by Brian Carlin
And finally they came—led by the combined Boy Entrant Trumpet Band—the morning light glinting off the shiny stainless steel of their bayonets and with the gleaming whiteness of their webbing belts and rifle slings signifying their hard-won status: the stars of this long-awaited ceremony. The wearing of white webbing was a special privilege granted to the graduating entry as a mark of honour, in contrast to the normal undistinguished-looking blue-grey webbing worn by the “supporting” entries. As they drew nearer I was able to see that they somehow managed to look proud, smug and happy all at the same time. I’m certain that I wasn’t alone in wishing that I was also marching in that proud, happy group, but this wasn’t our moment of fame. It would be several months and two more attendances at similar ceremonies before the 29th entry could be the bride instead of a bridesmaid.
The 26th came to a halt in the centre of the Square, in two formations that represented No. 1 Wing and No. 2 Wing. They were then given the command to order arms and stand at ease by their Flight Sergeant Boy Entrant, who would now have the high honour of being the Parade Commander.
When an entry achieved Senior Entry status, one of the small number of Corporal Boys in each of the four squadrons was selected to be the Sergeant Boy for his particular squadron. The selection was made on the basis of trade proficiency, leadership qualities, appearance and an exemplary record of good conduct. Of the four Sergeant Boys, only one would eventually be elevated to the highest rank—that of Flight Sergeant Boy. The promotion came late in the entry’s life and was deliberately timed to coincide with the imminent passing out parade. The rank was in fact an honour bestowed for the best all round performance by a boy entrant. The recipient was granted the awesome privilege of leading his entry’s passing out parade in his role of Parade Commander. Needless to say, competition for this exalted rank was extremely fierce between the four Sergeant Boys and included tryouts on the parade ground to assess which of them would best fill the Parade Commander role. We lesser mortals didn’t have to concern ourselves too much with this competition, since it was played out in the rarefied atmosphere to which we didn’t aspire, but there was a small measure of reflected glory in belonging to the squadron that begat the Flight Sergeant Boy for any given entry. The honour fell to one of the other squadrons for the 26th entry’s passing-out parade, so there was no glory to be had for 3 Squadron this time around. But our turn would come next time around, although it was still three and a half months in the future, when our own Dave Williams of the 27th entry would win the honour of wearing the small gold Flight Sergeant Boy’s crown above his three stripes.
The Flight Sergeant Boy now called the parade to attention. Meanwhile, the Duty Orderly Sergeant waited at the base of the flagpole, holding the Royal Air Force ensign that was attached to the lanyard by which he would hoist it to the top of the flagstaff at the given signal. For a few seconds, there was an unearthly silence following the loud crunching noise of multiple boots stamping in unison on gravel, as the parade came to attention. In this quiet aftermath, the Parade Commander’s chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath. Then the silence was broken.
“Slope arms!” He bawled, his chest returning to normal size as he forcefully expended the air from his lungs across his vocal chords.
To a man, we all responded by shouldering our rifles. The Parade Commander took another few seconds to survey the scene, seeming to savour the heady feeling of his power. Then, taking another deep breath, he bellowed, “General salute—present arms!”
The Parade responded by bringing rifles into the Present Arms position. This drill movement was characteristically noisy, caused by the sound of many hands slapping twice in succession against the rifles, as we transferred them from our shoulders into a vertical position, front and centre of our bodies. The simultaneous crunch of many left boots stamping into an angled position behind the right heel punctuated the final part of the Present Arms movement. The Parade Commander now performed an about-turn and snapped up a stiff salute in the direction of the flagpole. At the same time, the Station Band struck up with a rendition of the Royal Air Force anthem. We held the Present Arms and the band continued to play as the Royal Air Force ensign was raised to the tip of the angled jib that jutted out from the main pole, from where it waved gracefully in the light breeze that wafted across the Square. At that point, the Orderly Sergeant, still holding the lanyard on which he had raised the flag, snapped both arms to his sides in the position of attention. The band ceased playing, whereupon the Flight Sergeant Boy called out, “Paraaade…slo-ope arms,” whilst simultaneously snapping his saluting arm back down to his side.
When an air of silence replaced the staccato sounds of the slope arms drill movement, the Flight Sergeant Boy Parade Commander gave the command to order arms. This initiated another brief round of rifle-slapping, gravel-crunching noises, followed by a brief silence that was broken only by the small sound of gravel being ground as the Parade Commander swivelled around in an about-turn to face us. Squaring himself up, he then ordered us to stand at ease whilst remaining at attention himself; he then performed another about-turn that brought him around to face the flag once more, before standing himself at ease. We now awaited the arrival of the Reviewing Officer.
