by Brian Carlin
Eventually, we arrived at Barry Island after our long walk. It was windy and we could see whitecaps dotting the waters of the Bristol Channel. The amusement park was there, no mistaking that, but it was closed! This was November after all and Barry Island was the haunt of summer holidaymakers. We hung around for a little while, looking at the boarded up rides and stalls, then retraced our footsteps back along Harbour Road to Broad Street in Barry. Then, having returned to civilisation once more, we made our way towards the centre of the town, threading through the crowds of Saturday afternoon shoppers. At one point Richard dug me in the ribs and hissed, “Look!” He was pointing to a street sign high up on the corner of a building that signified we were at the intersection of the infamous Thompson Street that led off at right angles from the main thoroughfare on which we were walking. We stopped and allowed our gaze to travel along the “out of bounds” street, even if we couldn’t go there physically. We were hoping to notice some clue to its forbidden illicit nature, but were disappointed in not seeing even one lady of easy virtue, or anything else that might indicate the steamy sordid goings-on that we just knew must be happening behind the lace curtains and closed silent doors, even as we stood there. After a few moments, we gave up on seeing anything exciting and moved on, finally going into Woolworths for a wander around and to smile at the girls behind the counters. I bought some sweets and enjoyed the simple pleasure of just mingling with ordinary people who would have seemed a lot like Irish people, if only they didn’t speak in that strange-sounding Welsh accent.
It was around teatime and we were hungry again. But it wasn’t difficult to find a good place to eat this time—we just followed our noses to a fish and chip shop. This was a real treat—something we didn’t get in the Boy Entrants’ mess. There are few pleasures in this world that surpass eating fish and chips drenched with salt and vinegar and wrapped the traditional way, in several layers of old newspaper. The combination of hot chips and battered cod reacting with the vinegar and newsprint creates a sensuous aroma that’s unmistakable and just irresistible. The tasty flakes of cod were of just the right moistness and the chips were crisp on the outside, but soft and delicious on the inside. We had to conclude that no matter what else could be said about the Welsh people, there was no mistaking that some of them had learned the secret of how to make great fish and chips. We finished the best meal we’d had in weeks and licked our fingers clean, then wiped them on the newsprint before tossing it in a nearby rubbish bin. Our appetites were satisfied for the moment, so what next?
We remembered having seen a cinema during our travels up and down Broad Street and therefore decided to see a film in surroundings that were a little plusher than the Astra back on camp. Some instantly forgettable film was playing, but I think we enjoyed it anyway. I always became absorbed in any half decent film and the next hour or so transported me away from reality and into the world up there on the screen.
The early darkness of winter had fallen and the temperature was plunging towards freezing by the time we emerged from the cinema. Since it was about time that we needed to get back to camp, we made our way to the bus stop near the railway station. From the bus stop, it was just a stone’s throw to the platform where I had alighted from the mainline train just a few weeks earlier after the long journey from Cosford. In terms of weeks, it hadn’t been all that long ago that I had walked stiffly up and down the platform, but after all that had transpired since then, it seemed like a dimly remembered event in the distant past.
The bus back to camp rumbled and jolted through the darkness towards Cadoxton and then past Rhoose Airport on its way back to St. Athan. The interior lighting made it impossible to see anything in the outside darkness except street lights and their immediate surroundings in the built-up areas, but only pitch blackness when the city lights gave way to the dark countryside between Barry and the camp. Eventually, the lighting of the main gate came into view, signalling that we had returned to the rigid discipline of Boy Entrant life. Immediately on alighting from the bus, we were uncomfortably aware of being under the Snoops’ intense scrutiny as we approached the Guardroom on foot, but surprisingly we were allowed to pass without interference, other than be reminded to sign the book against the entry we had made when signing out, to show that we had returned. The three of us then made our way back to the billet in a glow of happiness related to the little bit of freedom we’d been able to enjoy after three long weeks of confinement.
