Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat

by Brian Carlin

  In the days leading up to the passing-out parade, we practised the line abreast march-past countless times. It had been a shambles to begin with. Every time the manoeuvre was attempted, it seemed that some individual or other misheard, or didn’t act promptly on the word of command. The result was near total disaster as people cannoned into their neighbours, tripped over one another and sometimes fell in tangled heaps on the ground. But eventually, after the NCOs instructing us had torn most of their hair out, it had all come together and by the day of the actual parade we could almost do it in our sleep—flawlessly. The only remaining challenge was to try and stay in a straight line, which was difficult for a rank of fifteen or so people marching in line abreast when we could only check our dressing out of the corners of our eyes. At least it was difficult until we got the orders “slow march” and then “eyes right” on approaching the saluting base. The slower pace—and the fact that we could now see how we were dressed off—usually helped us to get in a straight line before we actually passed before the dais.

  Finessing the line abreast march-past was quite an accomplishment, but it was all a waste of time, as things turned out in the end.

  * * *

  One afternoon, shortly after getting the results of our Finals, we were sitting on our beds cleaning buttons, spit-and-polishing our boots, or engaged in one of the other bull activities that had taken over our lives as we prepared for our finest moment. Suddenly, Leading Boy Powditch came rushing into the billet almost breathless with news.

  “Everyone to E9,” he exclaimed excitedly, “The postings are out!”

  This was probably the most important news since learning our marks from the Finals. Button sticks and boot polish were hurriedly discarded as we doubled to the Common Room, “properly” dressing ourselves as we ran—collar studs were fastened, slackened-off neckties pulled back into place and tunics buttoned up—all at the gallop. Several members of the squadron Disciplinary staff were there, Corporal Longfellow presiding. We weren’t the first, but weren’t the last either, so it was with a sense of growing impatience that we waited for the stragglers to make their way into the room. When it was apparent that every last one of the available 3 Squadron 29th Entry members had gathered in the hut, Longfellow cleared his throat. Immediately, a great silence fell over the assembly as we waited in anxious anticipation of what he had to say.

  “You will no doubt be pleased to hear that I’ve got your postings,” he smiled, holding up a piece of unfolded foolscap in his right hand. “Okay, pay attention.” This was a redundant phrase, if ever there was one.

  The corporal then proceeded to read out surnames from his list, each followed by the name of the station to which that person had been posted. Some received so-so postings, even as others were more fortunate and got really plum postings. Nobby Clarke, who hailed from London, had requested Northolt, home of the Queen’s Flight, which was almost in his backyard. He got it! Others less fortunate heard that they’d been posted to 32 MU, the Maintenance Unit on St. Athan West Camp (we were on East Camp), which meant they weren’t going to move too far away. Many received exciting postings to Fighter Command stations or Bomber Command stations.

  Eventually, Longfellow came to my name. “Carlin!”

  “Corp,” I shouted out in response.

  He glanced up momentarily, as he had with everyone, “Shawbury, Flying Training Command.”

  That was it. He quickly moved on to the next name on his list. Shawbury? I’d never even heard of it! Someone nearby must have seen my puzzled look because he whispered that it was near Shrewsbury in Shropshire. I wasn’t too sure where that was either and suddenly wanted to see a map of England, so that I could find it. And Flying Training Command? That didn’t sound very exciting or glamorous. No Hunters or Valiants to work on there. Probably stuff like Chipmunks or Piston Provosts. But at least it wasn’t 32 MU, which was something to be thankful for. Conflicting thoughts ran through my head—I was going somewhere that I’d never heard of that didn’t sound too exciting, but I was getting away from St. Athan, which was good. Suddenly conscious that Richard Butterworth’s name was being called out, I listened just in time to hear that he was also being posted to Shawbury. Well, that was good news. At least we were friends and would have a lot of fun finding out all we could about our future new home, in the weeks before the passing-out parade. I looked across to where he was sitting, only to see him grinning and giving me a thumbs-up sign, so I grinned back as I returned the gesture.

  * * *

  On Tuesday evening, the 25th of March 1958, two days before our passing-out parade, we had another ritual to observe. This was the 2 Wing Graduation Dinner, traditionally given by the Wing Permanent Staff for the graduating entry. Our fellow graduates over at 1 Wing were also attending their separate Graduation Dinner at the same time.

  We all looked a sharp bunch in our best blues, as we entered the 2 Wing Boy Entrants’ Mess to take our places at tables that had been laid up in a way that we’d never seen before. The usual bare Formica surfaces of the long refectory tables were covered by white tablecloths, on which place settings of cutlery, serviettes and souvenir menus were set out. Bowls of fruit and sweets adorned the centres of each table, alongside circular tins stuffed full of cigarettes, in subtle acknowledgment of our new adult status.

  There was no need to queue up at the servery for this meal. We were instructed to be seated instead, whilst our former officers and NCOs good-humouredly assumed the role of our waiters. They welcomed us, made sure we were seated then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Moments later they reappeared, carrying bowls of cream of tomato soup, which they then served as our starter course. For our part, we just tried to ignore the occasional thumb slightly immersed in the creamy red liquid, as the soup bowls were set down before us and just hoped that our “waiters” had washed their hands before handling the food. And then for a time, the air was filled with the loud clinking of 120 stainless steel spoons making contact with 120 white porcelain bowls, as the soup course was consumed and enjoyed to the last drop.

