by Brian Carlin
We were all back in the billet a little before 1300 hours, where we noticed that the boys who had been summoned to the Flight office were joined by several more from the other billets. Then, at a little after 1300 hours, they were ushered into the office, and given a bollocking—a stern lecture—for not meeting the standards of preparedness required for a kit inspection. A common problem was buttons that weren’t clean enough, which was something that dogged most of us at one time or another during our time at St. Athan. This was also one of Sergeant Clarke’s pet peeves. “You need to get the shit out from between the crowns,” he proclaimed. “Get an old toothbrush and really get in there.”
He was referring to the intricate little nooks and crannies on the embossed crown on our buttons, and the little gap between the crown and the eagle. It was difficult to clean these by just using a regular button brush or a cleaning cloth, and it could easily become a trap for metal polish residue, which had a tendency to turn green in reacting with the brass. Using a toothbrush was the best way to clean the tiny areas involved and all it took was a little more time and patience, but sometimes both of those commodities were in short supply.
Corporal Kaveney made an appearance soon after everyone had returned to the billet. The contrast between our drill instructors’ personalities was interesting. At one extreme we had Hillcrest the Snide and at the other there was Blandford who treated us like human beings for the most part, although he still maintained good discipline. Kaveney, tall, quiet, lean and straight as a ramrod, was somewhere in between the other two. He was what you might call a little tightly wrapped, but at the same time he was fair. Although he never picked on anyone, he didn’t joke with us either. The expression on his face never altered and it seemed that not even the hint of a smile ever crossed his face. For Corporal Kaveney, it was all just business. His entry into the billet initiated the alert, “NCO present!” We all jumped to attention, in what now seemed to be second nature to us. Corporal Kaveney carried a large roll of brown paper and a large ball of twine, both of which he dumped on the table. The paper appeared to be of the type used in shops of that era to wrap purchases, but it differed in that on one side it had a shiny green waterproof coating.
“Pay attention,” he announced in his calm, bland voice. “You will send your civilian clothing back home to your parents. From now on you must always be in uniform and must be properly dressed at all times, on or off duty, except when you are here in the billet after duty hours. Is that clear?” He looked around to emphasise the point that it should be clear, then continued, “That means tunic buttoned all the way up, belt buckled, hat properly placed on the head, unless you are indoors, in which case you may remove it.” He looked down at the paper and twine on the table in front of him and gestured, “Use this paper to parcel up your clothes. Tie it well and then label the parcel with your parents’ name and home address.” As he said this, he pulled a pad of gummed labels from his pocket, “Here are some address labels.” He then pointed to a corner of the billet, near the table. “When you’ve finished, pile your parcels in that corner. Okay? And don’t take all afternoon. I’ll be back in an hour and expect you to be finished.” With that, he turned on his heel and departed by the front entrance.
The act of parcelling up my civvies hit home as a moment of truth because of the symbolism it embodied. This, more than anything else I had been through in the past few days, brought a strong dose of reality to the situation. Those clothes had hung in my locker as a link with my old life. Up to now, a thought had persisted at the back of my mind that I could very easily take the uniform off and put my old clothes back on to end this adventure if things didn’t seem to be working out. Now, by sending the clothes home, that link with my former life was gone and it was a case of sink or swim from now on.
I parcelled the clothing up in the brown paper as neatly as a 15-year-old boy possibly could and wrapped enough string to moor the Queen Mary around the package. Then I filled out the address label and licked the gummed side, getting the foul taste of the glue in my mouth, and smoothed the label on the outside of the parcel before adding it to the growing pile. And that was the last I ever saw of those clothes.
That night I wrote my first real letters home—the form letter that we’d been forced to send a few days earlier didn’t count as far as I was concerned. Ironically, I was feeling homesick, brought on partly by the separation from my civvy clothes. It’s true that I was glad to be away from there, but home meant more than just being in my father’s house. It meant familiar surroundings, sisters, a brother, friends and uncles and aunts to whom I could turn when things got difficult. There was something else—in spite of the misery that I suffered at the hands of my stepmother Annie, I had learned lots of ways to get around her and snatch some small comforts in life. But here in ITS there were no friendly relatives to turn to, nor long-time friends. And the DIs had seen it all before, so there was no getting around them. They would often say things like, “You might have broken your mother’s heart, laddie, but you’re not going to break mine!” It really felt as though I’d traded one tough life for another—out of the frying pan into the fire! And although there seemed to be a far off light at the end of this dark tunnel holding out a promise that at least the journey’s end would be worthwhile, the feeling of loneliness at being stranded in an uncaring, hostile world made me miss the comfortable familiarity of my old life.