Next day, in order to further indulge the privilege of our new-found freedom, Butterworth and I went to the small town of Llantwit Major, which lay in the opposite direction to that of Barry. Calling it a town was something of an exaggeration: it seemed more like a large village. It was the kind of place where High Street gets rolled up at 5 o’clock each Saturday afternoon and doesn’t get unrolled again until 9 o’clock on Monday morning. It was completely dead. We wandered up and down the High Street for a little while, but could find nothing or no one of interest. We weren’t interested in the pubs, of which there seemed plenty, and besides, we were too young. Apart from the local watering holes, the only other establishment showing any signs of life was Llantwit’s sole cinema. There and then, we decided that Barry was the going to be the destination of choice for most of our future ventures into the wide world. Giving up on Llantwit Major, we caught an early bus back to camp.
* * *
Drill, Education, Physical Training and Ground Defence Training came at us in a never-ending cycle as our weeks in the Initial Training Squadron marched relentlessly onwards. In the process, what had been a motley collection of civilian youths was slowly but surely being transformed into a smartly uniformed squadron of young men who exhibited an increasingly noticeable military bearing. During this time, I continued to make my frequent trips to the swimming pool and within a few weeks was able to swim with confidence. There was never a risk that I would be selected for the Olympic team, but I could easily swim a few lengths of the pool doing the crawl or the breaststroke. In the meantime, life in ITS had become very routine with Wednesday sports afternoons, pay parades on Thursday, Padre’s Hour, swimming and going to the Astra and Barry at the weekends. But it would soon all come to an end with our passing out of initial training, which would then be immediately followed by our first home leave, which happily coincided with Christmas.
By now, we had completed nine weeks of the twelve-week Initial Training Squadron programme and a mounting sense of excitement had gradually started to permeate our ranks, raising our spirits. Even Corporal Hillcrest’s favourite mean trick of deliberately halting us on our way back to the billets seemed tolerable, even though hunger gnawed at our innards. His mocking taunt, “Ah’ve had mah dinner laddies. Ah can wai-it here al day,” had become all too familiar, but we had become immune. We would soon be passing out of ITS and away from the likes of him. We didn’t care any more! Even now, it seemed as though we were spending the greater part of our remaining three weeks practising for the passing-out parade. And although Education, GDT and PT still continued to be a part of our lives, it seemed as though we spent most of the time either on the Square—or in a blister hangar if it was raining—rehearsing for the passing-out parade, so intent were the drill instructors on getting us ready us ready for the big day.
Then the day finally arrived. On 20th December, 1956, the 29th Entry of Boy Entrants, Royal Air Force St. Athan, celebrated the completion of their initial training, formalized by a ceremonial passing-out parade complete with rifles and fixed bayonets.
The usual procedure was to hold such ceremonial parades on the Square, but a thick blanket of fog on that particular date made this impractical, so our ceremony was held in the Drill Shed instead. We were marched there in two squadrons, wearing our winter uniform of greatcoats and gloves, both of which provided some protection against the penetrating cold of the freezing fog that enveloped us on the march from the squadron billets to the Drill Shed. Empty bayonet scabbards dangled from our webbing belts. They were empty beca
use the actual bayonets glittered at the ends of the rifles we carried at the slope arms position as we proudly marched onto the parade ground area that had been marked off in the Drill Shed. All of us felt buoyed up by the sense of achievement of having made it through the trials and tribulations of the Initial Training Squadron and the knowledge that we would soon trade our green and black hatbands for the coveted Wing hatbands. In my case, this would be in the red and navy blue check of 2 Wing.
All of our drill training now came into play as we went through the various manoeuvres of a parade that included presenting arms as the RAF Ensign was being hoisted and marching into open order so that our ranks could be inspected by the Station Commander. Then it was time for the final march past the saluting base, in line abreast. The Station Commander took the salute and we then left the parade ground, symbolically marching out of the Initial Training Squadron.
