good ten minutes. Seeing the white towel still in place across the foot of my bed, he vigorously shook me awake. Since there was no time to get dressed, I hurried out of the tent, dressed only in pyjamas, with my trumpet clutched tightly in my hand and headed for my place of duty at the camp flagpole. The Orderly Officer and Orderly Sergeant were already hoisting the colours—the RAF Ensign—when I arrived there and worse yet, the Wing Commander had put in an appearance, wanting to know why Reveille hadn’t been sounded. He gave me a disgusted look as I rushed forward, dressed only in my PJ’s.
“The Orderly Corporal didn’t wake me, sir,” I tried to explain, but my mouth was dry from just having woken up, so all that came out was an incoherent mumble.
“Get on with it,” he growled, “and never let me see you show up on parade looking like that again!”
Being greeted by the Wing Commander was bad enough, but my troubles were far from over. I pushed the mouthpiece into the trumpet and put it to my lips. The metal was stone cold in the chilly morning air and, to my horror, I found that my lips felt paralysed and I couldn’t make them change shape to play the notes. All I seemed to be capable of squeezing from the trumpet were some unearthly discordant noises. But at least I achieved the desired effect of awaking my slumbering fellow-campers, although it certainly wasn’t Reveille by any stretch of the imagination.
Not surprisingly, all of the good advice came after the event. One of the more experienced trumpeters in the tent said, “When you have to play Reveille, you should keep the mouthpiece in bed with you all night, so that it’s warm when you come to play it in the morning.”
It was advice I would certainly remember when my next stint as duty-trumpeter came around, but right at that moment I was just feeling glad that I hadn’t been put on a charge for any of the breaches of good order and discipline that I’d dragged through the dust that morning. Let’s see: late on parade; improperly dressed on parade; incompetent playing; and I’m sure the Wingco could have come up with quite a few more things if he had decided to throw the book at me. I was dead lucky that he let me get away with just a curt remark.
* * *
One of the main objectives of summer camp, from the RAF’s point of view, was to teach us about teamwork and to show us how to pool our combined initiatives for efficient problem solving—like the compass-reading exercise that our RAF Regiment sergeants put us through one day, for example.
We were divided into small teams, given a hand-drawn map and a compass, taught how to take compass bearings on prominent features and then navigate a complicated course by following the compass bearings noted on the map through a series of area landmarks, such as a high sand dune or distinctive pine tree. It was a lot of fun, as most of the activities were and at the same time taught me, for one, how to find my way by using a map and compass.
Another exercise was the task of setting up a means of transferring personnel and equipment across a “ravine”, using nothing more than ropes, poles and pulleys. The sergeants coached us on how to set up a trestle-like structure on each side of the ravine, braced with ropes and pegs, which we then used to support a strong line strung across the ravine. The acid test came when someone was supposed to make a trip across this makeshift bridge to prove that it was fit for its purpose, by riding on a crude sling contraption that we’d rigged up to travel along the line on a pulley. We were so confident in our own handiwork that there were absolutely no volunteers, but then we managed to persuade a young National Service Pilot Officer from the Education Section to make the first trip across. We were all chuffed that the bridge held up under his weight and that he made it safely across. But then, we knew all along that he would.
All of our daily adventures were carried out under the supervision of the RAF Regiment and as they marched us to and from our tent encampment we became so accustomed to singing our marching songs that, after the first day, we did it without any need of their encouragement. And, along the way, many of us had acquired staves and stout walking sticks. These we ornamented by cutting designs into the wood or bark with our penknives. In keeping with the atmosphere of a more relaxed discipline, each Entry made its own distinctive flag, which was carried high by one of the lads at the front of each column on our marches. When one Entry column met another, there was much light-hearted banter between the two groups, with lots of flag waving and gesturing. The Regiment sergeants seemed to enjoy this as much as we did and actively encouraged us to have pride in our respective Entries.
On one particular day, we were taken to the Altcar army shooting range for rifle practice. This was a 100-yard range that made our 25-yard range at St. Athan seem like a shooting booth at a funfair. The targets were much larger to compensate for the greater distance and the aiming point area was manned. Each time anyone fired at his target, a coloured disc on the end of a long pole would materialize upwards from behind the sand bunker at the target base, to indicate the general area in which someone fired at a target and then, when the inevitable disc-on-a-pole appeared, would blast away at it to see if we could hit the moving target. It was a lot more fun than shooting at a boring bulls-eye target, but also a total waste of time. Later, when I saw some of my Entry-mates sporting their marksman badges, I felt a tinge of regret that I hadn’t also used my time at the Altcar range a little better to earn a marksmanship badge.
It was at Woodvale that I experienced the wonderful sensation of flight for the first time in my life. The aircraft was an Avro Anson—a monoplane powered by two radial piston engines.
