Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat Page 8

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s try it. Flight, ri-ight dress!”

  Much shuffling of feet ensued, as Kaveney urged us on with shouts of “C’mon, c’mon, look lively. We haven’t got all day.”

  After a few minutes, the ragged appearance of our ranks was replaced by three reasonably straight lines of equally spaced boys in an assortment of civilian dress. Apparently, our training had begun.

  The corporal stood us easy again, and now demonstrated that when he gave the Right Turn order, we were to swivel our feet and bodies to the right so that we would face in the direction of the road. At this point the right foot would also be pointing in the correct direction, but the left foot would be at an awkward angle, so we were to then bring the left foot smartly alongside the right foot. The interval between first and second movement was to be timed by numbers that he instructed us to call out aloud, turn—two—three, and then bring the left foot smartly alongside the right foot. Following this demonstration, he brought us back to attention so that we could try it.

  “Flight, ri-ight turn!”

  We all made it. Now we were to march as a column.

  “When I give the order ‘By the left, quick march’,” Corporal Kaveney now instructed in clipped tones, “you will step off with your left foot, and swing your right arm up shoulder high.” He paused momentarily to take a deep breath before giving the order, “Flight, by the le-eft, qui-ick, march!”

  This didn’t work out quite as smoothly as the right turn. Some boys, who seemed to have difficulty in differentiating between left and right, stepped off with their right foot instead of their left and, in the process, trod on the heels of the boys in front. The latter reacted by either hopping in pain, or turning around and angrily confronting the person responsible for inflicting the injury. The combined result of both reactions caused others in the column to collide and stumble, bringing total disarray to the marching formation. The DI ordered us to halt.

  “That was a shambles,” he shouted. “An utter bloody shambles! Let’s try it again shall we?”

  So, we had another try, and yet another, until we eventually started moving off down the road in what can only be described as semi-military fashion with our guardian DI calling out the step, “Yeft, yoyt, yeft, yoyt, yeft, yoyt, yeft—yeft, yeft, yeft, yoyt, yeft. Get those bloody arms up shoulder high you lot in front!”

  He called a halt when we got to the Mess, but it was more of a controlled crash. I caught a momentary glimpse of the corporal’s pained face as he closed his eyes and shook his head, silently mouthing, “Mother of God, give me strength.” Then we were dismissed, with the admonition to be back on the road in thirty minutes.

  The RAF served the main meal of the day at midday in those days—we called it dinner. Usually, it consisted of three choices of meat, with potatoes prepared in various ways and vegetables—always the canned variety. There was soup if we wanted it and a few choices of dessert to follow. Sounds mouth-watering, but it certainly wasn’t cordon bleu dining by any stretch of the imagination, just very plain fare. I never knew of anyone who over-ate; we just took in enough to dispel the feeling of hunger. But the desserts were enjoyable, usually some kind of sponge-cake or pastry concoction with a jam filling and a ladleful of warm custard poured over it.

  Thirty minutes later we were out on the road again, falling-in in threes. A repeat of the Right Dress manoeuvre, then a left turn that most of us accomplished this time—although some still needed to figure out their right from their left—and we were off again, headed for Sick Quarters and the Dental Section.

  The Dental Section was first. It operated like a production line. We were each called in turn to sit in a dentist’s chair while a Dental Officer inspected our teeth. He called out the state of each tooth to a dental orderly, who recorded the information on a standard dental chart. On completion of the examination, the Dental Officer commented on each person’s dental hygiene. I’m ashamed to have to admit that in my case he pronounced my hygiene as “poor”. I had never been encouraged to go a dentist at home because it cost too much.

  After the dental examination, we marched to Station Sick Quarters where we were subjected to the old push, prod, turn-your-head-and-cough routine, but with an added bonus—we were to be inoculated against Typhoid A & B and Tetanus—TABT in the medic’s lingo. And so, after being examined, we queued up to run the needle gauntlet. Some boys fainted as the needle was buried none too gently into their arm by a burly male nurse. Others didn’t even get that far, their knees folded up at the mere sight of the hypodermic, or maybe it was the strong medical aroma that permeated the room. Personally, I made it through the ordeal and although my fear of needles was equal to most others there that day, I was at least able to remain conscious during the process.

