Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat

by Brian Carlin

  The 29th were immune from these activities, probably because many in the 28th couldn’t really afford to get on our bad side. Already, several of them had been relegated to our Entry because of their poor phase-test results and although these individuals were still considered to be members of the 28th by their former entry-mates and enjoyed the same privileges, they were conscious that such protection would evaporate with the passing out of the 28th. Others, as yet not relegated, knew they could still suffer that fate if they didn’t pass their final trade testing, so not one of them wanted to burn any bridges. It was a different story after lights-out, however, when absolutely no one was immune under the cover of darkness. The 28th carried out a massive raid on that first night, drunk on the elation of their new status as Senior Entry. Everyone was subjected to the indignity of being unceremoniously tipped out of bed, including yours truly. This time, instead of being scared, I was irritated at having to put up with this night after night as the 28th indulged their collective ego, for what seemed to be a much longer time than it had been with the previous two entries. The only thing keeping my spirits up was the thought that this would be the last time my Entry would have to suffer it.

  * * *

  Bill, one of the 29th Entry boys in my billet had formed a friendship with Ben, another boy in the billet who had been relegated to our Entry from the 28th Entry. When the 28th became the Senior Entry, Ben assumed their “privileges” according to the unwritten boy entrant code, even though he was now a member of the 29th Entry in the eyes of the authorities. As an extension of their friendship, Ben apparently felt that he could share his new-found 28th Entry privileges with Bill in such things as endowing him with the right to sit with Ben in the Senior Entry seats at the Astra. Although gratingly irritating to his fellow-entry members, Bill’s acceptance of these privileges was fairly innocuous. But Ben’s sharing of Senior Entry privileges with Bill went just a little too far when it came to playing Senior Entry pranks on people of other Entries, especially when the targets were members of Bill’s own 29th Entry. It was in this context that they both plotted an ill-considered prank against my friend Richard Butterworth, who probably appeared to be an easy target because of his small stature.

  It happened during the time when Air Ministry workmen were replacing the aging asbestos-based thermal insulation with new glass fibre insulation on the pipes that distributed hot water throughout the camp. Many of us, who were curious enough to examine this new type of insulation, picked some of it up from the ground where it had fallen, only to quickly discover that it was very nasty stuff. When handled, the hair-thin glass fibres unfailingly pierced the unprotected skin of our hands and then broke off at the surface, leaving behind small lengths of fibre embedded under the skin that caused maddening itching and irritation for several days afterwards. No amount of hand-washing would remove the fibres and so they remained until nature somehow dealt with the problem in its own way.

  On learning that the glass fibre was imbued with these rather unpleasant characteristics, Bill and Ben came up with the idea of using it to play a prank on Richard. But with the short-sightedness typical of youth, they didn’t think it through very well, with the result that the prank turned out to be anything but funny.

  With a supply of glass fibre stashed and ready to be used, the pranksters waited for an opportunity to implement their plan, which came one evening when Rich and I went to see a film at the Astra. With the coast clear and probably with no witnesses around, they put a generous sprinkling of glass fibre in between the sheets of Richard’s bed.

  When Rich and I came back to the billet after the film had finished, we still had an hour or so to go before bed-check, so we got our uniforms ready for the next morning’s working parade inspection and then lay around on top of our beds reading or chatting. We noticed knowing glances between Bill and Ben, but failed to connect them to anything in particular. It’s possible that we checked for an “apple pie” bed, which was a harmless and popular prank that was sometimes played on people who were out of the billet for a lengthy period in the evening. It involved remaking the victim’s bed in such a way that it appeared deceptively normal, when in fact the bottom sheet had been folded back up over itself and the top sheet folded downwards towards the foot of the bed. The blankets were then pulled back over the sheets in normal fashion and the tail end of the bottom sheet (which was now at the top of the bed) turned down to make it appear to be the top sheet. When the unsuspecting victim tried to get into bed, he found that he could only get his feet halfway down under the sheets before encountering the fold. Usually, this was just about the time for lights-out, so he had the annoying task of having to strip off his blankets and sheets to remake the bed.