Before my departure from home, Annie had made sure I understood that I was expected to send some of my weekly earnings home, meagre as these would be. She had told me in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t be welcome to come back there on leave if I didn’t do this. A person needs somewhere to come back to, so there seemed to be little choice but comply. Therefore, one of the things I’d done during my induction a few days earlier was to assign a weekly allotment of ten shillings to Annie. The government would send her a coupon book that she would present every week at the Post Office to receive the allotment, much the same way as elderly people drew their pensions. My letter told her about this, which in a way I suppose was to secure my reservation when the time came to go on leave. The short letter, written in postcard fashion, told her of some of the happenings of the past few days and included my new address in the hope that I would receive a letter in return. As every serviceman will tell you, getting any kind of mail is a big morale booster when you’re far away from home. I also mentioned that my civvies should arrive in the very near future, so that she’d know to expect the parcel. Then I wrote to my great aunt Maggie. This second letter contained a lot more of myself, as I told her of all that had happened since the last time she’d seen me. Finally, I wrote a third brief letter to Aunt Alice, then sealed all three letters before walking over and posting them at the NAAFI. There seemed to be comfort in this, even if it was just one way contact with home. I felt much better on the way back to the billet.
CHAPTER 4
Recoil on the Range
The next morning Corporal Kaveney stomped noisily into the billet, shortly after we had returned from breakfast. “Fall in outside, on the double” he ordered.
We sprinted outside and headed for the road, joined by the other boys who were also streaming out of their billets. On reaching the road, everyone formed up in the usual three ranks. Corporals Blandford and Hillcrest were already there and when we’d right-dressed and been stood easy, the corporals divided us all into three smaller groups. I found myself in Corporal Hillcrest’s group: he brought us to attention and then put us through the right-dress manoeuvre before standing us at ease.
“I hope you’ve all been busy cleaning your buttons,” he announced with a malicious little smirk, as he strutted around in front of us, “because I’m going to be inspecting them very closely.” He stopped strutting and faced us, “But first I’m going to give the order for you to open ranks,” he continued. “On the command ‘open order march’ the front rank will take one step forward and the rear rank will take one step back. The middle rank will not mo
ve and don’t forget—the word of command is ‘march’. Do not move until it is given. Is that understood?”
“Yes corporal,” we answered together.
He demonstrated, marching forward with his left foot as he voiced the command ‘march’. He then completed the movement by bringing his right foot smartly alongside the left. That, he explained, was for the front rank only and then he showed us how the rear rank needed to take one step backwards. It looked easy enough, but as we learned time and time again with new drill movements, it was rarely as simple as it looked.
“Flight...! Waiiiit for it, waiiiit for it,”—some people had started to move before the actual command was given. Hillcrest paused until stability and equilibrium returned once more to the ranks and then completed the command, “opennnn orderrrr march.”
The front rank took one step forward, the rear rank took one step back, some of the middle rank took one step forward, some stayed where they were and some took a step back.
“You bloody shower,” screamed Hillcrest. “You’re an absolute bloody shower! As you werrrrre!”
With his North Country accent, he always pronounced “bloody” as “blue-dy”. I recognized the word, distorted though it was, but I didn’t know what a shower was in the particular context in which he used it, although to judge from the manner in which he screamed the word, it didn’t sound as though it was very complimentary.
We shuffled back into our original three ranks, only to undergo another ‘right-dress’ and then, after one or two more attempts, we eventually responded to the ‘open order’ command without major disorder. Having managed to get us into open order, Hillcrest then walked along the front and rear of each rank, inspecting our buttons, boots, uniforms and personal appearance in general. In particular, he was having a field day with our berets. Many of us were still grappling with exactly how this piece of headgear should be worn. The correct way was to adjust the head band so that it was horizontal all around the head at a level that was two finger-widths above the bridge of the nose, with the hat-badge located directly above the left eye. The loose material was then supposed to be pulled over the right ear. But styles varied amongst Boy Entrants. A few wore their berets in the regulation style, whilst an even smaller number wore theirs with the headband pulled all the way down until it rested on their ears, leaving no material to pull over to the side and endowing the wearer with a moronic appearance. Most of us, however, wore our berets in the sophisticated style affected by the Wing boys. This was really a modified regulation style—after pulling the material over the right ear in the approved manner, the wearer grasped the backing plate that supported the badge and pulled it to an upright position, at the same time putting a tuck in the material behind the backing plate. Hillcrest didn’t like this style, however and wore his own beret in a strictly regulation way.
“I don’t want to see any little bloody duck ponds in those berets,” he informed us as he made us adjust the headgear to suit his style.
But we always adjusted our headgear to reinstate the “duck pond” as soon afterwards as we could get away with it. This was a continual source of irritation to Hillcrest and it became an ongoing battle between him and us. Few of us ever relented and always wore our berets in the Wing style, which we believed to be a hallmark of the true Boy Entrant. Many of us, in fact, wore it in this manner throughout our entire RAF service careers and very often it served as a recognition signal between ex-Boy Entrants, even after we had left Boys’ service far behind us.