We hadn’t been waiting long before a large, immaculately gleaming black car, flying the distinctive flag of an Air Vice Marshal, glided slowly along the road towards us from the direction of Station Headquarters. When it reached the first entrance to the Square, the car turned and motored onto the hallowed ground, a white wispy plume of exhaust now visibly swirling around behind it. The car drew level with the saluting dais and eased to a stop. A sergeant stepped forward and used his left hand to open the rear passenger door, whilst saluting with his right, as an Air Vice Marshal emerged from his seat within the car and straightened up. He was resplendent in his full dress uniform, complete with ceremonial sword, medals and the small cruciform insignia of a knighthood that dangled from a ribbon around his neck to rest on the knot of his tie. The Air Vice Marshal was immediately approached by the Parade Commander, who marched up to him with a stiff jerky gait, coming to complete halt before throwing up an equally stiff salute. The AVM returned the salute in a casually relaxed manner and then briefly exchanged some words with the parade commander. Meanwhile, the car that had delivered him now glided smoothly away and off the Square, its wispy little exhaust plume fluttering behind like a puppy’s wagging tail. With the initial pleasantries observed, the AVM turned and with an easy grace climbed the three steps to the dais, brought himself around to face the parade and then stopped in a position of attention. Once again, the Parade Commander ordered a General Salute and the band struck up with a fanfare to welcome the distinguished visitor, who returned the salute in the same casual manner as before by gently touching the fingertips of his right hand to his temple.
At the conclusion of the general salute, after which we had been stood easy and then brought to attention a few more times, the Parade Commander informed the AVM in loud, clipped military enunciation, “The 26th entry is ready for inspection, sir!”
With that, the AVM descended from the dais to perform his role of Reviewing Officer and after having observed a few preliminaries, went about the business of inspecting the 26th entry. This was the most tedious part of the whole process, during which everyone on parade was obliged to stand perfectly still for a very long time—although the Station Band lightened the monotony a little, by playing a variety of martial music as the inspection progressed.
We had been taught not to move out of place whilst on parade, but to raise our heels slightly off the ground from time to time to relieve pressure. It was usually during this part of a parade that a number of people would pass out in a rather different manner from that which was intended. This “passing out” was with eyes closed and mouth gaping open, as their knees sagged and they sank to the ground like a loosely-bagged sack of potatoes. Someone, usually the person standing next to them, would break ranks to assist the un
fortunate individual back to his feet and then escort him to the rear of the parade ground where medics stood by to render first aid in the form of a glass of water. It was considered a stroke of good luck to have the person beside you faint on parade. If you possessed enough alertness to move quickly, it was possible to be first person to reach him and render assistance. The reward for this selflessly noble gesture was the opportunity of stretching your own legs as you gently helped the poor fellow off the parade ground.
Finally, the inspection was over. Salutes and inaudible words were exchanged between the Parade Commander and the Reviewing Officer and then it was time for the 26th entry’s triumphant march past. In a normal colour raising parade, every squadron would march past the reviewing stand, but on this occasion only the graduating entry would have that honour. We of the lesser entries, on the other hand, had one final task to perform before the parade could end. Both squadrons of the boys who would soon be men were brought smartly to attention and given the command to right-turn. The gravel crunched as something like a hundred pairs of boots swivelled to face in the new direction, immediately followed by the loud report of their other boots stamping down in forceful contact with the parade-ground surface. The order to march was called out and the Boy Entrant Trumpet Band struck up with a special march composed especially for the 26th entry’s pass-out. The marching squadrons headed off in a direction away from, but parallel with, the reviewing stand. Meanwhile, we of the supporting squadrons were marched into two formations that faced each other across several yards and were perpendicular to the dais.
When the first squadron of 26th neared the edge of the parade ground, they were ordered to “left wheel”. But they had hardly started marching in the new direction before another command ordered them to “advance in review order, left turn”. The squadron, as one man, made a marching turn that transformed them from a long column into three ranks marching line abreast. This took them in a new direction; directly past the reviewing stand where the Reviewing Officer waited, left hand resting on the hilt of the sword that hung in its scabbard at his side. As the first squadron neared the dais, an order was given to “slow march”. The members of the squadron checked their right arms to their sides and immediately made the transition to “slow time”. Nearer to the dais, the Parade Commander, marching at the front and centre of the first squadron, called out the order, “Eyeee-sss right!”
Every head but two turned smartly to the right and at the same time the parade commander’s right arm snapped up into a salute, which he held as the squadron continued marching past the reviewing stand. The only people who continued looking straight ahead were the marker and guide at the end of the front and rear ranks nearest the reviewing stand. It was their job to keep the squadron heading forward in a straight line and at the same time provide a reference that the other marchers needed to enable them to maintain the alignment along the ranks. As they passed the Reviewing Officer, he returned the salute and held it until the squadron had completely passed the front of the dais. Then it was “Eyeee-sss front!” and all heads snapped back to the forward-looking position. The first squadron marched a little way farther in the line abreast formation, as the second squadron repeated the ‘slow march’ and ‘eyes-right’ behind them, then the first squadron was given the order to ‘quick march’ before changing from line-abreast to ‘column-of-route’, which meant another marching turn to bring them into column formation once more. Another left wheel was ordered to bring them back towards the starting point, but by now we had formed the Guard of Honour on either side of their route off the Square. As they approached, we were ordered to ‘present arms’ and so they passed between our ranks with such wide smiles on their damned smug faces that it was sickening to those of us who would still have to suffer through several more months of boy entrant life before we would be in the same enviable position.
