by Brian Carlin
Comfortable as they were, the beds had a notorious reputation for being very unstable and were prone to tipping an unwary occupant unceremoniously onto the ground at the slightest provocation. I’d heard about this from some of the senior entry boys who had been to summer camp the previous year, so I decided to see for myself. They were right! The mere act of just lying down on the bed was comparable to getting into a small boat. The secret of maintaining stability was to initially place one’s bum on or as close to the exact middle of bed as possible. Too much to one side and you were tipped out sideways. Likewise, plunking yourself down too near to either end caused the bed to behave like a seesaw, with the seated end swiftly depositing the sitter on the ground and the other end rising high in the air. Getting into bed at night was an acquired skill and even then, as we all soon discovered, managing to do that successfully didn’t guarantee immunity from being tipped out later if an occupant suddenly shifted his weight without being careful to do it gently. Learning to sleep in one of these beds was much like a sailor having to gain his sea legs, but after a few nights we all got the hang of it—most of the time, anyway.
The long journey from St. Athan to Woodvale and then the business of getting settled into the new accommodation had taken a heavy toll on our energy. It had been a long day and most of us were glad to turn in for the night by the time “Lights Out” was sounded. It was still daylight because we were getting near to mid-summer, which was just as well, since there was no lighting in the tents. That first night was a new but not unpleasant experience, if I ignore the number of times that I found myself dumped on the floor because of the safari bed’s instability. (We didn’t need senior entry raiding parties at Woodvale, because the beds came with their own built-in self-tipping feature.) I dozed off with the sweet aroma of grass and fresh air in my nostrils, but also feeling slightly claustrophobic due to the close confinement of the tent. Occasionally, there was a brief rattle and whoosh of air as an electric train sped past on the railway line not more than a hundred yards away from where I lay. But these things didn’t prey on my mind for too long—I was asleep within a few minutes.
At 0630 hours next morning, I awakened from my slumbers to the sound of “Reveille” being played on a trumpet. That came as a surprise in the grogginess of my sleep-filled mind, but I soon remembered that there was no Tannoy system in our primitive environment and that it fell to us trumpeters to play “Reveille” in the morning and “Lights Out” last thing at night. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t “duty trumpeter” on that first morning, but my turn would come around more than once during our summer camp.
I had been doing quite a bit of trumpet-playing practice and, even if I say so myself, had become reasonably proficient—if not quite up to Corporal Trumpeter standards—by the time we set out for summer camp. But this morning all I had to do was get up, get washed and be ready for parade at 8:30 to find out what the day had in store for us at this RAF version of Butlin’s Holiday Camp.
I fell out of bed (getting out gracefully would take a few more days’ practice) and grabbed my towel and toiletries before heading for the latrines and ablutions. The latrines took some getting used to. The urinal was just a trench dug in the ground hidden behind a canvas screen. I wondered what it would be like if I had to go during the night. The thought of missing my footing in the dark and stumbling into the trench didn’t seem very appealing—yugh! By contrast, going for a “number two” meant using one of the chemical toilets—the “thunder buckets”—that sat in a row in a nearby marquee. There wasn’t much privacy in there and the smell was enough to make anyone gag. Definitely not the place I wanted to sit around in to catch up on my reading!
The ablutions turned out to be a row of open-air washbasins, with cold water supplied by the operation of a hand pump. I washed my face, neck, ears and hands and brushed my teeth, but didn’t need to shave—at sixteen, I only needed to shave off the little bit of bum-fluff that sprouted along my upper lip about once every three or four weeks. Back in the tent, I donned the dress of the day: P.E. shirt and shorts under denims and my webbing belt clipped around my waist. My plimsolls and beret completed the outfit, as I headed off to the mess tent for breakfast.
In the breakfast queue, I shuffled along over a trail of bruised, trampled grass, finally getting to the place where the plates were stacked. I picked up the top plate and held it out towards the boy entrants in kitchen whites who were serving out the food. One of the kitchen staff was frying eggs on a hotplate that formed part of the servery. I asked him if he could splash some hot fat over the top of my egg—I didn’t like the clear jelly stuff on top and always scraped it off my egg at the St. Athan mess—and he cheerfully obliged. There was no choice at St. Athan: the eggs were fried somewhere in the cavernous recesses of the kitchen and brought out to the servery on a tray. There was little other option there than to point to an egg that appeared to have less clear albumen on top than the others, in the hope that the server would feel charitable enough to scoop up the indicated egg and deposit it on your plate. Here at summer camp, it was a different matter: we were being positively pampered. I passed along the line of servers, getting my plate loaded with streaky bacon, canned plum tomatoes and fried bread, then moved on to the cereal. After putting a ladleful of cornflakes into a cereal bowl, I headed for the milk urn that stood by itself on a table near the entrance to the mess tent. That was a mistake. Halfway there, a gust of wind blew up and took most of the cornflakes out of my bowl. There was nothing I could do about saving them because my other hand held a plateful of cooked breakfast, so I turned around and went back to the large carton of cornflakes and filled my bowl again. This time I put the cereal bowl under my other plate to shield it from the wind. That seemed to work, but by the time I was finally able to sit down and eat, I discovered that the cooked breakfast had become stone cold. Such were the joys of open air breakfasting on that first morning, but experience is a great teacher and I had at least learned how to prevent my cornflakes from becoming airborne.