Although we may have made a stand for individuality with regard to our berets, there was little we could do with our brass buttons except try to keep them clean. The problem with the buttons was that they tarnished at the slightest touch of a finger, or a light sprinkle of rain, or just by being exposed to the damp or foggy air of a winter morning. Hillcrest and the other DIs were constantly on our backs for dirty buttons, or “shit between the crowns,” as they frequently called it. If we failed to pass inspection because of our buttons, we would be ordered to perform extra chores—known as fatigues—that evening. These were menial jobs, like washing dirty pans in the cookhouse. Afterwards, we would be required to report to the corporal’s bunk with all of our buttons, hat badges and boots clean and shiny, ready for the next morning’s daily button inspection. If they weren’t up to par, we were sent away to do them over again.
When Hillcrest finished inspecting our buttons he gave the command to “close order march,” which meant that the front and rear ranks reversed the steps they had taken earlier to restore the Flight to its regular formation. When that was completed and we had performed a right-dress for the umpteenth time, he gave the order to right turn and then “By the left quick march!”
We moved off in a column of threes, approximately thirty boys with no idea of where we were headed, but it soon became very apparent that our destination was the Square. Hillcrest called out the time as we marched, left, right, left, right, with everyone in unison—all except for one poor unfortunate misfit. Potter must have been somewhere else when right feet had been given out, because he seemed to be cursed with two left ones. The poor lad couldn’t keep in step to save his life. Whilst most of the Flight moved forward in a reasonable semblance of order, a minor tempest raged in the immediate area surrounding the unfortunate Potter. He was stepping on the heels of the people marching in front and tripping up those behind. People were stumbling all around him, getting kicked and kicking back in retaliation. Hillcrest suddenly became aware of the problem, like noticing rough water on the surface of an otherwise calm lake. He called a halt just as we got on the gravel-covered approach to the Square and marched back to where Potter was located in the column, obviously relishing the crunching noise that his steel-shod boots made on the fine gravel. Many pairs of eyes were glaring at Potter, so Hillcrest knew exactly who the culprit was right away.
“What’s your name laddie?” he demanded, in his tough-guy voice.
“Potter, corporal,” came the timid reply.
“Well Potter,” Hillcrest shouted, “don’t you know your bloody left from your right?”
“Yes corporal.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like you do. Pay attention to the step that I’m calling out, I’m not doing it for my health y’know!”
“Yes corporal,” responded Potter.
We recommenced our interrupted march to the Square and actually made some progress before Potter lost his synchronicity again. This time, he caused even more mayhem than he had on the previous occasion. Corporal Hillcrest, who had been keeping a careful eye on the situation, called us to a halt once more and then ordered Potter to the rear of the column in the hope that he might be less of a problem there. We then continued on to the Square without further incident.
This was the first day of the infamous square-bashing that we’d all heard about, which was to become a part of our everyday life for the next three months. Drill, as it was officially known, started with the basics of marching in step and coming to a halt when given the order. The two other Initial Training Squadron groups of boys were also on the Square, but the separation between all three groups was sufficient to avoid confusion by any one group mistakenly responding to orders given by the DI of another group. Potter continued to be a problem, but as an individual I was secretly glad that someone else was getting all of the unwelcome attention that might otherwise be focused on me, and I suspect that I wasn’t alone in nursing that selfish little thought. Potter was eventually taken out of the flight and given some special drill tuition, which must have worked because he didn’t seem to have too many problems with drill after that.
* * *
Although drill occupied a large amount of our time in the Initial Training Squadron, it was only one part of our training. In fact, the mission of the Initial Training Squadron was to provide us with four pillars on which to build our future service careers: to mould us into disciplined members of the Royal Air Force; to train us in the skills of personal combat and defence so
that we would be prepared in the event of a hostile ground attack or nuclear war; to build up our physical strength, fitness and stamina; and to endow us with an appropriate level of education that would prepare us for the trade training that would come later. And although our drill instructors were all experts in their own field, they could only teach us how to march and perform drill movements on the parade ground. It took a team of experts in all four fields to accomplish the wide spectrum of training that the RAF expected us to absorb in the three months of our initial training.
Drill, or square-bashing as it was unlovingly referred to, started off with the fundamentals like how to make right, left and about turns from the standing position. Everything was done by numbers, which we were instructed to chant out loudly whilst performing the movements. For example, when the order for a right turn was given, I had to swivel my body around to the right whilst keeping both of my feet on the same spot. The intermediate position of the movement left me with both feet pointing in the same direction as my body but my left foot slightly behind me, as though I had been frozen in the act of taking a step forward. For the final part of the movement, I needed to bring my left foot forward alongside the right. And whilst performing all three parts of the movement, call out “turn,” as I swivelled, “two,” when the swivel was complete and “three,” as I brought my left foot forward. The left-turn movement was exactly the same except that the swivel was to the left and it was the right foot hanging back waiting to be brought alongside the left. An about turn was similar to the right turn, also with the same chant, but in this case the swivel was made through 180-degrees, which left me facing in the exact opposite direction.