Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did ‘e mean yow’ve cum from anuther school, or are we yer fust class?’

  I certainly hadn’t expected the gauntlet to be thrown down so rapidly. I paused momentarily, then decided to pick it up.

  ‘He meant you’re my first class. I finished my training just before the holidays.’ More looks were interchanged around the room. ‘That means I shall be watching very carefully to see how you all behave. If I’m going to be teaching for the next forty years, I want to be able to look back and say that my first class was a very good one.’

  It was my turn to look round. I was pleased to see my point of view appeared accepted to an extent. I think they also liked my frankness. I decided to pursue my advantage.

  ‘But it doesn’t mean I haven’t done any teaching before. I’ve taught many classes recently, of all ages and sizes and I’ve met all kinds of boys and girls.’ Quietly I offered thanks for the emphasis. on practice at St. Andrew’s. ‘So don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ll be able to get away with bad behaviour.’

  Two days later a couple of boys tried testing that statement and found I was prepared to supply proof with a forthright dressing down. Nearly three years later I was flattered when those two boys, shortly to leave school, saw me at an inter-school sports meeting. They dashed over and introduced themselves, saying they remembered me and the first few weeks in the life of that particular class, 2D. I was very touched and felt more strongly my regret that I never really knew my own first class group.

  To me, October 12th 1948 felt remarkably similar to September 1st 1939, when I had walked out of home and on to School to be evacuated I knew not where. But there was a difference on this occasion because I knew precisely where I was going...well, the name of the place, at least, because it was on the rail warrant. RAF Padgate.

  On the platform of the cavernous station, still very dingy because its entire glass roof was painted black in accordance with wartime restrictions, there were not a few young men going to the same venue. Standing apart and unusually quiet, we stood out sharply. My feelings were very mixed and no doubt others felt the same. I wasn’t averse to joining the RAF; I’d thoroughly enjoyed years in the School Squadron of the Air Training Corps, even being elevated to the rank of sergeant. What was irksome, however, was that I’d spent two years training to teach but at the moment of qualification I was being told I’d got to put my career on hold for another two years.

  Never good at standing around, I mooched up and down the platform. In so doing I found Alisdair Sington who had been in my year at College. He was destined for the same address, so our journey became much less lonesome as we swopped anecdotes about all and sundry to mitigate our feelings of concern. The moment of walking through the smartly guarded gates of RAF Padgate seemed bizarre; a variously clad group clutching one suitcase apiece ambled along uncertainly. A loose crowd formed in the roadway outside the first building which, a notice proclaimed, was the Guardroom.

  A uniformed sergeant walked out smartly and addressed us in level tones.

  ‘I need to have you in a column of threes. Sort yourselves out, please.’

  We shuffled into a reasonable semblance of the formation. Some were well acquainted with drill procedure, as I was, others hadn’t a clue so were guided by fairly willing hands.

  ‘Do your best to follow my commands, men,’ advised the sergeant. ‘Right turn, quick march. Left, right, left, right....’ and we plodded off with a mixture of marching and walking towards a barrack hut where we halted with some inertia bumping. We were invited inside to see the kind of accommodation we were to live in for the duration of our service. Typically it comprised a bed, devoid of clothes or mattress and an upright steel locker. There were thirty such units in the hut.

  Within a short space of time we collected bedclothes and three biscuits. The latter weren’t the edible variety, they were squares which, placed side by side, served as mattresses. Solid, tough and very hardwearing, they looked uncomfortable. Nevertheless I never had any problems getting to sleep on them. We also experienced an Airman’s Mess for the first time to sample lunch with its inevitable queues for the meal, for the tee urn, for taking plates to the washing section, then back outside to the scalding tank for dipping irons (jargon for knife fork and spoon, which were issue items, as was a mug) to clean, then to form up again and march off to be kitted out with uniform.

