by Brian Carlin
“Sir, 153,” I yelled, as I came to attention, marched forward to the tables and came to what I hoped was a smartly executed halt and snapped up my salute. The officer on my right glanced up and I thrust my ID chit towards him to read. He looked at it and checked my name off on a long list, then announced “Boy Entrant Carlin, seven and six.”
The officer in front of me counted out three half crowns and pushed them across the table towards me. I took the money with my left hand, took one step backwards, saluted again before executing a smart left turn and then headed for the Drill Shed exit. Once outside I dared to look at the coins in my hand. Seven shillings and sixpence! I was rich—rich, yippee!
Seven and six was approximately equal to 33 pence in present day decimal money, but of course it had greater purchasing power in 1956. This was my spending allowance. We were actually paid a total weekly wage of £2, but the remainder was withheld and then paid to us in a lump sum when we went on leave. I had, however, arranged for a weekly allotment of 10/- (ten shillings) to be sent to my stepmother Annie (at her insistence), which left £1-2s-6d (one pound, two shillings and sixpence) per week to be withheld for my going-on-leave pay.
Anyone who grew up with the pre-decimal currency will probably never forget it. Just like inches, yards and miles, or ounces, pounds and tons, the relationships between the separate units had to be learned at an early age, because they weren’t based on any rational system. The Pound (£) was the basic unit, as it is today. But under the old system it consisted of 20 shillings. The shilling was made up of 12 pennies or pence, which were huge, copper coins measuring approximately 1-1/4 inches in diameter. If that wasn’t bad enough, the coinage also included a large heavy silver coin, slightly larger than the penny, known as the half-crown, which was worth two shillings and sixpence—there being eight of these to a Pound. Then there was the florin, which was another heavy silver coin, but slightly smaller in diameter than the half-crown, and worth two shillings. Besides those two, we had a small silver sixpenny piece and an octagonal brass coloured threepenny, or thruppeny, ‘bit’. There was no other coin of greater value than the half-crown and so the next highest denomination of currency was the ten-shilling note, worth half of a Pound and equal to the present-day 50 pence coin. The smallest denomination was the halfpenny, or hae’penny as it was pronounced. Prior to my time there had been a smaller coin known as a farthing, which was equal to a fourth of a penny, but this was no longer legal tender by the time I was able to count my pennies.
Because the initial of my surname was near the beginning of the alphabet, I got paid before most of the others and was able get to the mess before the queue became long. Then after dinner, I made a beeline for the NAAFI shop. My cigarette hoard lay somewhere between dangerously low and non-existent, so I needed to replenish it with some Woodbines. Knowing that the money wouldn’t burn any holes in my pocket, I bought five packets of ten cigarettes all at once, each costing one and tu’ppence, which came to total of five shillings and tenpence. I also bought a bottle of Corona orangeade, a locally made soft drink, for about 9d (ninepence). The price of the Corona included a small cash deposit, which would be refunded when I returned the bottle. Having made these important purchases, I headed for the billet to enjoy a cigarette and some orangeade, but with very little left of my original seven and sixpence.
The intensive weekly training programme contained one or two oases: Sports Afternoon and Padre’s Hour.
Most of the religious denominations, namely Church of England and PM & UB (Presbyterians, Methodists, Unitarians and Baptists were collectively grouped together as the PM & UB denomination) actually took religious instruction during Padre’s Hour, but not the Catholics, who were referred to as RCs in the RAF. Father Carberry was rarely in attendance when we arrived at the RC church for Padre’s Hour. Instead, we made ourselves comfortable in the common room, where we were free to spend the time as we pleased. There was a gramophone and a selection of ancient 78 rpm records to play on it. The records were all favourites from the previous generation, mostly Glenn Miller recordings. They were okay to listen to, but an Elvis or a Tommy Steele record would have been much more welcome. A ping-pong table occupied one end of the common room and bats were provided so that we could indulge in some table tennis—if we could find a ball that wasn’t cracked. And there were books and magazines to read, mostly about church issues or foreign missionary work. Yes, Padre’s Hour at the RC church was like a little refuge in an otherwise hostile world. Perhaps that was Father Carberry’s intention; maybe not, but it was okay in my book.