  But, if indeed we checked, it seemed that we found no evidence of an apple-pie and so the glass fibre lay undiscovered, waiting to do its nasty work later. The Orderly Corporal came into the billet and made his routine bed-check a few minutes before lights-out. Then, at 10 o’clock, the Tannoy announced “Lights out!” and with that, Leading Boy Tunstall, Gerry German’s replacement, came into the billet and ordered everyone into bed before turning off the lights. As usual, we listened to the “Last Post and Evening Hymn” as it played over the broadcast system. There was always a little chatter that tapered off as we dropped off to sleep.

  But sleep didn’t come easily for poor Richard. In fact it didn’t come at all. Multiple sharp brittle glass fibres began to pierce his skin and then break off to leave small irritating pieces of glass embedded in his flesh. He tossed and turned, but the more he moved around the worse the problem became, until most of his body seemed to be on fire. There were stifled snickers from the surrounding darkness as the anonymous perpetrators relished the sounds of his discomfort. Hearing them didn’t make his suffering any easier. After about an hour of this torture, he got out of bed and went to take a bath. By now, he realized the cause of the unbearable itchiness and his immediate preoccupation was to find some relief. Half an hour later he came back to the billet sobbing audibly and uttering a few choice obscenities aimed at his unknown tormentors. Obviously, bathing hadn’t helped, which wasn’t very surprising since the fibres were too deeply embedded in his skin to be washed off.

  At first, Richard tried to get dressed, but the clothing only seemed to make the irritation worse, so he gave up on that idea. Instead, he donned a pair of P.E. shorts and then wrapped his groundsheet around the upper part of his body, before setting off on the long trek to Station Sick Quarters at the other side of the camp, where he hoped the medics would be able to do something to ease his suffering.

  Richard didn’t return to the billet and his bed of horrors again that night, nor did he show up for workshops next morning. In fact, we found out later that he’d been admitted to the nearby RAF Hospital.

  The doctors and nurses treated the inflamed areas of Richard’s body with soothing creams and ointments and at the same time questioned him as to how he had come to be in that condition in the first place. Without giving anyone away—not that he knew who the culprits were anyway—he told the medics that someone had put the glass fibre into his bed as a joke. The medical staff didn’t seem to think it was very much of a joke and took a much more serious view of the incident. First thing next morning, the telephone in our Flight Commander’s office rang shrilly. When Flight Lieutenant Grafton picked it up, the Hospital Medical Staff briefed him on Butterworth’s situation and the very uncomfortable night that he had spent.

  On returning to the billet at lunchtime, after my midday meal, I expected to find Richard waiting there, but he was still missing. This left me continuing to wonder what had happened to him, but my thoughts on the subject were soon disturbed by the sound of several heavy, purposeful footsteps entering the billet. This intrusion seemed to portend something unpleasant, but before my consciousness could register anything else, the first of the intruders, Corporal Longfellow, barked the order, “Stand by your beds!”

  Everyone in the billet leapt to h
is feet, most of us hastily donning our tunics and fumbling with the buttons and belt so as not to be “improperly dressed”. Sergeant Savoury followed behind Corporal Longfellow into an atmosphere that had suddenly been transformed from relaxed to electrified, as both NCOs clumped up the centre of the billet floor. But there was more to come. The light streaming through the open front doorway was eclipsed by another figure, but there was no need to guess the identity of the new arrival because we all recognized the slightly rotund silhouette of our Flight Commander, Flight Lieutenant Grafton.

  As the officer entered at a relaxed pace, Corporal Longfellow yelled out, “Billet, att-en-SHUN!”