  Next, steaming plates of turkey and roast pork, both with the proper accompaniments, were carried from the kitchen to our tables. The menu from the event records, for posterity, that these dishes consisted of Roast Turkey with Forcemeat Stuffing and Bread Sauce or Roast Pork with Sage & Onion stuffing and Apple Sauce. Both dishes also included Chateau Potatoes, Potato Duchesse, Cauliflower & White Sauce and Garden Peas. Never ever had we eaten so well at the Boy Entrants’ mess. The buzz of conversation quietened down again for quite a while as we tucked into the dish of our choice—which, in my case, was turkey. There was a brief respite after everyone had finished this course before the desserts made their appearance—fruit cocktail with ice cream, followed by cups of coffee in real cups instead of “Mugs, China, Airmen, for the use of”. At the same time, platters of cubed cheese and crackers were brought to the tables for those of us who still desired something to nibble on.

  As we sat back with full stomachs, drinking from our cups of coffee, the Wing Commander took the floor. He proceeded to praise us for being such a fine bunch of future NCOs and stated how proud he was of us. He reeled off a number of statistics—how many of us had been initially inducted versus how many had successfully completed the training. Surprisingly few had fallen by the wayside, although those who did were replaced by relegations from the 28th entry, so the actual number that we lost to attrition was concealed to some extent. The Squadron Leaders of both 3 and 4 Squadrons then said a few words and after that it was time to mingle, chat and enjoy the free cigarettes. Boys, NCOs and officers wandered around from table to table, shaking hands, autographing menus and engaging in an enjoyable session of socializing.

  As the event drew to a close, Sergeant Savoury called for our attention and then announced in his cockney accent that we would be starting our clearance process in the morning and that we needed to report to hut E9 at “oh-ite-firty” (0830 hours) for further instructions. This meant th
at we would be making a start on the time-consuming process of walking around the station, visiting Section after Section, to have our blue clearance chits signed by each and every entity on the station that had any interest in the fact that we were about to take our leave of Royal Air Force St. Athan (and not a bloody moment too soon).

  Gradually, the numbers thinned out as people began to dwindle away from the mess and make their way back towards their billets, bringing this significant rite of passage to an end. I couldn’t help reflecting on how fortunate I was to be in that place, at that time. To hear it from the Wing Commander and the other officers, we were the crème de la crème—the future backbone of the Royal Air Force—the NCOs of tomorrow—and so the accolades went on. Later, but not too much later, most of us would make the painful discovery that in the wider world of the regular RAF this opinion of our own self-importance, with which we had been indoctrinated, didn’t earn us too many fans amongst the non-Boy Entrant servicemen. This was especially true of the National Service “erks”, who would very soon be showing us the ropes in the real world and who would typically entrust us with the very important responsibility of carrying their toolbags, in return for teaching us firsthand from their expertise. Some of us even made the grave error of confiding in these long-suffering National Servicemen of the high value in which the RAF held us and the destiny for which we had been groomed, only to find ourselves being instantly subjected to scorn and derision. But that was later. On the night of the Graduation Dinner, our egos were highly inflated and we were reeling on the heady wine of the praise and adulation to which we had just been subjected.

  At 0830 hours next morning, we presented ourselves in hut E9, where the NCOs issued everyone with a 6-by-8 inch sky-blue card that bore our name, rank and serial number. This was the very same “Arrivals” card on which we had obtained signatures on the day that we’d taken the Oath of Allegiance and entered into Her Majesty’s service. Now, however, we were required to obtain approximately 30 “Clearance” signatures from various Sections, on the reverse side of the card. A Section was an entity in the lower rungs of the Station hierarchy that performed a specific function. A few Sections had been crossed out because they weren’t applicable, but we were required to pay all of the others a visit to obtain a clearance signature. Just to complicate matters, some Sections could only be visited during certain “opening hours,” while some couldn’t be visited until we had obtained signatures from certain other Sections first. The whole process required lots of time, lots of patience and lots of walking and it was for all those reasons that Sergeant Savoury wisely sent us out on the day prior to the passing-out parade. We were required to be off the Station by “Sunset” on that very same day, yet he knew very well that it would take us longer than one afternoon to complete the clearance process.

  Within minutes of receiving our blue cards, we set off in little groups, walking around the station with the cards clutched in our left hands, leaving our right hands free to salute any officers whom we might encounter.

