Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat

by Brian Carlin

  We learned how to salute. On hearing the command, “Officer on parade, to the front salute!” We were instructed to bring our right arm up in a sweeping motion until it was parallel to the ground, then hold the upper arm in that position whilst the forearm, with palm fully extended, rotated at the elbow until the fingertips gently touched the right temple, just behind the eye—all of this in one fluid movement.

  Then we progressed from stationary movements to marching drill. Performing about-turns on the march, like the guards at Buckingham Palace, or the more difficult manoeuvre of making an abrupt right or left turn on the march—so that instead of moving forward in a column, we would suddenly be moving in line abreast at ninety degrees to the original direction. When marching, we were always exhorted to swing our arms shoulder high. The DIs told us that this was only required during our time in the Initial Training Squadron and that when we went to the Wings we would only need to swing them as high as our waists.

  The commands for the drill movements were always given in such a way that the marcher could anticipate when the actual word of command would be given and be mentally prepared to execute the movement. When the order to march was given, the first step was always with the left foot. Then once on the move, commands for simple drill movements were always given just as the right foot made contact with the ground. For example, when the command to a halt was issued it would be just as the right foot touched the ground. We knew to continue the stride with our left foot and then to stop when it hit the gravel and bring our right foot to a halt alongside of it, instead of continuing on through with the step.

  An about turn on the march was also given on the right foot. The command for this was “Flight, about turn,” with the word “turn” coming simultaneously with the right foot’s contact with the parade ground. Again, the left foot would continue in the same direction, but this time, when the right foot followed, it would be planted in such a way that it formed the crossbar of a ‘T’ with the left foot. At the same time, the arms would be clamped stiffly to the sides. When the left foot came up, with an exaggerated lifting of the knee, it would then be turned by 180 degrees to point in the opposite direction. The upper body would meanwhile be following the left foot around to face in the new direction and finally the right foot would also be raised up and brought around, also with an exaggerated knee lift, before continuing to stride through and march off in the new direction, with arms swinging again.

  Just when it seemed that we had got the hang of marching, the DIs introduced us to rifle drill, which seemed a little more interesting to me than ordinary drill. The Lee Enfield .303 rifle has now passed into the realms of history, but the drill movements that we were taught using this rifle are still as real to me today as they were when I learned them on the Square at Saints all those years ago.

  First we were marched to the Armoury, where we were each issued with a rifle and then it was on to the Square and after several days of practice, it became second nature.

  In the Stand at Ease position, the rifle butt would rest on the ground, snugly alongside my right foot and the muzzle would be thrust out in front of me as far as my right arm could reach. When the DI shouted, “Flight, attention,” I would pull my arm rapidly back towards me to bring the weapon alongside and perpendicular to my right side. In doing so, I would slide my right hand down from the muzzle to grip the body of the rifle somewhere just above the breech. At the command, “Flight, slope arms,” I would flick the rifle vertically upwards with my right hand, briefly letting go and then catching it at the stock—the narrow point of the butt just behind the trigger guard. At exactly the same moment, I would bring my left hand across my chest to grasp the rifle at the midway point of the barrel to steady it. This latter movement caused the taut rifle sling to slap against the wooden cladding of the rifle, creating a noise that was loudly multiplied by all of the other hands slapping their rifles in synchronism. The drill instructor paced the first movement by chanting, “Up, one, two.” Then, for the second movement, he would chant, “Across, two, three,” at which I would raise the rifle vertically upwards, the fingers of my right hand closing around the stock, using this grip to bring the rifle up and, still holding it vertically, bring it across my chest to lay it on my left shoulder. At the same time, I would transfer my left hand to cradle the end of the butt and take the full weight of the rifle. The DI would then chant, “Down, two, three,” and I would bring my right arm smartly back down to my side in the final movement, whilst adjusting my left arm so that the forearm was parallel to the ground to complete the Slope Arms movement.