  Immediately, we all came to attention as Grafton walked casually to the centre of the room and paused for a moment, seemingly gathering his thoughts. Then he began, “Last night, Boy Entrant Butterworth was admitted to the hospital.” He paused for effect and then continued, “Butterworth was suffering from a painful skin condition brought on by a stupid prank played on him by one or more of his fellow boy entrants.” Another pause and then, “To his credit, Butterworth was either unable or unwilling to name the instigator of this deed, but I know as certain as I’m standing here that it was someone in this billet.” He paused again and then spoke in a slightly lower but somehow more menacing tone, “This may have seemed to be a huge joke to whomever was responsible, but let me assure you that it was a very serious prank to play on an unsuspecting individual.” Grafton allowed his words to sink in for a few moments before continuing, “Now, I want the person or persons responsible to prove that they are men, by owning up here and now.” He glared around at all of us, and even though we were standing at attention with our eyes looking straight ahead, I could still feel the intensity of his laser-like gaze as it raked around the room.

  Almost immediately, Ben took a step forward. Bill hung back for a few seconds, but then he also took one pace forward. Both now stood prominently in the centre of the floor waiting, as we all did, for the wrath that would surely descend on them. Inwardly, I felt both relief and surprise. Relief, because we were no longer all suspect and surprise because I had never suspected either of these two individuals, especially Bill who was, after all, a member of our own Entry.

  Grafton walked across to where they stood, going first to one and then the other, each time standing directly in front of the person at a very close distance to silently glare directly at them. Both were bright red.

  Finally, he stepped back. “Do you realize that you put a poor fellow in hospital and caused him a great deal of suffering?” The question was directed at both.

  “Yes Sir,” they both mumbled. Then Ben added, “We only did it as a joke Sir, and didn’t think it would hurt him like that.”

  “Is that so?” The Flight Commander retorted, “Well, there’s no place in my Flight for stupid jokes like that and you’re both going to spend a little time on Defaulters’ Parade to make sure you understand that! You’re also going to apologize to Butterworth when he recovers and can return to his duties. Is that clear?”

  “Yessir,” they both replied in penitent voices.

  Flight Lieutenant Grafton then turned and fixed his eye on Sergeant Savoury, “Sergeant Savoury, put these men on a charge.”

  “Sah!” responded Savoury, reaching into his left breast pocket for the little pad of Form 252s that all Discipline NCOs carried with them. With that, the Flight Commander turned brusquely and left the billet. Meanwhile, the sergeant’s radar locked on to the two hapless culprits, streaking towards them as accurately and deadly as a guided missile.

  “Roight you two, let’s ‘ave your twelve-fifties,” he demanded, referring to their Form 1250 service identification cards. Then, looking around at the rest of us, he announced in his broad cockney accent, “The rest of you lot—get your stuff togev-vah and get aht on pa-ride. On the double!”

  Grabbing our overalls and books, we all tumbled out of the billet and onto the road. In one final glance backwards before leaving the billet, I saw Bill and Ben standing with hang-dog looks as Savoury copied the information from their 1250s on to the 252 charge forms.

  Later that afternoon Butterworth returned to class. I was dying to talk to him and find out what had happened, from the time that he had left the billet to go to Station Sick Quarters. Finally, at break-time, he told me the whole story.

  Walking into Station Sick Quarters had been quite a surprise to the medics, who weren’t accustomed to very much activity after lights-out. They quickly sized-up the situation and began swabbing him down with a cool-feeling lotion, probably calamine, which eased the itching. But he was still in agony and most of the skin on his trunk and legs looked an angry red inflamed colour. Going back to his bed in the billet was obviously out of the question and besides, he needed ongoing treatment, so they took him over to the hospital. He spent the next two days and nights there, receiving further ministrations from pretty nurses, in stark contrast to the male medics that most of us were used to seeing at Station Sick Quarters. The best part, from Butterworth’s point view, was that his stay in hospital was all a legal skive, even though he had suffered in agony for the first few hours. He was completely unaware of who had put the glass fibre in his bed and was surprised when I told him that it was Bill and Ben, but he wasn’t displeased when he learned of their lunchtime encounter with Flight Lieutenant Grafton.

