That evening, clad in civvies, I searched out Ken and the other guys I knew well. A search was necessary for they were no longer in the permanent building. They had been transferred to the very ordinary and far less spacious huts of which there were still plenty on the station. The new SWO had decreed that groups should interchange to be fair to all. To be fair, he was right. But as I wriggled between the very narrow, tall, mesh sided lockers and beds set very close together, I accepted this was a descent into the slums. Not that they were dirty - the increase in inspections saw to that, they told me.
We had a good natter with absolutely no thought of my new rank intervening. We did go out - to the only place on the Station where all non-commissioned ranks could intermix - the Church Army Canteen. It also had a couple of table tennis tables and two snooker tables, so it was popular. Occasionally clients were regaled with the man i/c singing The Old Wooden Cross but he had an excellent tenor voice, so no one minded. As it happened Bill Robinson was also there and we queued together for a coffee and bun. The girl serving us turned to Bill and enquired,
‘When are you going away for a few weeks to become an officer?’
My reputation had spread rapidly.
Chapter 20
The RAF Station at St Athan is another that has a long and continuing history. Its website also reveals how active it continues to be. I reached it in November when fogs seep along the Bristol Channel. As if to emphasize the season’s dankness a warning foghorn mourned across the water advising ships to steer clear of the shore which, at the nearest point to the Station, comprised seaweed draped rocks sluiced by muddy water. The foghorn sounded remarkably close as I lay on my bed, trying to shut out its regular hoot. The feeling of isolation engendered was enhanced by my room being at the end of a totally deserted barrack hut. Indeed there was a whole row of deserted huts, though in each NCO’s room there lived a sergeant. Together we comprised the non-commissioned teaching staff of the Administrative Apprentices School, which was one of the units housed on the Station.
Apprentices joined straight from secondary school, at fifteen, for three years training after which they continued for twelve years. They then had the option of signing on for further periods. There was an equivalent Technical Apprentices School at RAF Halton. The organisations combined elements of both school and the Forces; of the former the most attractive to staff members were the ordinary school length holidays. Leave, therefore, was not subject to the much less long allowance permitted to other personnel.
I reported to the School’s HQ and its CO, Squadron Leader Griffiths, an avuncular man with a very easy going attitude to life. The apprentices regarded him as an affectionate uncle, the staff as a soft touch. He lived in a nearby village. He gave us to understand that the lady with whom he lived was very much in command at home. He never used the term wife so we presumed she wasn’t. He seemed very content with whatever arrangement obtained.
Administrative clerks are essential to all RAF offices.. Subjects taught in the School, therefore, were those essential to such careers - English, Maths, Shorthand, Typing, History, Geography, etc., to which were added courses in PT, Drill, and other occasional pursuits such as learning to fire rifles. I was sure I would be used to teach English. Everyone at St Andrew’s, in company with all student teachers, had to take and pass English Language, but you could also take English Literature which I did as a main subject. I also took History main, so at St Athan I was sure it would be one or the other.
It wasn’t. I was totally flabbergasted when Squadron Leader Griffiths informed me I was to take charge of the workshop.
‘Er....workshop, Sir?’
‘That’s right, Sergeant. Because the boys spend so much time in classrooms I let them have one session a week doing something practical, using their hands as well as their brains. Helps to give them a more rounded education, you understand.’
I did, but didn’t feel I had any qualifications for taking charge of any such element of their education. I did my best to explain....gently.
‘Oh, I’m sure you can. You’re being too modest. It’s on your record. You took ‘Handwork for Men’ at College. You got a Credit in it as well....’
Realisation sank in. The course in Craft, one of the three required choices in the artistic subjects Art , Music, Craft, was pompously titled thus. For the first year we had concentrated on activities useful in junior schools, notably very simple bookbinding, printing pictures cut into pieces of lino, ditto potatoes, whilst in the second year we had made things in perspex and wood and then made one major item. Mine was a largely oak cirular bedside table which, battered over the years, still bravely supports the occasional magazine and cup of coffee in the summer house. But from such gentle pursuits to running a workshop in the RAF for career committed apprentices was quite a leap, I felt. It certainly would be largely in the dark.
Of course I accepted without too much demur, postponing worry until later. Then Sq Ldr Griffiths explained the downside.
‘I’m afraid there isn’t a great deal of machinery. Can’t get it, at present. Materials are also a problem. Still, I’ve arranged for you to go to Cardiff docks and collect a load of wood. You’ll be able to use that for projects for the lads. A lorry will be waiting by the guardroom at 09.00 tomorrow with a couple of men to do the loading for you. You can get them to stack it in the workshop when you return. Any problems, Sergeant, do let me know.’