  The first few days were unreal. What transpired was the conversion of a thousand entrants per week into uniformed and slightly informed airmen. Elsewhere entrants en masse were also being inducted into the Army and, in far lesser numbers, the Royal Navy. Hair was cut in regulation fashion - a local barber benefitted enormously from his regular visits where his work was exceptionally speedy. Our civilian clothes were consigned to our suitcases which were concealed in our lockers. We attended a sort of lecture in which our still quite pleasant sergeant probed us for details of our education. These he recorded on a sheet on his desk. Then he said he had to leave for a few moments. Slightly nonplussed, we waited, then when he did not reappear, we reacted as typical schoolboys. We wandered about....and I wandered to his desk and looked at the sheet. I was intrigued to see the initials ‘POM’ beside a number of names, including mine. Also beside the names were our occupations if we had any. Beside mine I saw he’d written ‘Schoolmarm’.

  I grabbed my pencil and added a slight embellishment - the ubiquitous Chad with a note, ‘Wot, no bun?’

  Our sergeant finally returned and later I saw him laugh slightly when looking at the sheet. But some of us puzzled over ‘POM’. Later, realisation dawned that he left the room deliberately to allow a degree of detecting initiative. The letters were finally resolved as Potential Officer Material. No NCO, however, appeared to have the slightest interest in telling us how such potential might be realised.

  The one other major event in the week was the JAB. Irrespective of whether we had been vaccinated against smallpox as children, as I had and sported a one inch circular scar demonstrating the fact, everyone was vaccinated. I had no memory of my childhood occurrence, but allied to my tendency to faint in gory lectures I thoroughly disliked injections. I can pinpoint - pun intended - the cause. Aged seven I contracted scarlet fever and without warning found my bedroom invaded by men in uniform who wrapped me in a red blanket, carried me outside and into an ambulance and took me off to isolation in a fever hospital. There, soon after being ensconced in a bed in a large ward, two doctors arrived, seized both arms simultaneously and stuck needles into the underside of each, lifting the skin as they did so, repeating the action five times, ten in total. I had no idea they were doing this to test for allergies and at that age wouldn’t have had a clue what an allergy was had they told me, But the memory of those needles stuck. Hence my queasiness when giving blood samples.

  So I was worried about the possibility of fainting when we went on the jab parade. I found the event was in no way aimed at soothing the brows of weak characters. The full thousand entry was lined up in single files twenty deep in a drill shed. This was a covered building open the full length of one side which enabled drill training to proceed uninterrupted by inclement weather. The jab parade procedure was simple and very clear. When all were assembled a command was given and the first file marched off towards a medical hut directly ahead. The company was then ordered to move one pace to the right, thus filling the gap. After some time the second file was ordered to march away...and so on.

  There were fifty files, so the time any individual waited depended upon his files’ place in the queue. Mine started about two thirds away from the end so I had ample time to fail in allaying my fears.

  I inhaled deeply. I wriggled my toes. I flexed my knees. I tried to look up under the roof to the sky and think of happy times rock climbing. Suddenly my mind switched back as there was a sort of scuffle nearby. Someone had indeed fainted. Then another, and a
nother. These were carried out and laid on the grass in front of the company, then on recovery told to get back into line. Mentally I was joining them.

  Then, suddenly, my file was near the operational end. A rapid order was given to remove uniform tops and roll up left sleeves, then we were off into the hut. We moved quickly in file to where five people were standing in a row. The first medical orderly swabbed my arm with a piece of wet cotton wool and threw it into a bin. The second dried the place with another swab and threw that away. The third spread a small amount of serum with a brush on the same place. The fourth was a Medical Officer holding a fat needle set in a cork. This he jabbed slightly into my arm. He didn’t throw the needle away....he used it on everyone as far as I could see. The fifth orderly stood in front of a very large board on which hung a mass of crossed pieces of sticking plaster each holding a small piece of cotton wool. He slapped one of these on my arm...and I was out through the far door of the hut. I walked away, massively relieved, inwardly laughing at my fears. The next thing I knew I was lying on the grass, totally relaxed and unhurt. I jumped up, glad that no one had seen me, and wandered back to our billet.

