Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat

by Brian Carlin

  Following this exam, most of us were assigned into the groups as promised, but two or three boys did so well that they were head and shoulders above everyone else. Significantly, they were all from Scotland, which at that time was reputed to have the highest educational standards in the United Kingdom. These boys were immediately offered transfers to the Apprentice training school at Halton, where lads of our own age went through a 3-year training course, emerging as skilled tradesmen with the rank of Junior Technician. By contrast, our 18-month training course would send us out into the regular service as semi-skilled tradesmen, who would then need to take an additional Fitter’s course to reach skilled technician status.

  For the remainder of our time in the Initial Training Squadron, we spent at least two half-days in the Education Centre each week studying Mathematics, Physics, English, Geography and RAF History combined with Current Affairs.

  Not surprisingly, Current Affairs dealt mainly with situations in the world that directly impacted the Royal Air Force, with most of the focus being on events of the recent past rather than those that were strictly “current” affairs. The Suez crisis had just ended, so we learned a lot about Colonel Nasser and the British and French invasion of the Canal Zone. We were told that Nasser had scuttled ships in the middle of the canal to block it. Also, that the Americans disapproved of the entire invasion and had been successful in putting pressure on Britain and France to withdraw.

  The topics were interesting, but my favourite classroom subject was Physics. There was so much interesting stuff to learn. The two important subjects for my group were the theory of flight and electromagnetism. The Physics education officer frequently used clever demonstration models to show us how things worked, like lift on an aeroplane wing, or how iron filings could be used to show the normally invisible lines of force between the North and South poles of a magnet.

  At the beginning, my knowledge of both subjects was just about zero. I didn’t have a clue how an aircraft managed to remain up in the sky and as far as electricity was concerned, all I knew was that if I turned the light switch on, lo and behold the bulb would light, or if I poked around in an electric socket it would give me an unpleasant shock.

  As time passed, I learned that an aircraft wing is lifted because the airflow across it develops low pressure on the top surface and high pressure on the bottom surface. As the high pressure tries to get to the low-pressure area it pushes the wing upwards. Theory was reinforced by a demonstration using a cross-section model of an aerofoil—the end-on shape of an aircraft wing—as a fan blew smoke across it. This made the normally invisible flow of air visible, revealing that the smoke molecules were squeezing together as they passed under the bottom surface, creating high pressure and moving apart in the low pressure flow over the top of the aerofoil.

  The effect was further reinforced by another aerofoil model, but this time there were rows of little transparent plastic tubes inserted into the upper and lower surfaces of the wing from within the model. The tubes all led to a small rack, where they were arrayed vertically alongside each other. Each tube contained the same small volume of red ink, so that all ink levels were horizontally equal. When the fan started blowing air across the aerofoil, the level in each tube went either up or down, depending on which surface the other end of the tube was located. Levels in the tubes attached to the lower surface tended to drop, while those attached to the upper level tended to rise. This gave us a visual demonstration of the pressure differences at multiple spots on the wing’s surface.

  Electromagnetism was probably the most important subject for those of us who were going to train as aircraft electricians. In addition to his demonstration of the magnetic lines of force emanating from a magnet, our teacher used a little instrument known as a galvanometer to show us how an electric current was induced into a length of wire when it was passed through the magnetic field. Of course, this is the basic principle on which the production of electricity depends, but I hadn’t known that previously. We learned important physical laws of electricity, like Faraday’s Law, Lenz’s Law and Ohm’s Law. Overall, the education was excellent and by the end of our time in the Initial Training Squadron I was very well prepared to tackle the more practical aspects of my chosen trade.

  CHAPTER 5

  Home Sweet Home?

  By the time we had finished our first session at the Education Centre, Corporal Hillcrest was waiting outside to march us back to the billets. I was looking forward to getting back there so that I could dump my newly acquired notebooks and go to tea. We “fell-in” in threes on the road adjacent to the Education Centre and set off marching when Hillcrest gave the order. I don’t know whether it was weariness, or just the fact that we still hadn’t got into the habit of swinging our arms up to shoulder level, but halfway back to the billets Hillcrest called a halt.

  “You’re marching like a bloody shower of shit again,” he bawled. “Well, I’ve had my tea laddies, so I’m in no hurry to get back. We can just bloody-well wait here for a while until you bloody-well decide to get your bloody arms up shoulder high.” He paused briefly for breath, very red in the face by this time. He then continued in a quiet, but sneering voice, “Don’t think you’ll break my heart, laddies. You might have broken your mothers’ hearts, but you won’t bloody-well break mine!”

  Corporal Hillcrest kept us standing at attention for a good ten minutes before finally calling out the command to march. We were famished and I know that I swung my arms shoulder high with so much force that it felt they were going to fly off. Mercifully, we soon arrived back at the billets and were dismissed so that we could get to the mess for much needed sustenance.

  Hillcrest seemed to enjoy making our lives miserable, which he did as often as possible and in many ways. For the most minor of infractions, he would frequently detail people to perform evening fatigues, or make them run around the Square on the double, with a rifle held in both hands at arm’s length above their heads. But what could we do? We were the lowest on the pecking order with no one to complain to. It was just a case of tolerating the punishments and indignities with the knowledge that they couldn’t last forever.