  The rifle at Slope Arms was in the most versatile position of all. From there we could march, or perform other movements, such as Present Arms—the ceremonial salute for someone of high rank. We also learned how to make a normal, non-ceremonial salute whilst holding a rifle at the Slope Arms position. This was done by bringing the right open hand across to slap the flat face of the rifle butt, where it would remain until the salute was returned by the officer to whom it was directed.

  After becoming sufficiently proficient at rifle drill, we advanced to bayonet drill, which is basically rifle drill with the additional complication that we fixed bayonets onto the rifle muzzle, whilst in the Stand at Ease position, when given the order, “Prepare to fix bayonets!” This movement was executed by withdrawing the sheathed bayonet from its scabbard, which was suspended from the webbing belt and dangling on the left hip. When everyone had withdrawn his bayonet and was holding it out in front of him at arms’ length, with the blade pointing upwards, the command was given, “Fix bayonets”. I would then fit the opening in the bayonet hilt over the end of the muzzle and click it into place, but my hand would remain in the Fix Bayonets position until commanded to resume the normal Stand at Ease.

  The type of bayonet normally used for drill was a short, round spike known as a pig-sticker, but for ceremonial occasions we used a wicked-looking bayonet, shaped like a bowie knife. Since they were lethal weapons, the bayonets were always returned to the Armoury, together with the rifles, when the drill period ended each day. After all, nobody in their right mind would have trusted a bunch of teenage Boy Entrants with possession of either of these weapons any longer than was absolutely necessary and only then under the strictest supervision. Rifle drill with fixed bayonets might sound dangerous, but I never knew of anyone being inadvertently stabbed or otherwise injured during these drills.

  We were, however, to become even more intimately acquainted with rifles during Ground Combat Training, or GCT as it was more often called. For this we needed our groundsheets and denims. The denims were difficult to get into because of our thick serge uniforms and once inside the feeling was one of bulkiness. Snap fasteners served as buttons up the front and closed the garment off at wrists and ankles.

  Members of the RAF Regiment, the Royal Air Force’s own internal army, directed this particular part of our training. Our drill instructor simply marched us to the RAF Regiment section and left us to their tender mercies. I noticed right away that they were different. They looked different, dressed differently and behaved differently from all other members of the RAF. They’d even earned themselves the special nickname of “Rock Apes”, which was a less-than-reverential comparison to the Barbary Apes that inhabit the Rock of Gibraltar. Some even said that the Gibraltar apes were the more intelligent of the two, but that was mere hearsay. Rock Apes wore RAF Regiment shoulder flashes above their eagle flash, so that they wouldn’t be mistaken for normal run-of-the-mill airmen. They also wore gaiters and webbing belts as everyday items of their uniform.

  The major function of the Regiment was to provide the nucleus of basic protection for RAF airfields and installations against ground and air attack. For this reason, their skills lay in armed and unarmed combat. But they were small in number—a nucleus—so all normally non-combatant members of the RAF were expected to take up arms and do their bit to defend the turf under the Regiment’s supervision, if we ever came under direct attack.
In addition, because of the nuclear threat that hung over all of us in the nineteen-fifties, the RAF Regiment had been given the role of overseeing and developing personnel defensive measures should a nuclear attack become reality. In retrospect, it was unkind to belittle them by calling them Rock Apes and questioning their intellect, because they knew their job and taught us well. Besides, most of our GCT was a lot more fun than square-bashing—except for the nuclear-preparedness part, which tended to be very dull and boring for a bunch of teenagers.

  The first thing we acquired from GCT was an intimate familiarity with the two main combat weapons we would be expected to use if push ever came to shove. One was the Lee Enfield .303 bolt-action rifle and the other was a light machine gun, or LMG, much better known as the Bren gun. The Lee Enfield rifle was actually in service during the First World War and both weapons were used in the Second World War. These same reliable weapons had also been used successfully in the Korean War, which had ended in 1953, just three years prior to our induction.

  Most of us had never even seen a firearm up close before, let alone handle one, but during the next twelve weeks GCT transformed us from being almost certain cannon fodder into lean mean fighting machines. Well, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but at least we could load, aim and fire a .303 rifle and a Bren gun, strip them down to their basic parts, then reassemble them into fully workable weapons again in a matter of minutes. Yes, rumour had it that the Russians trembled at the mere mention of our names.