  The dental and medical examinations took up all of the afternoon, most of the time being spent on filling out questionnaires about whether or not we had ever been afflicted by any of an amazing variety of exotic diseases, and then having to wait around until everyone in the group had been through the various inspections and inoculations. By now my left arm, the one that had been subjected to the needle, was feeling sore and becoming stiff. It was not only very painful to the touch, but hurt badly as I swung it shoulder high during the march back to our billets. I wasn’t the only one affected in this way. As I found out later, the pain and stiffness was an unpleasant side effect of the TABT inoculation, which was also usually accompanied by flu-like symptoms.

  By the time I got back to the billet, I wanted to do nothing more than lie down on my bed while trying not to jar my arm against anything that would aggravate the pain. As I lay there, some of the others in the billet, who had not yet been subjected to the inoculation process, were sitting around on a bed on the opposite side of the room talking and smoking. During the course of their conversation, the door at the end of the billet opened and Corporal Hillcrest came through en route to his bunk. One of the group, who had apparently developed a friendly relationship with the corporal, called out “Hi Corp, how ya doin’ today?”

  The corporal stopped by the bed where the group was gathered, smiling his usual friendly smile.

  “I’m fine,” he replied. Then, in what seemed to be an afterthought, he innocently asked, “By the way, did any of you boys take the oath of allegiance today?”

  “Yes Corp, we all did,” replied the boy.

  On hearing this response, the smile abruptly vanished from Corporal Hillcrest’s face and was replaced by a hate-filled sneering look. Before our very eyes, Dr Jekyll suddenly became Mr. Hyde.

  “Well, you’re in the Royal Air Force now,” he screamed, “On your feet laddie. Put that cigarette out and stand to attention when you’re addressing an NCO! From now on, when an NCO enters a room the first person to see him will come to attention and yell out ‘NCO present!’ Is that understood?” All of this issued from the corporal’s mouth in a continuous stream of words delivered in a screaming voice not more than six inches from the poor unfortunate boy’s wide-eyed frightened face.

  The boy was utterly dazed, as we all were. “Yes corp—ORAL,” suddenly remembering to add the second syllable.

  Hillcrest turned to look around at all of us. “This place is a shit-heap,” he pronounced with a look of disgust. “Take hold of those brooms and the bumper and get it cleaned up, NOW!” With that he turned on his heel and stomped off towards his bunk.

  We all looked at each other in the aftermath, for what seemed an eternity, then someone picked up a broom and started sweeping around his bed area. No one said anything because we were all still too stunned by witnessing the unexpected transformation of our friend into the monster he had just become. The monster lived on thereafter, and we would never again see the friendly side of Corporal Hillcrest.

  CHAPTER 3

  Out of the Frying Pan…

  At 8 o’clock the next morning—or oh-eight-hundred hours (0800 hours) in the military language with which we were now expected to become familiar—all
new recruits in ITS were ordered to parade on the road near our billets in the same groups into which we had been sub-divided on the previous day. Everyone still wore civilian clothing, combined with a variety of hair styles ranging from crew-cuts to Teddy Boy “DAs”. In retrospect, I can only imagine that our overall appearance must have given the DIs nothing short of acid indigestion. Although it was less than 24 hours since having been sworn into the service, we had nevertheless learned how to come to attention and dress off in ranks that were reasonably straight, so most of us were able to respond to these commands when the order was now given. The DIs in charge of our groups took a few minutes of strutting backwards and forwards to look us over and then with little more than grudging satisfaction, ordered us to stand at ease. Having done that, they all spent the next several minutes in a huddle with Sergeant Clarke before returning to their respective groups, each one carrying a sheet of paper in his hand.

  Corporal Blandford addressed my group, “Okay, pay attention!” He paused for a moment to make sure we were all listening before proceeding. “We’re now going to assign you to the billets that you will occupy for the remainder of your time in ITS,” he said, then continued: “When you hear your name called, listen for your billet number and then, when you’re dismissed, go on the double to the billet that you’re now in, collect your belongings and take them to your new billet.” He paused and looked around, “Are there any questions?”