  When we returned to the billet that evening after Workshops, Bill and Ben were already busy cleaning brasses and webbing before getting attired to go on the first jankers parade. Apparently, there had been little time lost from the time that they were put on the charge until they were marched before the Flight Commander to formally answer to it. Flight Lieutenant Grafton proceeded to throw the book at them, subjecting them to a stern lecture before “awarding” the maximum sentence of seven days jankers that his status of Flight Commander permitted. They were lucky to get off with that, because inflicting personal injury to someone else could very easily have put both of them in the Guardroom for an uncomfortable spell, if they had been remanded up the chain of command to the Wing Commander.

  A silence descended on the billet the moment that Butterworth entered, but the two janker-wallahs immediately approached him and offered their very sincere apologies, which Richard graciously accepted. Then they all shook hands and that was the end of it, except for the jankers.

  * * *

  Not long after the fibreglass incident, Butterworth had to make a return visit to the hospital, but he wasn’t alone this time. During mid-summer of 1957, the Asian flu pandemic, which was sweeping around the world that year, invaded Britain. By the time September rolled around, it had found its way into South Wales and to Royal Air Force Station St. Athan.

  Initially, those who succumbed were few in number, but the virus was highly contagious and within one or two weeks the entire camp population was severely affected. Station Sick Quarters worked overtime to process the hordes of Boy Entrants who were turning up on the daily sick parades. In fact, the sick parades, which usually consisted of no more than five or six blokes, competed in size with the workshops parade. Eventually, anyone suspected of harbouring flu symptoms was despatched immediately to Station Sick Quarters, instead of having to wait until the next day for the routine daily sick parade at 0830 hours.

  The Station Sick Quarters medics soon became highly efficient at handling the deluge of Asian flu patients, as I experienced first hand when, several days into the crisis, I came down with the dreaded symptoms: high temperature, headache, shivering, severe body aches and weakness. On arriving at Station Sick Quarters, no one asked the nature of my complaint; instead I was brusquely told to sit down on one of the long hard wooden benches and before I knew what was happening a thermometer was thrust into my mouth. At the same time I was given a short form to fill out that required me to provide my name, rank, service number and a description of my perceived ailment, the latter being almost a formality. Within moments, the thermometer was whipped out of my mouth and inspected. T
he medic then took one brief look at me before ordering that I needed to take myself to the hospital. I never got as far as seeing the Medical Officer. The hospital was a considerable distance away but, like everyone else, I was expected to walk there, Asian flu or not.

  During the time that the pandemic raged through St. Athan, those succumbing to it were so numerous that the hospital was forced to drastically increase its number of beds by expanding into a whole section of nearby empty billets. In normal times, these billets were used only to accommodate visiting parents during the passing-out parades. Now, they were full of sick boy entrants and frantic medics trying to cope with the sheer weight of numbers. I was directed to a bed in one particular billet and, before getting into it, was given some syrupy amber liquid in a small glass and a few pills. I had no idea what they were, but trustingly swallowed them anyway. Blankets, pillows and sheets were provided and the bed was already made up, so I got quickly undressed and into my pyjamas before sinking wearily into the bed and drifting off into a sweaty sleep that was full of strange dreams. I don’t know how long I was out for, nor did I care. One medic or another periodically came by to wake me up to ask how I felt. I would groan when they shoved a thermometer in my mouth, whilst asking me if I felt warm enough. I always nodded yes, that I did, wondering why they didn’t seem to notice the perspiration in which I was evidently drenched. But it was their reaction to my response that never failed to surprise me, because they would always throw another blanket on top of the mound that already covered me. This particular scene played out several times over the course of the next two days and not just with me. Everyone else confined to bed in the billet seemed to receive the same treatment. On reflection, I suppose the strategy was to either simply sweat the germs out of us, or kill the little buggers by making conditions too hot for them to exist!