At 0830 hours we were directed by a corporal boy to form up in threes, by entry number, on an open grassy area in front of our tents. After the usual right dress, we were stood at ease and then “stand easy” to await further information on whatever morning activities we would be undertaking. During the short time that we had been on parade, I had noticed a small group of RAF Regiment sergeants—the famous Rock Apes—standing nearby. Therefore, it came as no great surprise to discover that we would be under their supervision for most of our daily “adventures”. The Rock Ape NCO huddle broke up when all of the “entry” flights had been given the “stand easy” and each NCO headed towards his assigned flight of boys. One of them inevitably approached our flight and stopped in front of us with a friendly grin on his face.
“Good morning!” He bellowed.
Hardly anyone responded and those who did only managed a very tame “Good morning, sergeant”.
The grin vanished. “When I say ‘good morning,’ I mean ‘good morning!’ he roared. “Now let’s hear it again and this time put some bloody life into it! Good morning!”
“Good morning, sergeant!” We yelled.
“Again!” He shouted, “and louder this time!”
“Good morning, sergeant!” This time we yelled it about as loud as we could.
“That’s better,” he said, the grin returning to his face. “Now, let’s tell you…”
That was about as far as he got before his voice was suddenly drowned out by the gravelly growl of an aircraft engine being given full throttle, somewhere off to our left. All heads swivelled to look in the direction of the sound, just in time to see a Spitfire start its take-off roll from the end of the runway that passed across our front. The fierce growl got louder and increased in pitch as the aircraft came closer to our position. It lifted off the runway, just before reaching the point that would bring it directly in front of us, the undercarriage retracting even as the wheels seemed to have just barely left the ground. When i
t drew level with us, we caught the full impact of the naked sound waves that were being thrown off by the propeller-blade tips: a sound so powerful that it vibrated our teeth, our bodies and even the very ground beneath our feet. A swirl of condensed vapour whipped backwards from the spinning propeller as it clawed greedily at the moist morning air, pulling the fighter forwards and upwards in a shallow climb. Then, after passing in front of us, the spine-tingling sound of the powerful Merlin engine became steadily lower in pitch and more throbbing. As its growl grew fainter with distance, I thought I could even make out the crackle of exhaust from each of the individual twelve cylinders. We watched it, heads now turned to our right, as the Spitfire grew smaller and smaller until it became nothing more than a small speck against the sky, but the low throaty beat of its engine was still audible long after the plane itself had disappeared from view. The whole episode had started a buzz of excitement amongst us. Spontaneous comments like, “Wow, did you see that?” and “A SPITfire!” flew from many mouths, to no one in particular; we just needed to say something that paid homage to that mystical moment. But the sergeant didn’t let it go on for too long.
“Silence in the ranks,” he shouted, “remember you’re on parade!”
That brought us back down to earth and our attention back to what he had been about to say a few minutes earlier.
Later, I learned that there were actually three Spitfires based there and that they belonged to the Meteorological Flight. The weather kites, as they were called, flew daily and each of these occasions was a very special event to be savoured. Indeed, I never got tired of seeing that graceful shape in its natural element and hearing the somehow deeply satisfying growl of a Merlin engine at full throttle. At the time, I recognized it as just a Spitfire, but I’ve learned since then that all three were PR Mk XIX Spitfires and they were the last three of this famous aircraft to see operational service in the RAF. In fact, that year, 1957, was their final year, which probably means that we unknowingly witnessed a small piece of RAF history when we saw them in operation during our short stay at Woodvale.*
(*For an update on the fate of the Woodvale Spitfires, see Appendix 2)
“Pay attention lads,” the sergeant’s grin was replaced with a more serious look, “we’re going for a route march on the beach. So I want you to go back to your tents and get your denims and hats off and leave them there, then report back here on the double, just in your P.E. gear.”
On our return, we discovered that a second Regiment sergeant had joined the party to assist the first sergeant. Together, they set us off marching along the tarmac peri-track on our way to the beach. As we were marching, the sergeants began encouraging us to sing a marching song. I think that one of them may even have started us off on our first song, but soon we were all singing “Green Grow the Rushes-O”. It consists of something like ten or twelve verses, but I can only remember the first five, which go like this:
I’ll sing you one-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your one-O?
