by Brian Carlin
Postscript
Andy Wiles, one of our number in the 29th entry who went on to become a commissioned aircrew member after he passed out of boy entrant training, told me a story of his encounter with the infamous DI from our ITS days, identified in the story as Cpl. Hillcrest (although that was not his real name).
Andy was in a party of aircrew at RAF Bulmer who were witnessing the demonstration of a helicopter being “hot refuelled”; that is whilst the engine is running. Because of bad weather, the operation was being performed just inside a hangar, with the doors wide open – obviously a nerve-wracking situation where the slightest hiccup could easily turn the whole thing into a disaster. During the hot fuelling process, the crew became conscious of a figure marching towards them across the concrete hangar floor and, from the sound of his footsteps, realized he was wearing the heavy type of hob-nailed boots beloved by DIs. Because there was the danger that an accidental fuel spillage in the confines of the hangar could very easily be ignited by an errant spark, such as might be kicked up by the interloper’s boots striking the concrete floor, Andy separated himself from the crew to intercept this individual and prevent him from venturing into the hazardous area. On getting closer, Andy realized it was none other than his old nemesis, Cpl. Hillcrest, who had apparently been posted to RAF Bulmer as his requested last posting, prior to the end of his service. Hillcrest came to a crashing halt when Andy ordered him to stop, and although Andy was certain that the DI recognized him as one of his former “victims”, the corporal never outwardly acknowledged any awareness of their prior shared history. At least now, as an officer, Andy had the utter satisfaction of receiving a drill manual style salute from “Babyface” (the real nickname by which he was scornfully known to those of us who had suffered so miserably at his hands). Corporal Hillcrest then turned around and retraced his steps, back the way he came, never to be seen again.
CHAPTER 6
Life in the Wings
Psychologically speaking, moving into the Wings was a huge leap forward, even if it was only one small step upwards in the general pecking order. The most immediately important event was that our green and black chequered ITS hatbands were forever consigned to a place in the 29th Entry’s history. Instead, those of us who moved into No. 2 Wing would now wear a red and navy blue chequered hatband, whilst our brother entry members, who went into No. 1 Wing, would wear a red and green checked band around their hats.
The Wings were divided into four squadrons: 1 and 2 squadrons were part of No. 1 Wing and consisted of U/T Airframe, Engine and Mechanical Transport Mechanics—U/T signified “Under Training”. No. 2 Wing comprised 3 and 4 Squadrons, with U/T Instrument and Armourer Mechanics assigned to 4 Squadron, whilst 3 Squadron, the one to which I now belonged, was made up entirely of U/T Electrical (Air) Mechanics. The parenthetical word “Air” indicated that we were destined to be Aircraft Electricians, in contrast to Ground Electricians who worked on all non-aircraft electrical systems and who were not represented in the Boy Entrant training scheme at that time.
In addition to being entitled to wear the hard-won red and navy blue hatband, I would also now wear a red disc behind the wheel badge on my sleeve to identify me as a member of 3 Squadron. Both of these outward symbols of my new status were like battle honours that we had all earned—by suffering from blistered feet after square-bashing sessions on the parade ground, crawling through mud in GCT and withstanding the cynical tongue lashings and indignities heaped on us by the ITS drill instructors. We had come a long way in just ten weeks, having somehow been transformed from a bunch of gawky raw civilians into disciplined members of a military unit. It was a proudly earned achievement, but there was still a long way to go.
The actual move up to the Wings itself occurred, without ceremony, on Saturday, 12th of January, 1957. We were given new billet assignments that morning and told to move our kit and bedding over there that afternoon. Although there was transport available, since Richard Butterworth and I had both been assigned to hut E7, we decided not to wait for it, but instead worked together to move our belongings and bedding over to the Wings by simply carrying it there on foot. We reasoned that the sooner we got everything over there, the sooner we could relax. It took at least two trips backwards and forwards between our old G lines hut and our new home in E lines, but at least we were now able to use the short route between ITS and the Wings that had once been forbidden, since we were now Wing members ourselves.