On the day of the flight, a group of us were taken to the Station Flight dispersal area where we were each fitted with a Mae West and a parachute and then instructed on how to use them. The parachute harness would be worn throughout the flight, but the parachute pack was kept separately at a convenient point aboard the Anson, where it could be readily clipped on to the front of the harness in the “unlikely event of an emergency”. We then waited for the aircraft to return from its previous flight.
It wasn’t too long before the Anson landed on the runway and then taxied around the perimeter track into the dispersal, where we waited. The butterflies in my stomach became more agitated by the moment. A ground-crew member held up two yellow marshalling bats and as the Anson taxied straight towards him, he repeatedly waved them up and down in semaphore fashion to guide the pilot. When the aircraft was almost on top of him, he lowered one bat but continued waving the other. At this signal, the aircraft turned around in its own length to face in the direction from which it had just come. Another ground-crew member, waiting a short distance away, then began waving his bats when he came into the pilot’s view. But he only brought the aircraft a short distance forward before holding both bats straight above his head as a signal for the pilot to brake and come to a stop. Both men then ran and placed chocks in front of the main wheels, to prevent it from rolling forward if the brakes were accidentally released. They then wheeled a short set of steps up to the passenger cabin door, after which one of them climbed up the steps and opened the door. Very soon a group
of Boy Entrants emerged, one or two of them clutching small brown paper bags that they had obviously used in a moment of gastric distress. Now it was our turn, as we were ushered towards the steps and up into the Anson.
On entering the passenger cabin, my sense of smell instantly registered an aroma that was peculiar to military aircraft of that era. The bouquet was complex but not unpleasant. Some of it was given off by the rubber insulation that sheathed the aircraft’s electrical wiring, but it also combined other fragrances that were too difficult to separate and identify. Yet these smells, when combined together, became a signature aroma that was instantly associated with aircraft. Once smelled, it imprinted itself on my sub-conscious, never ever to be mistaken for anything else as long as I live. The encounter with this aroma, on entering the Anson, added further to my sense of excitement at the prospect of “slipping the surly bonds of earth and dancing the skies on laughter-silvered wings”. *
(*Paraphrased from the poem “High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee, Jr. See Appendix 3 for the full and correct version of the poem)
As with all passenger aircraft of that time, there was only a single central aisle that sloped upwards from the tail end of the Anson. I made my way up the slope grabbing at the backs of seats on either side to help me make the climb, before taking my place in a seat where a crew member indicated that I should sit. It was a comfortable passenger-aircraft type of seat, which wasn’t very surprising since Ansons were commonly used during that period as “station communications aircraft”, which was something of a euphemism for the station commander’s personal executive transportation. The passenger cabin contained ten seats in two single rows down each side of the cabin, each adjacent to a square-shaped window that permitted good viewing for all passengers.
When all were aboard, the sergeant aircrew member, who had earlier directed me to my seat, stood at the front of the cabin and instructed us to fasten our seatbelts. He then proceeded to lecture us on the safety procedures we would need to follow in any of the “unlikely events” (that phrase again) that we would have to bail out, or otherwise be forced to evacuate the plane in an emergency on land or in water. Meanwhile, the ground-crew slammed the door closed and then it was chocks away! The sound of the engine picked up in intensity as the pilot opened the throttles for a brief period, then he released the brakes and the plane lurched forward and started rolling at a steady clip in the direction of the perimeter track. As we trundled along, the propellers appeared to be just fluttering around because the engines needed to run only at idling speed to keep the craft moving. Then, after about five minutes of taxiing, we reached the end of the runway but came to a stop before actually moving onto it. The pilot checked each engine in turn by running it up to full power, then throttling back. When it seemed that he was satisfied, the brakes came off again and we taxied on to the end of the runway, with the tail simultaneously swinging around through ninety degrees so that we were now pointed in the right direction, ready for takeoff. Both engines came up to full power and we lurched off, as everything around us in the cabin began vibrating and rattling. Within a few seconds, the tail lifted off the ground, bringing the cabin to a level position. Then, as we gathered speed, the bumps on the runway became fewer and fewer, giving an increasing impression of weightlessness, until finally the main wheels cleared the ground and the ride became a lot smoother, although the occasional dip seemed to leave my stomach several feet above where it was supposed to be. The aircraft still vibrated from the exertions of its two radial engines, as the “Anny” struggled into the air in a shallow climb. It wasn’t a Spitfire, but I couldn’t have been more excited if it was.