Usually, after Padre’s Hour, Niall Adderley and I would make our way back to the billet a little early, pick up our mugs and irons and then head for dinner at the cookhouse before the C of E hordes arrived from their Padre’s Hour. The duty billet would already be there dressed in their white aprons and white sleeve protectors, waiting to serve that day’s dinner to their fellow Boy Entrants. Getting to the mess early meant having the pick of all available choices, especially the desserts. Sometimes Eve’s Pudding was on the menu and that was my favourite—sponge cake with stewed apple underneath and hot custard poured on top. I was more than ready for something good like that after crawling around with a rifle and keeping my arse down so that it didn’t get shot off, then playing ping-pong with a cracked ball at Padre’s Hour.
I usually headed back to the billet after finishing the meal, stopping to wash my mug and irons in the steaming, bubbling tank of scalding hot water that waited just outside the mess entrance. During mealtimes the water was heated to a high temperature by steam injection, causing the tank to bubble and make strange rumbling and gurgling noises. A person needed to be careful in order to avoid being scalded by the hot water whilst washing his mug and irons and it was very easy to receive a painful burn from the overheated metal of a knife, fork or spoon. Sometimes a mean-spirited Wing boy might sneak up behind an ITS sprog—unsuspectingly washing his utensils—and then quickly reach around to rap him on the knuckles with the heavy handle of a knife, making the unfortunate victim drop his mug or irons into the bubbling cauldron. On other occasions, the assistance of a Wing villain was completely unnecessary when some of us managed to let go of a mug or eating utensil purely by accident. Whatever the cause, it would take considerable patience and ingenuity for a victim to rescue his lost property from the bottom of the two-foot depth of roiling water. And retrieval certainly wasn’t aided by the ever-murky water that made visual sightings of lost items virtually impossible. It all had to be done by feel.
On returning to the billet, we usually had time for a few minutes of relaxation, to smoke a cigarette and to read our mail, if we were lucky enough to get any. Mail was an essential lifeline. We desperately needed the contact it brought with the outside world, when the small closed universe we occupied seemed to consist of nothing more than being ordered around by our superiors, continually cleaning buttons and boots, performing drill movements on the Square and always, always being surrounded by people dressed identically to ourselves. Hearing my name being called out and then being handed a letter in a sealed envelope, when the Senior Boy distributed the mail that he had picked up from the squadron office, always gave me a jolt of adrenaline. Usually, it was a letter from Annie, my stepmother. I have to give credit where credit’s due because, despite our difficult relationship, she wrote to me regularly, keeping me up to date with all the family news from home. In fact, we both maintained this correspondence for many years.
* * *
After spending our first three weeks confined to the camp, most of us were impatiently chomping at the bit by time the third weekend arrived. Now we would be allowed to go out to one of the local towns and be able to rub shoulders with ordinary people for a little while. The magic key that gave us access to this outside world was a personal Permanent Pass, commonly referred to as a PP, which would be distributed by the DIs that very Saturday morning. The Permanent Pass was a pocket sized blue-coloured cardboard permit that gave us written
permission to be absent from our quarters from “after duty hours” daily until 2000 hours, as long as we remained within a five-mile radius of “station bounds”. The permit allowed us to stay out until 10 PM on Saturdays and Sundays and venture a little farther afield by virtue of a handwritten endorsement on the back of the pass that stated: “Permitted to proceed up to a 10-mile radius (including Barry) on Saturday and Sunday only.”
Orders had been circulated regarding where we could and could not go, how we should be dressed and how we should conduct ourselves. Certain areas of Barry were out of bounds, like Thompson Street, near Barry Docks, which was reputed to be the local red light district. Nor were we permitted to go as far afield as Cardiff, which was outside of the ten-mile radius. Dress was to be best blue and in winter we were either required to wear our greatcoat, or carry it neatly folded over the left arm with buttons fastened and sleeves tucked into the half belt at the back of the coat. We were to conduct ourselves in a manner that did not bring disrepute to the service and to wear our uniforms properly at all times. Smoking cigarettes in public was also forbidden, except when in certain situations such as in a restaurant or similar establishment—and so was walking “arm in arm” with females. The DIs warned us that SPs, the Snoops, regularly patrolled Barry in their Land Rovers and were more than willing to give anyone a free one-way ride back to the camp if they found him breaking any of the rules.