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.
I’ll sing you two-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your two-O?
Two, two, the ruddy SPs
Covered all in blanc-ho-ho
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.
I’ll sing you three-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your three-O?
Three, three, arrivals!
Two, two, the ruddy SPs
Covered all in blanc-ho-ho
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.
I’ll sing you four-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your four-O?
Four for the squadron markers
Three, three, arrivals!
Two, two, the ruddy SPs
Covered all in blanc-ho-ho
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.
I’ll sing you five-O
Green grow the rushes-O
What is your five-O?
Five for the blankets on your bed and *
Four for the squadron markers
Three, three, arrivals!
Two, two, the ruddy SPs
Covered all in blanc-ho-ho
One is one and all alone,
And ever more shall be.
*This line was frequently replaced with “Five for the wank stains on your bed and...”
We marched south and when the perimeter-track curved away to our left we continued in a straight line across the airfield grass, until we picked up the sandy dirt-track by which we had first arrived at the tent encampment. But instead of continuing on to where the track became a tarmac road, we were brought to a halt before a wide gateway in the fence separating the camp from the railway line. The singing stopped as one of the sergeants opened the gate and then looked up and down the line to make sure that there were no approaching trains. When satisfied that all was clear, he signalled to the other sergeant to march us across the level crossing. Both sergeants then stationed themselves so that one watched out for trains coming from the north, while the other guarded the southern approach.
On reaching the far side of the railway line, we passed through a second gate, which the first sergeant had opened in advance of our crossing. After passing through this gate, we began to encounter loose sand. The sand made it progressively more and more difficult to keep in step, as we began to make our way between sand dunes and pine trees towards the sound of distant waves breaking on a shore. Then, just when marching any further seemed to be next to impossible, one of the sergeants called out for us to break step. Shortly after that, we emerged onto a long wide beach.
As we moved away from the sand dunes, but continued to head in the general direction of the Irish Sea, the sand gradually became damper and firmer. Both sergeants began calling out the step again, “Left, right, left, right,” making us resume marching order. When we reached the seashore and were only a few yards from getting our feet wet, the first sergeant lead the column into a slight turn that brought it parallel with the shallow breakers. No sooner had this happened than the second sergeant called out, “Double,” and we were off at a trot along the long beach, the wind in our hair and the firm damp sand underfoot. It was an exhilarating experience and somehow set the tone for what summer camp was all about: fresh air, fitness, team building and good clean fun.
We ran for what must have been five miles all told, before returning to the level crossing and back across the tracks for our midday meal. The singing picked up again as soon as we got back on the grass, but this time we needed no encouragement—it just issued forth spontaneously.
That afternoon, we were assigned to be the camp fatigue party, washing dishes and tins at the mess tent, picking up litter around the camp and helping to empty the rubbish bins. Thankfully, we weren’t expected to empty the thunder buckets—that dubious privilege belonged to a contractor who came around each day with a tractor drawn tank-on-wheels. It was always advisable to stay upwind of him whilst he made his rounds.
There were two good things about being on the fatigue party; one was that we finished early and the other was that the cooks prepared a special meal for us before the rest of the herd turned up for tea. Being finished early and having a square meal under our belts gave Butterworth and me the idea of going to explore Southport. The electric trains ran every half hour, so all we needed to do was get out of our denims, get washed, put on our best blues and then catch the next available train. It wasn’t very long before we were standing on the Freshfield station platform with only a few minutes to spare before the next train was due.
“You know,” said Butterworth, “If I went across to the other platform I could be home in Liverpool in a very short time.” I looked at him, wondering if he’d changed his mind about Southport. “But I’m not going to,” he continued, “why would I
want to go there?” He asked rhetorically. I understood. His home life had been as unhappy as mine.
“No, we can have a much better time in Southport,” I replied.
We both grinned and at that moment the Southport-bound train swept almost silently into the station, its arrival announced only by the squeal of its brakes.
Southport seemed to be a more genteel place than Barry Island, but the one thing that both resorts had in common was a funfair, which we made a beeline for as soon as we got off the train. And there we revelled in the attention of girls of around our own age, who were attracted to our uniforms. They were mostly holidaymakers and out for the afternoon without their parents. The girls’ fascination with our uniforms gave us the perfect opportunity to break the ice, enabling us to ‘chat them up’ very easily. From there, it was only a short step to take two of them on some of the more exciting rides, where they pretended to be scared and cuddled up to us. We, like the gentlemen that we were, put our protective arms around them to make them feel safe. For the whole afternoon, it was one thrill ride after another with the sweet young ladies clinging to us for dear life. Then we went with the girls to a secluded spot for a little snogging—and whatever else we could reasonably get away with.