Some two weeks previously, Corporal Blandford had gathered us together in a classroom and distributed Leave Application forms. He told us that we would be granted 21 days leave from “after duty hours” on Thursday the 20th of December, the day of our Initial Training Squadron pass-out parade, which meant that we would be due back on camp by 2359 hours—midnight—on the 10th of January. Submitting the Leave Application would ensure that travel vouchers would be prepared in time and that we would receive the held-back portion of our pay at the pay parade immediately prior to going on leave. Blandford supervised as we filled out personal details on the form—name, rank and serial number—and the amount of leave requested. Two weeks still to go before we passed out of ITS and then went on leave! I was impatient for it all to happen right now, instead of just applying for it. We finished by signing our applications and then handed them to Corporal Blandford for the Flight Commander’s signature of approval. They would then be sent to Personnel Records at SHQ for processing.
Now, with the parade behind us, the time had finally arrived—this was my first leave home since joining the Boys. We were destined to move to the Wings on graduating from Initial Training, but that was going to be organized when we returned. We were, however, instructed to take all our kit with us when we went on leave and that nothing was to be left behind. I had already started packing my kitbag with items that probably wouldn’t be needed during the two weeks leading up to the pass-out parade. Now, on the eve of our departure on leave, I packed the remaining items in gleeful anticipation of going home the very next day. My white canvas kitbag was cylindrical in shape, about two feet in diameter and stood at around three feet tall. It held a deceptively large amount of kit—a lot more than I possessed, as soon became obvious.
The next morning, we were called on parade immediately after breakfast. There was no button inspection this time. Instead, Corporal Blandford passed up and down the ranks distributing leave passes and travel warrants that we each needed to exchange at the railway station for the return rail ticket home—my warrant also included the fare for the sea passage between Liverpool and Belfast. Then, we were taken to the rooms where we had sworn the oath of allegiance several weeks previously. Once there, we were treated to a special pay parade, during which we received the back-pay that had been saved for this very occasion. On top of that, we received a ration allowance for the days that we wouldn’t be eating in the camp mess. The back-pay and ration allowance together came to about twenty pounds—more money than I’d ever had of my own, all at once, up to that moment. I felt like a millionaire.
Before I even opened my eyes the following morning, I felt a great eagerness to set off with the other Irish lads on the journey back to Ireland. Each of us was faced with the certain prospect of a long day and night before we reached our final destinations. Just the train journey to Liverpool by itself was going to take us several hours, with one or two changes on the way. Then there was the long sleepless overnight sea crossing to Belfast to look forward to. But it didn’t matter because we were going home. They could have made us walk on hot coals all the way and we would still have cheerfully made the journey. The train for our first leg of the journey was due to leave Gileston railway station at around lunchtime.
After a hurried breakfast, I packed the remainder of my worldly possessions into my kitbag and marvelled at how the canvas sack could still be half-empty. In the past, I had seen soldiers and sailors and airmen lug around large well-filled kitbags when they travelled and wanted mine to look the same way, but apparently they must have owned more kit than I did. Not to be outdone, I took the pillow out of my locker and stuffed it into the empty space and that did the trick. Now the kitbag looked the way I imagined it should be.
The squadron admin. office had organized a service bus to take us to the station. When it arrived outside the billets at around 10 o’clock, I waited my turn to stow the well-stuffed kitbag into the cargo space, then joined the queue to climb aboard and sat down next to Billy Cassidy. I hadn’t seen much of him in ITS because we were in different flights. We were still friends, however and enjoyed talking and joking around with the other Northern Irish lads with whom we travelled as a group.
Finding seats aboard the train from Gileston was relatively easy, but when we arrived at Barry station it suddenly became apparent that we had joined up with the holiday rush. Never having had to travel around the festive season before, I was unprepared for the hordes of other travellers also making their way home for Christmas. The train to Crewe was packed with not a seat to be had, which meant that we had to be content with travelling all the way in the corridor, using our kitbags as seats when the guard wasn’t around. At Crewe, it wasn’t any better. In fact, it was worse and the train on our next leg of the journey, to Liverpool’s Lime Street station, was even more crowded than the one from Barry to Crewe. But if we thought it couldn’t get worse, we were dead wrong. It could and it did.