The noise of the engines seemed to become muffled until I swallowed, unwittingly equalizing the pressure between my inner and outer ears, which immediately brought the noise back again at full volume. My forehead was pressed to the window as I watched the ground dropping away and the fields, houses and cars became a miniature landscape. It was a bright clear summer day, so nothing was hidden from our view as the aircraft banked around to the right and headed towards the coast. I could see that we were turning and that the attitude of the plane had changed as one wing dipped and seemed fixed on a point on the ground far below. Since I was sitting in one of the right-hand seats, my brain told me that I should feel myself being pressed against the fuselage, but I was very conscious of the fact that my body felt absolutely no sensation of gravity and it was just as though I was sitting in a level position instead of at a steep angle. The Anson levelled off as we crossed the shoreline, putting us out over the Irish Sea. Then we made another right turn before levelling off again so that we were now flying north, parallel with the coastline.
The aircrew sergeant had stayed in the passenger cabin with us and he now started pointing out some landmarks, shouting most of the time to make himself heard above the noise. He indicated Southport as it came up on the right-hand side, prompting someone seated on the left side of the aircraft to come over and crowd up to the window at which I was seated, so that he could see. Shortly after that, the land faded away to our right as we crossed an expanse of open sea. Over in the distance I could make out a silvery ribbon of water that contrasted brightly with the dull grey of the land that surrounded it. As my eyes stayed with this shining arrow of light I realized that it was a river. And, as we drew abreast of it, the sliver of silver pointed directly to the east, reflecting the morning light and then just for a split second, glinted with even greater intensity as it suddenly caught the sun’s direct reflection. Then, while my gaze was still locked on the river, we regained the coastline again on the other side of the estuary.
“There’s Blackpool Tower,” the sergeant called out.
My eyes became glued to the tall brown skeletal structure of the famous tower, as it seemed to slowly pass by on our right. This was the first time I’d ever seen Blackpool Tower in real life and I mentally marked it off as “done” on a longstanding mental list of famous places or things that I just had to see.
After flying past the tower, the aircraft banked to the right and flew a half circle around it, then levelled off as we headed in the opposite direction. Now we were over land, with the seaward side to our right.
“Look, there’s Warton and that’s the P-1 down there,” said the sergeant, suddenly and excitedly, as he peered out of the window nearest to him.
He was referring to the new top of the line supersonic fighter aircraft that would later be named the “Lightning,” but which at this moment in its history was still undergoing flight-testing and had not yet entered into RAF service. I knew a little about it and looked down with great anticipation, expecting to see the sleek secrecy-enshrouded aircraft. But I could see nothing except mediocre looking buildings that were probably hangars. It was a big disappointment and yet, judging by some of the comments around me, a few of the others had actually seen it. After that we saw fields and villages, roads with cars and lorries crawling along like ants, but nothing else of great note.
Soon the Anson started descending and my ears started to pop as the pressure on them changed. We’d been told to swallow when this happened, so now I swallowed hard each time successive waves of pressure caused my ears to feel uncomfortable. The pilot levelled off after a while and then I heard the engines being throttled back and saw the flaps go down as the aircraft slowed. Before long, there was a loud thud with an accompanying increase in the wind noise. These sudden noises were alarming, but the sergeant must have noticed the frightened look on several of our faces, because he quickly shouted out that it was only due to the wheels being lowered. The ground started to get closer and closer, then a quick flash of the white threshold markings passed underneath, to be immediately replaced by the dark grey of the runway tarmac. We floated above the surface for a few long-seeming seconds and then the wheels touched the surface with a gentle bump. Now the tail started to settle down onto the runway and soon the tail-wheel hit with a smaller bump. The Anson coasted along on the ground with both propeller
s fluttering around in idle, until we reached a convenient exit point on the runway. There was a faint squeal of brakes as the pilot used differential braking to yaw the tail around and point us towards the exit, then we continued taxiing back to the dispersal and waited for the door to be opened before disembarking. In all, the flight lasted for only half an hour, but I had found it very exciting and would have gone back up again without a moment’s hesitation, if that had been a real possibility.
* * *
The weather was glorious during the entire two weeks of our summer camp, which encouraged me to make the trip into Southport every evening that I could afford the train fare and have a little left over to spend when I got there. But, coming up to payday, the cash situation was usually stretched a little thin, so Southport wasn’t always an option. Fortunately, there were other things we could do on warm sunny evenings that required no cash outlay. We frequently charged around in the sand dunes near the beach, sometimes defending the higher ones against all-comers like a teenage version of “King of the Castle”. It was a great way of having fun while burning off some youthful energy. We would really have preferred to meet some girls, but there didn’t seem to be too many around in the immediate neighbourhood of the camp.
Evenings in the camp could also get boisterous. Once, as dusk was falling, there was a brilliant flash of light from the direction of the electric railway line. I heard next day that someone had thrown a safari bed onto the track and the bed’s metal frame had fallen across the live centre rail and one of the main rails, short-circuiting them. As a result, the electric train service was out of action for several hours and Boy Entrants once again came under the very unwelcome scrutiny of the British Railways police, although I don’t think they ever found the culprit on this occasion.