At last, the long-awaited Saturday came around. We had to parade in the morning for a “best blue” inspection so that the DIs could make sure that our uniforms were up to the standards necessary for appearing in public, so we weren’t permitted to leave camp until noon at the earliest. As soon as the inspection was over and we’d received our PPs, it didn’t take Butterworth and me long to get ready. ‘Ginge’ Brown decided to come with us and since we were all already wearing our best blues for the inspection, it was just a matter of folding our greatcoats so that we could carry them with us. The day wasn’t cold, even though it was the beginning of November. We made sure we had our PPs and our newly issued 1250s, the RAF identification card that bore a small head and shoulders photograph of the bearer. The Snoops at the Guardroom would need to see both of these before they would allow us to sample the sweet taste of freedom that lay on the other side of the perimeter fence.
As we approached the main camp road we noticed that there was already a steady stream of Wing boys making their way towards the gate. The ITS boys ahead of us were joining this flow, making it appear as though we were the waters of a tributary joining and widening a blue-grey river that was heading towards the sea. The Snoops were busy inspecting the uniforms and general appearance of those ahead of us, so we waited our turn. Most boys made it through the inspection, but not without suffering a few belittling remarks from the fearless SPs. When it was my turn, I approached the open Guardroom window, tensed and hoping that my buttons were clean enough to pass the Snoop’s cynical eye.
“Permanent pass,” he ordered, holding out his right hand in anticipation and then, “Twelve-fifty,” he demanded without looking up, but still continuing to study the PP.
Both documents were examined minutely, even though there wasn’t enough written information on either one to justify the amount of time that it took.
“Okay, Carlin,” he barked, as he handed both documents back to me. “Sign out in the book,” motioning to the large ledger-type notebook on the window sill between us.
I picked up the pencil that was held captive by a length of string securing it to the sill and printed my last three, name, squadron, billet number and the time that I was signing out.
Richard and Ginge were next. Both of them made it through inspection too and then they signed out. We walked towards the main gate, trying not to hurry but instinctively wanted to make a run for it, half expecting to be called back at each step. Then we were through the gate, but not quite out of the woods, because we were still visible from the Guardroom. We headed for a bus stop that was diagonally across Cowbridge Road from the main gate, finally passing out of the direct view of the Snoops as we did so. When we made it to the bus-stop, each looked at the others and breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. All we needed to do now was just wait a few minutes until the next bus came along. Soon, a dark-red coloured single-decker bus, displaying the name Western Welsh Omnibus Company in large gold-coloured lettering along its flank, appeared from around a bend in the road and pulled up at the stop. It seemed somehow alien to me. The buses operated by the Ulster Transport Authority back home were green in colour. They had been an ever-present part of my environment as I’d grown up and evoked the comfort of the familiar, whereas the unfamiliar appearance of this bus made me feel just a little ill at ease. Once again the sensation of being a long way from home stole over me, but I shrugged it off. After all, being in a strange place amongst unfamiliar things was all part of the experience, all part of the fascination.
We all three climbed aboard the bus with the other waiting passengers and made our way down the aisle until we found some vacant seats. When everyone was aboard, the conductor reached up and tugged twice on a thin black cable that was suspended from the ceiling for the entire length of the bus. A bell rang twice somewhere up front, followed by a grinding noise as the driver engaged the first gear. Then the bus lurched off, even as some passengers were still trying to find a place to sit down. A series of lurches took us up through the gears as the bus increased speed, slowing down only when it wound its way through several small villages and past a sign identifying a small civil aviation airfield on our left as Rhoose Airport. About half an hour and several stops later, the bus pulled to a halt on Broad Street, Barry’s crowded main thoroughfare where we got off and stood on the pavement with no idea of what to do next. We didn’t stand there undecided for too long because our grumbling teenage stomachs soon prompted us to think that some food might be a good idea. We were in need of appetizing food far removed from the variety dished up in the Boy Entrants’ mess.