  One of the first stops on our tour of the station was Workshops, where we needed to clear from the Tool Store before getting a signature from the Warrant Officer in charge of Trade Training. Then it was on to the Boy Entrants’ mess where a signature was required to take us off the rations list. Next, it was the Station Library and then the Padre’s office, followed by the Bedding Store—but we found that we couldn’t clear from the Bedding Store until next day, when we handed in our blankets and sheets. Neither Pay Accounts nor the Station Orderly Room would clear us either—the clerk at the little window in the Orderly Room told us that he had to be the very last person to sign our cards. By the end of the day, however, our little group of walkers had been able to get most of the signatures, except for those few that we couldn’t get until the next day and a few for which we had failed to present ourselves during “opening hours”. All the walking required lots of stamina and I began to wonder if the five-mile route marches to which we had been subjected for the past few weeks were really intended to toughen us up exclusively for this particular marathon ordeal. But however difficult and demanding the process, it was a task that brought all of us a great deal of excitement as we slowly but relentlessly broke open the chrysalis in which we were still trapped. On the morrow, we would finally be able to fly free as fully-fledged airmen in the regular service of the Royal Air Force.

  That evening, I prepared my kit for the Big Day that would start in the morning. I did a final check of the shine on my boots, another session with buttons and Brasso, ran the iron over the creases in my trousers and checked the white blanco on my webbing. I wasn’t alone. All of the other graduating boys were doing exactly the same thing. Finally, everything was ready. Then it was time for the very last bed check that I would have to suffer through, the very last lights-out and the final rendition of The Last Post over the station broadcasting system. There was a little nostalgia, but not much. The predominant feeling was one of long-suffering tolerance—that I had outgrown these petty and restrictive Boy Entrant rituals, but could tolerate them for just one more night, knowing that I wouldn’t have to endure bed-check or lights-out ever again.

  * * *

  It would have been a fitting end to our training if the day of our passing-out had dawned bright and glorious. But sadly, it didn’t. As we made our way to breakfast, the pale early morning light was filtered through a heavy blanket of fog that had descended over the countryside during the night, replacing the rain and drizzle of the previous day. Sometimes a light fog would lift shortly after sunrise, but not today. This was a persistent pea-souper and during our initial assembly at 0800 hours we were informed that the parade would be held in the Drill Shed instead of on the Square. It was an ironic turn of events, because our ITS passing-out parade had also been held in the same indoor venue for the same reason—“inclement weather”. Fortunately, we had rehearsed an indoor version of the passing-out parade once or twice, just in case of the bad weather that was an all too real possibility at this time of year. Given our preferences, we would much rather it had taken place on the Square. But no matter. Ever since the arrival of the 29th Entry at St. Athan, the smooth, well-oiled machinery of No. 4 School of Technical Training had focused on moving us successfully towards this point in history. And now, at 0800 hours on 27th March 1958, the time had finally arrived when we could fasten the pristinely white webbing belts around our waists and then fall in on the road outside E7 for the very last time. But instead of going to Workshops with notebooks and denims tucked under our left arms, we marched to the Armoury carefully carrying our spotlessly white rifle slings in our left hands. Once there, we would pick up the rifles and bayonets needed for the ceremonial rifle drill associated with our passing-out parade.

  On arriving at the Armoury, we were dismissed and directed to form a queue at one of the doors in the Armoury building. The door was open and those ahead of me were already shuffling through it in single file. When I crossed the threshold, it was necessary to pass an Armourer, who stood at a table handing out unsheathed bayonets to each of us in the line as we went by.

  I immediately slid mine into the shiny black scabbard that dangled from the bayonet frog on my webbing belt—on the left side and slightly to the rear. We continued to shuffle forward, still in single file, until we reached two more Armourers who were busily handing out Lee Enfield .303 rifles. I accepted the one offered to me and then, with a little more shuffling, exited the Armoury through another door out into the foggy air once again. Resuming my memorised position in the flight once more, I opened and closed the rifle bolt six times to make sure that the weapon was unloaded, just as I had been trained to do, and then pointed the muzzle of the rifle harmlessly skyward before pulling the trigger to hear the action releasing with a loud click. Next, I attached the rifle sling, tightened it and then assumed the “stand-easy” position whilst waiting until everyone else was ready. At this point, both squadrons were arrayed along the road in front of the Armoury, six fl
ights in all. Each squadron was under the command of a Sergeant Boy and each flight under the command of a Corporal Boy.

  When it seemed that everyone was ready, the Parade Warrant Officer, Sergeant Boy Stannard, took up a position facing us at the midway point between both squadrons.

  He briefly savoured the moment before taking a deep breath, “Twenty-ninth entry! Ah-tennn-shun!”

  There was a loud crash of boots on tarmac as all 225 of us responded to his command.

  “Stand at ease!” There was a second crash of boots, as we resumed the at-ease position.

  “Prepare to fix bayonets!”

  I groped for the hilt of the bayonet with my left hand, as did everyone else, and then withdrew it from its scabbard to hold it out at arm’s length in front of me, with the gleaming stainless steel Bowie knife-like blade pointed upwards. This bayonet was no practice pig sticker—it was the real McCoy.

  “Fix bayonets!” Shouted Sergeant Boy Stannard.

  Steely blades flashed as I fitted the special receptacle in the bayonet hilt over the end of my rifle muzzle and then gave it a quarter turn twist to lock it into place with a loud click. My left hand remained there at the end of the muzzle, still grasping the hilt, until Stannard was certain that all bayonets had been properly affixed.

  “Number twenty-ninth entry! Stand at ease!”