Following their passing-out parade, the 26th didn’t waste too much time in shaking the dust of St. Athan off their feet. That afternoon, groups of people attired in brand new battle dress, adorned with brand new LAC insignia, could be seen making their way around the station. They clutched blue clearance cards in their hands and wore broad smiles across their faces that would probably take several weeks to fade away. Gone were the colourful wheel badges and the coloured discs from behind their RAF beret hat badges. The chequered hatbands had also been removed from their SD hats and replaced by standard black RAF hatbands, which by their very mediocrity helped signify the wearer’s elevated status to the regular RAF service.
By late afternoon the now ex-26th had all cleared the station to enjoy a few weeks of well deserved leave before reporting to their new stations for real-life duty. Their passing left a power vacuum at St. Athan, but already the 27th were feeling the heady scent of long awaited Senior Entry status. That evening, they publicly claimed their inherited kingdom by noisily parading through the camp singing and shouting slogans in praise of their entry. Worse was to follow later, after lights out.
We were back to the dark times of nightly raids and bed tipping, but this time it was a little worse. When we had arrived into the Wings, the 26th had already enjoyed the first fruits of senior entry status, so although we had suffered through some billet raids after lights-out, the novelty had already started to wear off for them. Now, with the 27th, we were going to experience it from its infancy and that was much worse than our tribulations under the 26th. For one thing, we were no longer a bunch of anonymous sprogs whose faces were nothing more than a blur. Many of us, yours truly included, had managed to piss off more than a few of the 27th during our short time in the Wings, for reasons real or imagined. They knew who we were, they knew where we lived and they had bided their time until now.
On that first night of the 27th’s ascendancy to senior entry, a huge raid took place and this time prisoners were taken! I could hear their feet pounding on the floorboards of the corridor towards our billet, but not just feet and muffled voices. The raiders were calling out the names of specific individuals to be targeted. I clearly heard my own name called out, at first by one person but then taken up as a chorus by the others. They sounded like hounds baying when one of them has picked up the scent of an unfortunate fox. “Carlin, Carlin, let’s get Carlin!” I cringed and waited helplessly for whatever fate lay ahead of me. It was going to be a long, long night!
They came into the billet with torches flashing around and made straight for where I lay. My bed was thrown over and I found myself in the now familiar situation of picking myself out of an entanglement of blankets, sheets and mattress.
“Okay, Carlin,” said a voice that I vaguely recognized, “time we had you up on court martial.”
Two of them dragged me to my feet, pinioned my arms to my sides and then force-marched me out of the billet, into the corridor. A catcalling rabble followed behind as I was taken to the common room where a table, with three 27th entry members seated behind it, occupied centre-stage. Elsewhere in the room several of my fellow-29th entry members were being held under guard by the new senior entry, who were also jeering the ongoing proceedings. Evidently, I wasn’t the first to appear before the court that night.
When my turn came, the escort manoeuvred me into a position in front of the table to face the seated “judges”. The proceedings pantomimed a real appearance on a charge, but involved much more intimidation. Various people shouted at me to stand up straight at attention, while others accused me of looking disrespectfully at the judges. My name was read out from a “charge sheet” and then “evidence” for the prosecution was recited by one of the judges. It amounted to the fact that I had been disrespectful to several of the 27th entry members at various times during these past few weeks. This was probably true because I was a normal flippant teenager.
We got through the evidence and, not surprisingly, I was found guilty as charged. Now for the punishment.
The pronouncement came. “Boy Entrant Carlin, you are sentenced to jump off this table,” said the first ju
dge.
“Wait a minute,” said another, “that’s too easy. I think he should do it blindfolded!”
The third judge vigorously agreed, prompting the first judge to make pretence of thinking about it before agreeing to go along with the majority decision.
Addressing my escort, he commanded, “Take him outside and blindfold him well.”
I was force-marched back out to the corridor where a scarf was placed over my eyes and tied around my head. It came down my face almost to the end of my nose so that I couldn’t see out underneath the way children do when they’re playing blind man’s buff. When they were satisfied that I couldn’t possibly see anything and I can only imagine that they tested me well, I was taken back into the “court martial”. Then several pairs of hands hoisted me in the air and lowered me down onto the Formica tabletop.
“Okay, you’re in the middle of the table,” a voice informed me, “move to the edge and jump.”
I hesitated. The fear of injury was terrifying.
“If you don’t jump, you’re going to get a cold bath,” said the voice.
Which would be worse, I wondered? At least with a cold bath there would be little risk of getting hurt. I continued to ponder my options, but a few seconds later some hands started nudging me away from my spot in the centre of the table. I resisted, but the hands were insistent. It began to look as though the cold bath option had been withdrawn and I was going to have to jump—or be pushed. My feet felt for the edge and at the same time the hands stopped nudging and held on to me instead.