  Over and above what Corporal Hillcrest might have dished out in his mean-spirited manner, we got our fair share of normal fatigues during the weekly Tuesday bull-nights. Everyone in the billet was expected to pitch in to help in the task of applying floor polish with the bumper, then bumpering it off with the blanket pads. On top of that, Senior Boy Willie Burns doled out additional cleaning tasks, because each billet had a responsibility to provide representatives to perform cleaning duties in the communal areas. The worst of these assignments was to clean the toilets and washbasins in the ablutions area. Of course, we didn’t call them the “Ablutions”, but instead called them the Bogs—the RAF slang name by which they were universally known. There were also the ironing room, bathrooms, windows and the exterior of the billet area.

  Wednesday mornings always involved some kind of inspection. Usually, it was a “stand-by-your-beds” type of inspection by the Flight Commander, during which our billet would be inspected for microscopic specks of dust and our persons for the slightest hint of tarnish on our buttons or cap badges, lack of creases in our uniforms, or a less than perfect shine on our boots. That was on a good day. Periodically, on not-so-good days, we would experience the thrill of a full-blown kit inspection.

  Willie Burns was a no-nonsense Scottish lad who was the oldest and probably the most mature boy in my billet. From Corporal Blandford’s point of view, he must have been the perfect choice to appoint as the billet’s Senior Boy. The DIs couldn’t be everywhere and besides, with the exception of Corporal Hillcrest, they all lived in married quarters, which was a considerable distance away. Therefore, one person in each billet had been appointed to the position of Senior Boy. It wasn’t exactly a promotion, but they were given a dark red-coloured lanyard to wear around their left shoulder and a limited amount of power over the other inhabitants of their respective bi
llets. A Senior Boy’s job was to make the corporal’s life easier by shepherding the inhabitants of his billet out on parade in good time, supervise bull nights—“domestic evenings” in official parlance—and keep an eye on the daily schedules to make sure everyone was prepared for the day’s itinerary.

  * * *

  On the day that Corporal Hillcrest had deliberately halted us for the first time to make us late for our meal, essentially putting us at the very end of the long queue, I returned to the billet after tea and cleaned my buttons, badges and boots ready for the next day. I wanted to get this over with so that I could go back to the swimming pool with the others and continue pursuing my goal of learning to swim.

  Once in the pool, I splashed and somersaulted in the water for a while, continuing to develop confidence in my body’s natural buoyancy. Then Basset showed me a new technique that looked as though it could be helpful. He stood at a spot in the shallow end, maybe ten feet from the edge of the pool and crouched down with arms outstretched like Superman getting ready to leap from a tall building. For a moment he crouched there, concentrating, then he launched himself towards the handrail around the edge of the pool. His feet came off the bottom and for a few seconds he was gliding through water, arms outstretched in front of him and without any visible means of support, before he grabbed onto the handrail. Putting his feet back down on the bottom of the pool, he turned to face us with a look of self-satisfied triumph on his broadly grinning face.

  “Come on, try it,” he shouted.

  And that’s what I tried to do for the remainder of the evening in the pool, although it certainly wasn’t an instant success. At first, each time I tried to launch myself forward it took more courage than I could summon up to let my feet leave the security of the pool’s tiled floor, so that I made countless false starts. But by moving inch by inch nearer to the handrail after each failed attempt, I finally got to a position where it only took a forward fall with outstretched arms to be able to catch hold of it. Bassett had made gliding from about ten feet out look so easy, but I found it to be the most difficult thing in the universe that evening. So I lowered my expectations and just stayed close to the edge, falling forward and only allowing my feet and legs to come off the bottom when I had securely grasped the handrail. But it was a start! I was able to feel the resistance of the water as it buoyed me up when I fell forwards and so I warily started to trust it. Impatient as I was, learning to swim wasn’t going to happen overnight, but just being in the pool was enjoyable by itself and every little improvement towards my eventual goal felt like a major triumph.

  Next morning it was drill on the Square as usual, but first the button inspection. The weather had turned colder and we were in winter dress, which meant wearing our greatcoats, which also meant having another set of buttons to clean each evening. At 0755 hours, we all started tumbling out of the billets, falling into three ranks on the road. Corporal Blandford seemed to have drawn the short straw this morning and was calling us to look lively and get fell in—with less of the talking. Then, by 08:00, we were all on parade.

  We went through all the usual preliminaries leading up to inspection: attention; right dress; open order march, and then Blandford started at one end of the front rank and worked his way from one person to the next, scanning buttons, hat badges and boot leather with a practised eye in his search for the slightest blemish. All was going well, with everyone seeming to be up to par and there being nothing much more serious than an occasional tug at someone’s uniform here, or a beret straightened there—that is, until the corporal arrived in front of Potter—he of the two left feet. Blandford’s calm, business-like manner suddenly disappeared when he beheld Potter and was replaced by a look of horror, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Somehow, Potter looked all bundled up under his greatcoat; his buttons were buttoned in the wrong buttonholes and his face wore the look of a helpless lamb being offered up to the slaughterhouse. Just for a moment, although it seemed like an eternity, Corporal Blandford was speechlessly transfixed to the spot, his mouth open, unable to do anything but stare at the DI’s nightmare before him. Potter just stood there, pale, innocent and wide-eyed, waiting for the inevitable.