  No one spoke, so Corporal Blandford then started to read off the names and billet assignments. When he got to my name, it was “Carlin—G6.” I made a mental note that I would now be housed in hut G6.

  When all the names had finally been called out, he asked if everyone knew which billet they were assigned to. No one spoke, which apparently satisfied him that we all knew where we were supposed to move our belongings to, so he brought us to attention again and then dismissed us. We had been taught how to respond to the “Dismiss” command the previous day, at the conclusion of our march to the Mess; it was executed by swivelling the feet and body one-eighth of a turn to the right, then bringing the left foot to the right foot while still in the position of attention. Like any drill movement, it was performed by everyone in unison, but at its conclusion we broke ranks as individuals and usually just walked away. However, in this particular case the follow-up order had been to go at the double to collect our belongings, which meant that we were expected to run.

  As soon as we were dismissed, there was a stampede of feet on concrete that very quickly transformed into a loud pounding noise on wooden corridor floors as we all ran to the billets we now occupied to collect our gear. Because G4 was the nearest billet, I got there almost right away and quickly threw what belongings I’d brought with me into my battered old suitcase, then folded my blankets, pillow and sheets, and carried the whole load to G6, which fortunately wasn’t very far away. Just through the rear door, a jog to the right, cut through the communal washroom—the Ablutions—into the corridor that served the billets on the other side of the complex, a second jog, to the left this time, and I was there. My immediate plan was to stake a claim to the best possible bed-space in G6 by wasting no time in getting there. But the plan turned out to be all in vain when I discovered that the beds had already been assigned by name. What was more, there was no preferential treatment involved because they had all apparently been assigned alphabetically. My bed-space was near the midway point in the billet, on the right as viewed from the front entrance.

  To the best of my recollection, the following are the names of the people who were assigned to hut G6. Starting from the left side on entering from the front door: Niall Adderley; “Bertie” Bassett; John Beech; “Dicky” Bird; Geordie Brand; Howard “Ginge” Brown; Cecil Burden; Richard Butterworth. Opposite Butterworth, on the other side of the billet: “Barney” Barnes; “Jock” Campbell; “Jock” Callaghan; myself; “Charlie” Chaplain; Derek Chinnery; “Cokey” Cole; and George Coaten.

  When everyone had found his assigned bed-space and all belongings had been transferred, Corporal Blandford proceeded to give us the first of many lessons on military life. The subject of this particular lesson was on how to maintain a smart, military-like billet, by showing us how to make our blankets and pillows up into bed-packs and demonstrating the manner in which our personal bed-space areas were to be left each day, so that they would be ready for inspection at any time during “duty hours”.

  The first step in making a bed-pack was to strip all sheets and blankets from the bed, except for one blanket that was used to cover the bare mattress. This blanket needed to be stretched as tight as a drum so that there were no wrinkles, and the loose ends tucked beneath the mattress on both sides and at the foot end of the bed. When tucking the blanket in at the foot, we were to use “hospital corners,” which are little diagonal folds that are made by folding and tucking the blanket in a certain way. Next, three of the blankets and both sheets each had to be folded in half three times and then stacked on top of each other, starting with a blanket on the bottom and then alternating with sheets and blankets on top of each other. The remaining blanket was then folded once lengthwise and wrapped around the stack of sheets and blankets. This pack of sheets and blankets was then placed at the head of the bed, with its folds facing towards the foot. To complete the arrangement, the pillow was plumped up and placed on top. The final result of all this was a bed-pack. That, at least, was the theory, but it took some practise to get the bed pack to appear anything like it was supposed to. Managing to fold the blankets so that they were all the same size seemed to be the greatest challenge. Next, and only slightly less challenging, was acquiring the ability to wrap the final blanket tightly enough around the pack so as to endow the completed construction with an appearance that closely resembled the perfectly square contours of the model bed pack featured in a poster pinned up on the billet bulletin board for our guidance. Achieving these important skills didn’t happen overnight, so it wasn’t unusual to make the unpleasant discovery, on returning to the billet at lunchtime, that your bed pack had been pulled apart and strewn all over your bed during the daily barrack room inspection.