  The next worrying event was the Schick test, but I managed that despite ribald comments as to what happened at the event. We hadn’t seen the name written, only heard it - and ‘ck’ is easily mistaken for ‘t’. An orderly met us at the medical hut holding a large chrome ear syringe and explained it was to be used for the injection. Some lads blanched as they fell for it, but I felt very superior having had my ears syringed a couple of times and did my best to reassure them....after a suitable delay.

  After these affairs, medical inspection was a doddle. You just undressed to your pants, then got into a single line. An NCO informed us we would be examined by a Medical Officer. He arrived briskly, flanked by two orderlies. He gazed at the first man, pulled down his eyelids, opened his mouth and demanded the aaah sound, then said,

  ‘Drop your pants.

  The lad pushed them down but held on to them.

  ‘I said drop them!’ came the sharp admonition. He complied. The MO looked along the line. ‘Everyone do as you’re told when I examine you.’ He returned his gaze to the first victim, stared at his genitals, put two fingers at the side of his scrotum and said ‘Cough’. He then walked behind the man, prodded his back, came back to the front and said, ’Passed’. One of the scribes wrote on his clipboard.

  So he proceeded along the line. We all passed. No one was diagnosed with VD, which was what it was all about. The fact that I knew about venereal disease had nothing to do with Doc at College and certainly not first aid at School. I’d learned it from detailed notices which were posted throughout all toilets on all RAF stations we went to for camps with the ATC during the War.

  After the week’s initiation the intake was divided between four camps for eight weeks basic training: West Kirby, Wilmslow, Bridgnorth and Padgate itself, to which I was sent, so my transfer involved nothing more than a march of about a quarter of a mile. It was memorable because for the first time we were in the hands of Drill Instructors, characters who wore flat caps with shining black peaks pulled low over their eyes so you couldn’t see what they were thinking. Nevertheless you knew because they told you in one of three tones - loud, very loud and extremely loud. The last was favoured most of the time.

  Once there we were assigned to Flights. Nothing to do with flying, of course, merely a description of groupings occupying one hut apiece. I joined 14 Flight as did Alisdair Sington. We found our lives were laid out in a detailed programme, week by week, for the ensuing two months. Although each flight contained a cross section of late teenagers, nevertheless in ours there was a fair sprinkling of qualified teachers. Largely this did not please our DIs, who lived with us day and night. They seemed to feel inferior whenever a conversation extended beyond a barked order. They varied, of course. Ours seemed to adopt the principle that in the matter of Service knowledge, drill and length of service he had a distinct edge which was certainly so. Within a week or so we looked upon him with some respect. Having got a flight with above average potential he was determined it would appear so in the final parade competition and we were happy to support him.

  So life became a round of drill, physical training (exercises on the drill square), lectures in RAF procedure (learning to recognise officer rank emblems, followed by aircraft recognition), use of rifles (how to clean, dismantle, reassemble and offer for inspection on parade), cross country running on Wednesday afternoons (which throughout the Service was Sports Afternoon, made up for by working on Saturday mornings until noon). We learnt how to fold bedding for daily inspection, lay out full kit for inspection and clean the hut for inspection. In the latter case there was a competition for the best hut, the winners of which would get a 36 hour pass to be used at a weekend before any of the others. I’d heard ridiculous tales about washing coal in the hut bunker, blacking the stove and freezing because no one dared light the thing, brass polishing the metal round electric light bulbs....then found these weren’t ridiculous at all.

  We were also taken to the firing range. Not only were we given rifles we were also taught how to fire them. In that I held an advantage because at School our ATC squadron had taken part in inter-squadron competitions on RAF stations. Amongst activities such as drill, PT, aircraft recognition, morse transmitting, there was always shooting. As it happened I appeared to have a natural flair for this and helped our squadron win a cup occasionally. So I was able to demonstrate my prowess once again and collected an RAF marksman’s certificate. I still have it, though I’ve never fired a rifle since. I also collected a dormant hearing problem from never having any form of ear protection either at School or in the RAF. .303 rifles made quite a noise close to one’s ear. But in those days protection was dismissed as something for namby pambys. No one asked for ear muffs at Alamein or on D Day, did they? In the fullness of time my problem has become less dormant.