  Finally, Blandford found his voice. “Potter,” he roared. “What the bloody hell has happened to you?”

  “Dunno, corporal,” Potter replied weakly.

  “Well, you look like a bloody pregnant fairy,” Blandford bawled, right into Potter’s face and spacing out the last three words for additional emphasis.

  Cruel as it seems in retrospect, we all burst out laughing. It was a reflex action that had more to do with Blandford’s remark breaking the nervous tension, than actually laughing at Potter. For one thing, the laughter came as a spontaneous reaction to the sense of relief each of us felt that because the spotlight was so narrowly focused on Potter, it enabled us to escape close scrutiny. But it was also because there was something comical about a “pregnant fairy”. In my youthful innocence, I had a clear mental image of Tinkerbell wearing maternity clothes. Many years later, armed with the knowledge that “fairy” was a slang term for a homosexual, it suddenly dawned on me what Blandford had really meant that day.

  Poor old Potter turned bright red with embarrassment. He was such an inoffensive little chap and I felt very sorry for him, despite laughing at his expense, because he seemed so vulnerable, yet was having a tougher time than most of us. Corporal Blandford ordered him to unbutton his greatcoat and then pulled and tugged on the uniform underneath until the lumps and bumps disappeared. He then made Potter button the greatcoat up again—but properly this time—and the situation was defused.

  * * *

  Thursday arrived, the first of many such Thursdays—all of them a special day of the week to look forward to. It was Pay Day! Or, as some wags crudely, but aptly, referred to it—The Day the Golden Eagle Shits.

  Following the morning drill period, we were marched to the Drill Shed: the concrete-floored building adjoining the gym and swimming pool. It seemed as though everyone else on camp had got there before us and all of them were in large, separate formations spread over the vast Drill Shed floor area. We were marched to a vacant area where we found ourselves facing a row of three or four tables pushed together end to end. Three officers faced us from their seated positions behind the tables. On the table in front of two of the officers, metal boxes lay open to reveal bank notes and silver coins, whilst the third officer surveyed a large ledger that also lay open before him. We were brought to a halt in front of the tables and then Corporal Blandford explained that, on being dismissed, we were to form ourselves alphabetically into rows with those having the same first surname initial as ourselves. The first row was to comprise the “A’s” with the other rows following in alphabetical order towards the rear. Corporal Blandford also instructed us to have our identification card, the RAF form 1250, in our left hand ready to show it to the officers as verification of our identity, although on this, our first Pay Parade, we still had not received our 1250s. The photographs had been taken (no smiling—look straight into the camera) shortly after we’d been issued with our uniforms, but it took time for the RAF to process the identification cards. For the moment, each of us had been given a temporary ID chit, a piece of paper signed by the Squadron Commander bearing our name and service number, as proof of identity.

  Blandford continued with instructions on what we needed to do. “When your name is called out,” he said, “come to attention and shout out the last three digits of your service number at the top of your voice. Then march smartly up to the table,” he said, ignoring the fact that there was more than one table, “and come to a halt facing the officers. Remain standing to attention and salute the officers, then show them your twelve-fifty.”

  He then went on to explain that on receiving our cash, we were to make a left turn, march smartly away and exit the Drill Shed. Once outside we could individually make our way back to the mess for dinner. After receiving these instructions and being asked th
e usual “Any questions?” we were dismissed to reform ourselves into alphabetically-ordered rows. Then, when we had reassembled, the senior officer nodded to a sergeant standing near the tables who then faced us, took a deep breath and called out, “Pay parade, attention.” He then turned smartly towards the officer, saluted and informed him, “Initial Training Squadron present and correct, sir!”

  The officer returned the salute from his sitting position and at the same time responded with, “Carry on Sergeant.”

  The sergeant swivelled around on his heels to face the pay parade once again and then ordered us to stand at ease. A short pause followed to allow the combined echo of our feet to die away and then the officer at the ledger began announcing our surnames in alphabetical order. Each person sprang to attention at the mention of his name, yelled out his “last three” and then headed for the table. Some came smartly to a halt, others slid to a stop, while some just simply stopped walking. The officer did not return the salutes, which wasn’t surprising, considering all the salutes he would have had to return during the hour or so that it took to get through with the pay parade.

  First the A’s, then the B’s. Ginge Brown’s name was called and then Richard Butterworth’s. I knew that mine couldn’t be far off. The voice calling out the names wasn’t too loud and that, coupled with the terrible acoustics of the Drill Shed and the general hubbub, made it difficult to hear. Campbell, Callaghan, I strained to hear and then there it was—Carlin.