  In addition to making our bedding up into a bed-pack, we were required to display our mug and irons on the top of our small bedside locker. The china mug had to be positioned upside down in the exact centre of the locker top, with the knife, fork and spoon arranged around it in a pattern that mimicked a table setting. Needless to say, all of these implements were to be spotlessly clean. Dirty mug or “irons” would be thrown on the bed, but if the white porcelain of the mug exhibited even the faintest of hairline cracks, the inspecting NCO would immediately break the vessel and toss it into the billet waste bin, leaving the unfortunate owner with little choice but to buy a replacement from the NAAFI.

  But the unpleasant experiences of toppled bed-packs and smashed mugs were to come later. On this particular day of learning about bed packs and the locker-top layout, we finished around lunchtime and were then formed up in threes on the road outside the billets—that is in three ranks or columns—and marched to the mess for our midday meal. Directly after lunch, we were marched to the camp barbershop to be confronted by three middle-aged Welsh barbers from nearby Barry who quickly busied themselves in converting our assorted civilian hairstyles into the standard military “short back and sides”. They weren’t much given to barber shop chatter with the customers, although they prattled incessantly to each other in their almost unintelligible Welsh accent as they efficiently, and none too gently, sheared us of our cherished locks.

  Having been collectively relieved of such a great weight from our shoulders but now suffering the irritating torture caused by those tiny hair clippings that stubbornly insisted on clinging to the insides of the neckbands of our shirts, we were marched off to our next destination. This was to be the clothing store where we would be issued with our kit. When we arrived another group was still in the process of being kitted out, so we were permitted to “stand-easy”. Those in poss
ession of a smoking pass, duly signed by a parent, were allowed to smoke. I didn’t have a pass, but I lit up a cigarette anyway. No one challenged me, so I continued, smoking half of the cigarette before carefully putting it out to save the remainder for later. Then it was our turn to be kitted.

  “Flight, attennn-shun,” yelled Corporal Blandford.

  We were then marched in single file into the clothing store, which was in reality a huge warehouse. A long wide counter separated us from the racks and racks of clothing and equipment. On the other side of this counter a team of weary and bored looking storemen waited to fulfil our every need. On our side of the counter, Sergeant Clarke from our squadron office supervised the proceedings.

  The plan was simple; we moved forward along the counter in single file until every storeman had a “customer” facing him from our side of the counter. The storeman then made a note of each person’s name, rank and service number—we were all the same rank; Boy Entrant, or B/E in RAF shorthand—and then proceeded to issue us with items of kit, calling out the name in military-style reverse order as he did so. “Drawers, cellular, six”—that was six pairs of loose-legged underwear that came down to mid-thigh made from a cellular cotton fabric. We would later learn that the RAF slang name for these garments was “shreddies” because of their tendency to become threadbare and shred at the crotch where they rubbed against the harsh worsted material of our trousers.

  The items were dumped onto the growing heap of clothing before us, and whilst a complete listing of every item of kit we received would be prohibitive, not to mention boring, it can be recorded that our mounting pile included three collarless shirts, the kind our fathers and grandfathers were more likely to wear, and six separate collars to go with them, plus two black ties. We were also issued with six pairs of knitted woollen socks, two pairs of leather lace-up boots, a V-necked sweater, one pair of canvas gym shoes known as plimsolls, two cap badges, one pair of blue-grey knitted gloves, three pairs of dark blue gym shorts and three white gym shirts, a service dress hat, a beret, and the oddest thing of all—a housewife. This was a little cloth wallet-like object containing sewing and darning needles, white and black thread, blue darning wool for our socks, a thimble, and several buttons. It was a sobering thought that if there was any darning or sewing to be done, we were going to have to do it ourselves. And this wasn’t the only non-clothing item to be issued, we also got a set of four brushes, two boot-polish brushes—one to apply the boot polish with and one to shine it off—a clothes brush, and a button brush to be used for cleaning our brass buttons and cap badges. There was also a little brass gadget called a button-stick to be slipped under any button being cleaned, to hold it in place and also to protect the fabric underneath from being soiled by metal polish. There was more brass-work on the square-shaped shoulder bag known as a small-pack, and on the webbing belt, both of which were included in the kit issue.