There was a coffee bar on Broad Street, not far from where the bus had dropped us off. Coffee bars were all the rage in the mid-fifties. They were the kind of places that attracted young people, where sixpence would purchase a cup of frothy, milky coffee that could be slowly sipped for two hours at a time. In this case, the coffee bar was, in reality, an ordinary little café that had adopted the grandiose title because it appealed to the clientele the management wished to attract: people like us. Peering through the plate glass window, we could see that there were other Boy Entrants inside, so we entered. The café sold only snacks, but it was different—no one was ordering us around, or pushing in front of us. And even though there were Wing boys in there, they just ignored us. We bought some food, took it to a table, then sat down and ate it. Having temporarily taken the edge off our hunger, the question now was, What were we going to do next? Someone mentioned an amusement park at Barry Island, which seemed like a good idea. So before heading out into the cool November air, we asked for some directions, which were given together with the sage advice that it was quite a long walk.
Harbour Road, two miles long and dead-straight, was the only access to Barry Island. It seemed much longer than two miles, giving some validity to the old saying about it being a long road that has no turning. But we were young and strong and certainly used to walking, so it didn’t seem too much of a challenge. Not surprisingly, road traffic to Barry Island was very light on this early-November day, although an RAF Police Land Rover, easily identified by the red and black plates it bore on both front and rear, passed us at one point. The two Snoops inside, one driving and the other in the passenger seat, turned their heads to keep their gaze locked on us as they cruised past.
Out of the corner of his mouth, Ginge Brown muttered, “Keep walking and pretend you don’t see them.”
We behaved as he suggested, but I still fully expected them to turn around and come back to pick on us for something. But no, they just kept on going and it was with a feeling of relief tha
t we turned to watch the Land Rover disappear in the direction of Barry. We resumed our trek towards the fabled Barry Island and a short time later saw some figures in the distance that appeared to be Boy Entrants coming towards us. Recognition of brothers-in-arms, comrades, a sense of kinship: all these feelings burst into my head as they drew closer. They were Wing boys—from 2 Wing according to the red and blue check on their hatbands; it was the wing to which we would go after passing out from the Initial Training Squadron. There were three of them and they were all were smiling. Foolishly, we mistook this for friendliness and smiled back, preparing for some friendly conversation as they approached. But they weren’t intent on stopping to chat and instead just cannoned right through us as though we weren’t there. One boy out in front of the others smirked continuously as he looked dead ahead to avoid our questioning eyes and charged shoulder first into our midst, scattering us to left and right. His two grinning companions followed closely behind him, but neither one made any attempt at physical contact. We had become accustomed to this sort of behaviour on the camp, but we felt that here in Barry we should be on neutral territory, so the attack was a very unpleasant and unexpected incident. I didn’t know the leader of the three then, but I remembered his face and recognised him when I went into the Wings a few months later as a boy named Lackland. He was 28th Entry, just one entry ahead of us and not long out of Initial Training himself. No doubt he liked being able to bully someone that he perceived as weaker, now that he had climbed a short distance up the pecking order. We had unwittingly played into his hands, because all Wing people seemed godlike to sprogs like us. We didn’t even realize that there was a definite pecking order in the Wings and Lackland was at the bottom of that particular heap.
Poetic justice was eventually meted out to Lackland, because he flunked his final trade test and was relegated to join us in the 29th entry for one more try. Indeed, I felt a great deal of satisfaction on seeing that the smirk had been wiped completely from his face on the day he slunk into our classroom, whilst his erstwhile 28th friends passed out of Boy Entrants and left him high and dry to develop his skills at the delicate art of fence-mending. Suffice to say, he didn’t do too well in that regard, but did manage to pass out with the 29th entry. But I’m getting ahead of myself a little, because that happened several months later. On the particular day that he charged his way through our small group, I didn’t know him from Adam.