Leading Boy Entrant “Gerry” German, the NCO Boy in charge of billet E7, met us at the entrance and indicated four empty bed-spaces that had recently been vacated by 25th Entry members, when they had passed out of Boy Entrant training just before Christmas. Two other 29th Entry boys, Ron and Bill, had been assigned to the same billet, so each of us chose a bed and claimed it by dumping our kit on the bare mattress. All of the other bed-spaces were occupied by a cross-section of the Wings population, members of the 26th, 27th and 28th Entries, who eyed us with either interest or disdain, depending on the personality of the individual concerned.
Shortly after we’d stowed our kit away in the bedside lockers and made up blanket packs on our new beds, Leading Boy German returned with a message that all 29th Entry people were to parade immediately on the road outside E7, my new billet. All four of us struggled into our greatcoats and put on our hats and gloves as we headed out to the roadway where other entry members had already started forming up into three ranks. A group of NCOs consisting of one sergeant and three corporals waited around patiently, but chided the few inevitable stragglers to hurry up and get fell-in. We were then ordered to come to attention, the chatter ceased and a blanket of silence descended on our ranks. Nothing happened for a few moments, but then the sergeant stepped forward from the group of NCOs and addressed us, after first standing us at ease.
In a strong Cockney accent he announced: “My name is Sergeant Savoury and this is Corp’al Longfellow, Corp’al ‘ubbard (Hubbard) and Corp’al Calloway behind me.” Each corporal nodded once as the sergeant mentioned their individual names, without actually looking at them. “I am the sergeant in charge of free Squadron discipline,” he continued, “assisted by Corp’als Longfellow, ‘ubbard and Calloway.” As he spoke, he tried to enunciate his words in a clipped manner, but was heavily handicapped by the pronunciation he had inherited from his upbringing in the East End of London. The result was an affected kind of posh Cockney, if there is such a thing, which would have been comical if the situation hadn’t been one of great seriousness. Sergeant Savoury continued, “And on be’alf ‘em and myself, I want to welcome you to the squadron.” He paused for a moment or two, either to think about what say next or to let that part of his speech sink in. During the pause, he paced up and down on the slightly elevated grass verge that lay between where we stood and the billets. Seeming to have collected his thoughts, he stopped pacing and came around to face us again. “You may ‘ave noticed that you ‘ave been billeted wiv members of the uvver entries. We ‘ave a good reason for mixing you in wiv the uvvers, but you don’t need to know wot that is.” He spoke the last sentence in a dismissive kind of way, as if this mysterious reason was a great secret that we were too unworthy to have revealed to us.
Sergeant Savoury continued with his speech, “You will find that fings are much different ‘ere than they were in ITS. We won’t be babying you ‘ere; instead we expect you to act as responsible members of the squadron. Your main duty will be to attend trade training at Workshops and you are expected to study ‘ard so that you will gain proficiency and pass out as qualified mechanics, along wiv the uvver members of your entry. You will take end-of-term exams and, if you pass, will be awarded proficiency badges.” He was referring to the inverted stripes that were worn on the cuff of Boy Entrants’ tunic sleeves.
Having stood still whilst speaking to us, the sergeant now started pacing backwards and forwards in front of us again, all the while looking at the ground as though seeking inspiration. Then he stopped walking, faced us and dre
w himself up again before continuing with the address. “We ‘ave assigned Boy Entrant NCOs to maintain discipline. Each billet is under the supervision of a Leading Boy Entrant. You will obey ‘is and the uvver Boy Entrant NCOs’ orders as though they were mine. Is that understood?” Some of us mumbled a response, at which he bellowed, “Is that understood?”
“Yes Sergeant,” we chorused in response, startled that he had unexpectedly raised his voice.