  Training in the safe handling of weapons came first, as it rightfully should.

  “Never point a weapon at anyone unless you intend to kill them!” was the first thing the instructors hammered into our heads. That was a tough message for most of us to swallow—to point a gun at someone with the intent of actually killing him.

  One brave boy asked, “Couldn’t we just wing them or something Sarge, the way Roy Rogers does?”

  “No lad, a weapon is made for killing. It’s very difficult to aim to wound someone, you’ll most likely end up missing him altogether and then he’ll get you. No, you must always aim for the largest target on the enemy’s body, his chest, and shoot to kill! And if you don’t intend to kill a person, then don’t point a weapon at him.”

  “Okay, Sergeant.”

  Eventually, we would be firing live ammunition on the rifle range, so range discipline was the next important lesson to be learned. We were told that when a red flag is flying from a high point on the range, it means that the range is in use. Another red flag down in the range meant that no one could proceed beyond the line of fire until it was lowered. We were also told to always point weapons towards the bank of sand against which targets are displayed and follow the range master’s instructions at all times.

  Weapons were stored in the Armoury, so we had to pass through there in single file, in one door and out another, to be handed a rifle by the Armourers as we passed through. The air inside the Armoury smelled heavily of gun oil as I walked through and took the rifle that was handed to me, being surprised to find that its 9 pounds of weight felt much heavier than I expected. Once outside, we were shown how to strip the rifles down into their component parts and clean them, using the cleaning tools and materials stored in a nifty little compartment that opened in the heel of the rifle butt. We were then shown how to fill a charging clip with ten dummy rounds and use it to load the rifle’s magazine. Next we learned the method of unloading the weapon and then how to operate the bolt five times to make sure all rounds had been cleared from it before pulling the trigger to fire the action.

  With the Bren gun, it was a matter of how to change barrels when the one that was in use became overheated, or how to crawl up alongside the weapon and use a spare round of ammunition as a tool to adjust the gas flow regulator, if the automatic firing action stopped. Loading the magazine with ammunition was easier than the rifle. We just pushed 28 rounds into the spring-loaded magazine until it was full and then clipped it to the gun.

  We were taught how to aim. With the rifle, it was, “Put the tip of the foresight on the target and line it up with the middle of your back-sight, then squeeze the trigger gently. Squeeze, lads! Squeeze the trigger with the second joint of your forefinger, don’t pull it or you’ll jerk the weapon and come off the target. Feel the first pressure, then the second pressure and keep squeezing until the weapon fires. That’s it.” The training ground echoed with sporadic clicks as we fired the actions of our individual weapons.

  The Bren gun was a little different. It was fired either in short bursts of three rounds or long bursts of five. Longer bursts would cause the barrel to overheat. The rate of fire was 120 rounds a minute. So that we’d know how long to keep the trigger pulled for short bursts, we were instructed to say to ourselves “Fire, release,” pulling the trigger as we did so, then letting it go when the short phrase was complete. A number of short bursts could be fired off by muttering “Fire, release”—pause—“Fire, release”—pause, and so on. For long bursts, the phrase we were told to say was,“One, two, three release,” before letting go of the trigger again. Of course, that didn’t sound very long or exciting to many of us. It would have been much more thrilling if we had been able to stand up with the machine gun at hip level and fire off long bursts, like actors in a war film.

  Mostly we used the Lee Enfield .303, shooting it from the prone position. That meant we had to learn how to get down on the ground quickly while still holding the rifle. This was accomplished by first planting our left hand down on the ground, putting all of our weight on it and then kicking both legs out and behind to splay them on the ground, all the while gripping the weapon at its midpoint in our right hand to keep it clear of the ground. Once on the ground we then needed to go quickly into the aim position and be ready to shoot at the imagined enemy. Luckily, we each had already spread our groundsheet out to lie on, so we weren’t exactly grovelling in the mud. After mastering this manoeuvre to end up in the position of aiming the rifle, we then had to crawl on our bellies with the rifle held in both hands. The Rock Apes would yell out, “Keep your arses down or you’ll get them shot off!” My arse went down, but it was hard to crawl like that, elbow over elbow, while trying not to dig deep furrows in the soil with the pointy end of the gun. But to let that happen was to invite a bollicking for getting soil and grass into the muzzle of the gun.