The watery winter sun had long since set by the time we arrived on foot at Princes Dock. A long queue of assorted travellers had formed, patiently suffering the steady rain that was falling unceasingly from the heavens, as they stood at the closed dock gate waiting to board the ship. Someone mentioned that we needed sailing tickets, although that’s the first that any of us had heard of it. I didn’t even know what a sailing ticket was. We’d been told that a return railway ticket was all that was needed for the passage between Liverpool and Belfast. So, we joined onto the end of the queue and thankfully lowered our kitbags to the ground, easing the ache in our arms that came from holding the bags up on our shoulders during the long walk from Lime Street station. The queue didn’t move forward a single inch for what seemed an eternity. Meanwhile, the relentless rain fell in a fine drizzle, hissing softly as it made contact with the wet road and the numerous puddles in my immediate surroundings. The tiny splashes made by the raindrops on the wet pavement momentarily reflected the harsh orange glare of the street lights, taking on the hypnotic appearance of a firefly swarm that dances continuously above the surface of a pond. Occasionally, the soft hiss of the rain was overpowered by much louder swishing noises, as cars and buses splashed by on the wet road, the imprint of their tyre tread pattern being quickly obliterated by the thin film of surface water that jealously reclaimed the territory from which it had been so rudely displaced.
A shipping company official eventually came along the queue, informing servicemen in uniform to make their way to the front. We immediately detached ourselves from the main queue and waited in a small separate line as our tickets were inspected before being allowed to go on board the ship. It was also explained to us that a sailing ticket was usually needed during busy times such as this. Talking amongst ourselves, we resolved to pass this nugget of information on to the travel warrant clerk back at Station Headquarters. Although being called forward turned out to be a stroke of good luck, we still had to deal with a severely crowded ship. Every seat in the passenger lounge had been filled by the time we got on board and the ship’s crew had gone to the unusual step of opening the cargo hold to accommodate the extra passengers. Having no other
option, we clambered down into the hold and tried to make ourselves as comfortable as possible under an overhang. At least we were more or less out of the rain, but it was cold and miserable as we huddled down into our greatcoats and used our kitbags for makeshift pillows. I can remember looking across at Cassidy as he tried to get some sleep and seeing that he had the high collar of his coat pulled up around his neck and the peak of his hat pulled down over his eyes, so that barely anything of his face was visible. Some civilian wag nearby commented that Billy looked like a member of the Gestapo. And, just to add to our misery, the boat was late in sailing.
Finally we got under way and the first hour was relatively calm as the ship sailed within the shelter of the Mersey estuary. But as the estuary widened, the swell grew noticeably heavier until we were taking the full brunt of a gale force wind and the tempestuous waves it stirred up on the Irish Sea that dark December night. The ship continuously groaned and creaked as it pitched and wallowed in the roiling sea. Occasionally it would ride high on the crest of a wave before plunging steeply into its trough, accompanied by a screaming sound from ship’s propellers as they briefly emerged from the water and spun with little resistance in the air, before plunging back once again into their element and to their normal speed. At other times a large wave would collide head-on with the bow and break over it, creating a loud boom that resounded through the metal bulwarks of the vessel. The noise and motion made sleep utterly impossible, although I desperately tried. In the end I spent much of the night wandering around on the decks, watching and hearing the ship battle its way through the turbulent sea as its lights illuminated the spray flying from the crests of the waves. At all times I was hanging on to something solid so as not to be thrown off balance and fall. Many more people were suffering from sea-sickness than there had been on my first trip and although I wasn’t physically sick myself, there was an uncomfortable queasiness in the pit of my stomach.