“Leading Boys, Corp’al Boys and Sergeant Boys have been given the aufority to charge anyone in breach of regulations and that includes Queen’s Regulations, Station Standing Orders and Wing Routine Orders. If you are put on a charge you will be marched in front of the Flight Commander, who will assess your guilt or innocence. If the offence is serious, you may then be remanded to appear in front of the Squadron Commander and so forf.”
Savoury paused, paced briefly before stopping again and then continued, “Punishment may be anyfing from an award of confinement to camp for a number of days, to spending some time in detention in the Guardroom. But you have only to keep your nose clean, do as you’re told and this will not ‘appen to you.”
Another pause and more pacing, then: “You will parade out ‘ere in your respective flights at oh-eight-hundred each workday for inspection, before marching to Workshops to start classes at oh-eight-thirty hours. Is that understood?”
“Yes sergeant!” We didn’t mumble this time.
“That’s all I ‘ave to say. Any questions?” Despite his spoken invitation, the look on his face challenged anyone who might dare to ask a question. “Okay,” he barked and then turning to one of the NCOs arrayed behind him he said, “Corp’al Longfellow.”
Corporal Longfellow stepped forward and took over the spot now vacated by Sergeant Savoury, who proceeded to leave the area entirely. The corporal looked much less forbidding than the sergeant, as was reflected in his calmer voice. “Okay, pay attention. I have the new hatbands and discs for your berets,” he said, indicating some cardboard boxes sitting on the grass. “And, red discs that you need to sew in behind your wheel badges.” Then he added, “Don’t come on church parade tomorrow without having the hatbands on your SDs and red discs behind your wheel badges.” He eyes scanned along our ranks as he let this sink in, before continuing, “We’re also going to issue you with working greatcoats. These will be on loan from the squadron and need to be handed in when you leave St. Athan.” He stopped again briefly to catch his breath, then continued, “When I dismiss you, come up here and pick up your hatbands and discs, then go to the squadron stores and sign out a greatcoat.” He paused for a moment then asked, “Any questions?” There was no reply so he said, “Okay, Flight dismiss!”
As soon as we were dismissed, I joined the crush of bodies that immediately surrounded Corporal Longfellow and jostled with the others until I got my goodies. Then I headed off to the nearby squadron store to collect a working greatcoat.
On our first visit to the clothing store, during those first few days in ITS, we had been issued with one greatcoat to be worn with our best blue as formal winter uniform and with our working blue in those same winter months. The long heavy coat was especially welcome when we were standing still for lengthy periods of time during morning inspection parades. They hadn’t been worn for anything other than drill or when going out of camp in our best blue uniforms, so after just twelve weeks of intermittent use the coats were still in very good condition. The Wings’ administration obviously foresaw that our greatcoats would quickly become the worse for wear and therefore unsuitable for best dress if we continued to use them every day. Therefore, they apparently came up with the solution of lending us old hand-me-down greatcoats for everyday use, strictly within the confines of the camp. Many of these coats were ancient and had probably warmed many bodies before they encountered ours, whilst others were of more recent vintage, but all had one thing in common: they lacked the eagle flashes on the shoulders, which was probably to indicate that they were on loan. The old greatcoats came with a huge built-in advantage, however: the buttons had been cleaned so often by our predecessors that all the small nooks and crannies around the embossed eagle and crown had been worn away, leaving a smooth surface. Keeping them clean was going to be very easy.
After receiving my “new” working greatcoat, I went back to the billet to do a little sewing. The wheel badges had to be removed from both of my uniforms and my best greatcoat, then sewn back in place with the red no. 3 Squadron disc behind each one. The red and blue chequered hatband was easy to fit on my SD hat because it was held in place by a row of sharp little metal hooks on one end that hooked over and into the excess fabric of the band after it had been looped around the hat, in much the same way that Velcro works in today’s world. The red and blue quadrant disc that was to be worn behind the badge on my beret was easy to install, because it was just a matter of removing the badge, as we would to clean it, and fitting the disc behind it. Finally, there was a fourth wheel badge and disc to be sewn on to the working greatcoat that I’d just picked up and voila, the transformation from ITS sprog to Wing Boy was complete.