  Achieving this level of proficiency took more than one session of GCT and after we had spent several sessions crawling around on the ground with rifles, we were more than ready to go on the range for live fire practice. Now, I thought to myself, the fun stuff would really begin.

  Going on the range for the first time was an exciting experience. First, we went to the Armoury where six rifles were issued to the Flight. Six lucky lads were each given the privilege of carrying a rifle all the way to the range. They marched along at the head of the column swinging only their left arm shoulder high. Their right arms were fully extended downwards with the middle finger supporting the weight of the rifle by its trigger guard. The rifle itself was held in a vertical position, butt downwards with the tip of the barrel just about level with the bearer’s ear.

  At the range, I couldn’t believe I was actually going to fire a real live weapon. Most boys of my age wouldn’t normally get the opportunity to do this and I wouldn’t have traded the experience for all the money in the world. I was just afraid that it might be snatched away at the last moment for some spoilsport reason, so it was a great relief when my turn finally came around and I was motioned to move towards the ammunition boxes to load a charging clip with ten live rounds.

  We didn’t use the .303 that first day—the rifle lying waiting for me was a .22 calibre. It looked like a .303, right down to the wooden cladding that enclosed the barrel, but it was smaller. But I didn’t mind because it was still a real gun and fired real bullets. Six of us stood in the firing line facing the targets, after we’d spread our groundsheets out on the earth bank that served as the firing position. The weapons la
y at our feet; ammunition clips were clutched in our right hands. Then, the sergeant Rock Ape gave the order to get down. Immediately, I put my left hand on the groundsheet, took my weight on it and kicked my feet and legs out behind me as I’d been taught. My denim-clad torso made contact with the hard-packed earth underneath the groundsheet.

  “Clear weapons!” The sergeant ordered.

  I worked the bolt ten times and then left it open.

  When the sergeant was satisfied that none of our rifle breeches held any leftover ammunition, he called out, “In your own time, load weapons!”

  I took the little metal charging clip of ammunition and slotted it into a special recess at the rear end of the breech and then pressed down on the top round with my thumb to push all of the rounds into the magazine. Having done that, I slammed the bolt home to cock the rifle, applied the safety catch and then waited.

  We lay there forever, or so it seemed, until the order came, “Target at your front, range 500, ten rounds—in your own time. Fire!”

  I set the sight for 500 feet. The distance was only 25 yards, but 500 feet was the smallest possible distance to set the sights. I pushed the safety catch off and started squeezing the trigger. The first pressure was an easy pull, but the inside of the second joint of my trigger finger felt the stronger resistance of the second pressure. My target was a human-shaped cardboard cut-out depicting a fierce-looking soldier running towards me with a bayonet fixed to his rifle. Several oblong target areas were nested on his chest and my job was to aim for the innermost rectangle and try to hit it. I continued squeezing the trigger until suddenly the action released and the weapon fired with a loud bang that left a ringing sound to my right ear. A puff of smoke blew briefly across my face and my nose instinctively puckered at the sharp smell of burnt cordite. Everyone had warned me to expect a kick from the rifle, but I felt hardly anything. I let go of the trigger and reached forward with my right hand to push the bolt up and then pulled it back towards me, causing the still smoking shell to eject from the breech. Then I closed it and took aim once more. The target was too far away to see where the first round landed, so I just hoped for the best, aimed and fired again. This time the noise and the smoke weren’t any surprise and my ear was still ringing from the first time, so it didn’t matter any more. I continued firing until the last round had gone, cleared the rifle ten times, fired the action and then laid the weapon down with the breech open to await further orders.