  We also learned about, and had experience of, guard duty: the typical sentry box stuff. The system was quite simple. You were on duty from 18.00 to 06.00 hours. You marched out to a sentry box where you stayed for two hours, then you marched back to the guardroom where you relaxed for four hours as much as you could in a place that seemed to have something going on all the time. The only time it was reasonably quiet was in the small hours, so we soon found it was impossible to get more than three and a half hours sleep that night. You actually guarded for two spells of two hours, so it wasn’t too bad. Nevertheless it did seem absolutely ridiculous to have to challenge anyone arriving during the night at a rear gate with the classic admonition, Halt, who goes there? and shoving your rifle forward in the appropriate aggressive gesture After receiving an answer you were supposed to ask them to advance and be recognised and to show you their papers.

  Officers, of course, chose to use any entrance except the main one after dark, so the hapless guardsman usually found himself challenging a receding shadow as the entrant walked through totally ignoring protocol. Occasionally one was kind enough to wish us good night over his shoulder. Because we guarded in pairs, in the event of a suspicious event one was supposed to remain whilst the other hared off to alert the guardroom and the real guards, the Military Police. This would have taken some time from one gate because it was nearly half a mile away. During this piece of training I found my only worry was recognising the rank of officers. Lower ones were accorded a butt salute; for this you slapped your right arm across your body on to the butt of your rifle carried over your left shoulder. Higher ones merited a present arms, which I’m sure you’ve seen ranks of guardsmen doing on ceremonial parade, though it has changed somewhat over the years because Lee Enfield rifles have gone out of fashion. I never discovered how you spotted an officer’s rank in the dark. In fact, of course, anyone could have walked in with a touch of acting ability.

  After three weeks Alisdair Sington asked me whether I’d gained a Proficiency Ce
rtificate in the ATC. I said I had. He then told me such qualified people could have their basic training reduced by two weeks. I hadn’t heard of this, but he said he was going to apply and implored me to join him. The attraction was that in so doing we would complete our basic training by Christmas when everyone would go on leave. We would not have to return to Padgate because we would then be posted to our next station. That alone swung my view, because once I’d settled in I almost enjoyed 14 Flight. I was even Deputy Senior Man. I came to regret my decision.

  We applied. Not having been asked about this the powers-that-be looked at regulations and found it buried somewhere. Alisdair had discovered it from a family member who’d been in the RAF. Having no reason to deny us, we were given permission, so both of us took up our possessions and transferred to the hut of 16 Flight who were two weeks ahead. I have to say they made us welcome. They regarded us as beings from another planet because we had worked around an apparently fixed system of training by dates.

  16 Flight was well advanced in drill, but that was no problem to either Jon or me. What we hadn’t banked on, however, was missing opportunities given on days set into the eight week scheme. One of these was interviews for POMs. Not that any such event was announced, or appeared on a schedule that we trainees could see. We were told each day what we would be doing. In Flight 16 we were informed that day had already passed for them. So Alisdair and I protested and asked to be allowed interviews. I even wrote to the Principal at St Andrew’s asking for a reference aimed accordingly because someone said that sort of document helped POMs. We received a curt response that we should have thought what we might miss before we applied to transfer. We decided not to suggest we couldn’t think of something we knew nothing about. Nevertheless it rankled and both of us were to do something about it later on.

  Irrespective of whatever camp he was posted to Alisdair kept pushing to be considered. Finally he was told he would be given an opportunity. He was to entertain two officers for a weekend based at a London hotel, expenses paid, to assess his fitness for oficer training. He did so and spent a very sticky weekend acceding to their varied requests, entertaining them conversationally at mealtimes and generally being their dogsbody. At the conclusion they said he would be informed of the decision. He was turned down. No doubt they enjoyed their free weekend regarded as work. Alisdair relieved his frustration in a letter to me.