Well, we might now be Wing Boys but the 29th Entry was still the lowest form of life on camp, as we were soon to find out.
That night, at 2130 hours, Leading Boy “Gerry” German came into the billet from his bunk and announced, “Stand by your beds for bed check!” With that, an adult NCO entered the billet wearing an “Orderly Corporal” armband. Later on, I recognized him to be one of our technical instructors, but on this first night in the Wings I had yet to meet any of the instructional staff. The Orderly Corporal—the name given to the duty corporal after normal “business hours”—moved quickly through the billet to check that either everyone was by his bed or otherwise legitimately accounted for. Gerry German accompanied him as far as the back door and then returned to his bunk. After that I performed my evening ablutions and got into bed ready for lights out. Then, at exactly 2200 hours, Leading Boy German came back into the billet to make sure that everyone was in bed before turning out the lights. Conversation stopped and all became quiet as the familiar solo trumpet notes of “Lights out”, backed by the orchestral “Evening Hymn”, played over the Radio St. Athan speaker high up on the wall. I never got tired of hearing this music, nor did anyone else judging by the silence that settled over the darkened billet as it played. On this night it signalled the end of a very busy, stress-filled milestone of a day and gradually induced a sensation of comfort whilst I began nodding off to sleep in my new surroundings. This blissful state must have lasted for all of ten minutes before I was brought back to full wakefulness by the glare of several torches suddenly piercing the darkness. Four or five people holding the torches then got out of bed and noisily left the billet through the rear door, their footsteps fading into the distance as they galloped off along the corridor that interconnected the billets.
“What’s going on?” I heard a voice ask in a stage whisper, recognizing it as coming from one of my fellow 29th Entry.
“It’s the 26th,” answered a second voice, “they’re going to be coming round on a raid.”
Now I could hear the sounds of several distant voices and footsteps out in the corridor between the billets, sometimes walking and sometimes running. Loud crashing sounds frequently accompanied the sound of the voices and footsteps and, to make matters worse, it sounded as though they were getting ever closer to where we lay.
The second of the two voices that I’d heard before spoke again, “Whatever you do—don’t try to resist them. They’re tipping people out of bed and they’ll make it worse on you if you make a fight of it. Just take it like a man and then wait until they’ve left and then make your bed again.”
As I listened to this advice my stomach knotted up; meanwhile the voices and footsteps drew ever closer until they were right outside our door. I held my breath as the doorknob rattled as it was being turned, then the door was flung open and several torch beams flashed around the room in random directio
ns, piercing the comfortable blanket of darkness as the intruders entered. Almost at once, the air was filled with sounds of bedsteads crashing to the floor as the raiders moved through the billet, leaving a trail of tangled mattresses, bedding and struggling bodies in their wake. Some of the torch beams found me and I instinctively froze where I lay, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Then, two unseen pairs of hands grasped the frame on one side of my bed and heaved it upwards so that the entire bedstead was thrown on its side, dumping me unceremoniously out onto the cold linoleum floor.
The entire billet was now in a shambles as we all tried to extricate ourselves from the wreckage of what had, until very recently, been our beds. But the raid wasn’t over just yet.
“Where are the sprogs?” A voice hissed.
A torch suddenly turned in my direction, forcing me to shield my eyes from the blinding glare.
“Here’s one!” Answered the voice behind the light beam that was pointing at me.
Other torch beams homed in on me until it seemed as though I was an aircraft caught in a cone of searchlights. There was no escape! The lights drew nearer.
“Stand up!” One voice commanded.
I managed to untangle myself from the bedding and stood up, feeling nervous and sheepish, especially since I couldn’t see anything in the glare of the torches.
“What entry are you, sprog?” Demanded the disembodied voice behind the torch.
“Twenty-ninth,” I answered as confidently as I could, which really wasn’t very confident.