The timetable for all the apprentice flights was published in various locations for all to see. I perused the one in the HQ offices and was surprised to see flights were due in the workshop that day. I’d been with the CO about fifteen minutes. The first flight was due at 10.00 hours. Just about time for me to get....then a thought permeated my obtuse brain that I didn’t even know the location. Sheepishly I asked an office clerk and was directed most efficiently. I was also supplied with keys.
I walked into the scene of my forthcoming teaching experience with twenty minutes to spare. It was a typical school Woodwork room. Two rows of benches of the type I knew because they were the same everywhere - a vice on each side, a lower section across the middle of the bench, tool cupboards at each end. We even had an identical one at home that my father had acquired when some old ones were sold to people in the Corporation Education Department. Electric power was laid on to a point half way along one wall. I checked the tool cupboards and found the expected saw, plane, mallet, hammer, pliers, chisels, etc. Of other tools there was no sign.
My small bunch of keys included one to the room at the end of the workshop, which was merely an ordinary barrack hut with benches instead of beds. The style was ubiquitous. Tentatively I investigated the office and found a very well-worn easy chair with a wooden frame that allowed the back to be set backwards for reclining. The easy part comprised well-flattened cushions. On the table stood an electric glue pot which I recognised from College where we had its twin, though possibly other siblings were scattered around the Country. It contained a solid mass with a battered, transfixed brush. A pile of well thumbed magazines sat on the only other chair, a regulation wooden upright. These were handicraft magazines. Most were two to three years old.
I managed to pause for a moment. Within the last hour I’d had my educational world in the RAF turned on its head. What I now faced was bizarre. The one asset I could muster from my limited skills was that I enjoyed using my hands; I’d done well on the Craft course at St Andrew’s; I enjoyed modelmaking and such creative activities. I’d helped making scenery for a Church Dramatic Society, hoping later for acting roles, of course. I was also aware that NCOs were supposed to enjoy responsibility. My stripes were burning my arms.
A clatter of boots broke my thoughts. Perhaps it was fortunate I didn’t have more time to think. Assuming the best acting face I could summon, I went outside. Immediately the small crowd of uniformed boys, junior to me by four years, went silent.
‘What
flight is this?’ I demanded of one.
‘Five flight, Sergeant,’ he responded smartly.
‘Do you usually make such a clatter when you arrive?’ I responded.
‘No, Sergeant.’
‘Then don’t do so again when you come here.‘ I looked around the faces. ‘Understood?’ They nodded.
‘I’ll try that again. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ they chorused.
‘Good. Now walk in quietly.’
Eighteen lambs walked into the pen.
I followed, offering thanks for Service discipline. They knew the score perfectly. They had joined voluntarily. They wanted to pass out successfully at the end of their three years. They saw no problem in submitting to discipline. Naturally, however, people who took charge of them differed. Some were stricter than others, so there was a natural tendency to try out any new arrival. In this instance there was another reason as I shortly discovered.
After having them stand to attention, one to a bench - or rather, one to each vice - I let them sit on the benches facing me. I started by being frank and explaining that about an hour and a half previously I had no idea I would be teaching in the workshop and added what I had expected. Slight smiles slithered around as I hinted that very occasionally one meets surprises in the RAF. They certainly knew that score. I then explained I needed to know what they had been doing beforehand in their workshop periods so I could help them to carry on as smoothly as possible.
The smiles broke into laughter. Everyone looked at everyone else.
‘Go on,’ I ventured, ‘tell me why I’m not getting the joke.’
During the next quarter of an hour they regaled me with the previous setup. My predecessor was near the end of his time in the RAF which he’d been in since he left school and, of course, had come through the War. They assured me he was very old, nearly as old as the CO, they felt. I guessed he was late forties, possibly early fifties. Finally his time was up and he left. He lives in a village close to camp, they said. Obviously, therefore, he was still around, albeit outside.
‘Right,’ I said brightly. ‘Now tell me what things you made here. Where do you keep them?’
Inadvertently I again amused the lads. One volunteered an explanation.
‘We didn’t make anything, not in the last six months at least. We did all kinds of repair jobs around the huts and in the HQ offices.’
By now I had the picture. I was replacing a very experienced old stager, who probably had skills in wood and metalwork, painting and decorating, repairing, building, mixing concrete, brick laying, glazing...a very experienced all round handyman, in fact. Judging from their wistful looks he was a true father figure and was very popular. No wonder they clattered happily on arrival. No doubt they were hoping for a neat fit to the missing piece of their jigsaw. Oh ****, look what we’ve got! I knew the news would rapidly spread to the other seven flights. I also knew why the CO had detailed me to fetch a supply of wood from Cardiff for the lads to use. They hadn’t done any personal craft work for ages. I guessed also that the way my predecessor carried out his role wasn’t remotely as the CO intended but the latter wasn’t the man to make him toe the line.
I travelled to Cardiff docks next morning on a large empty lorry in the company of one driver, who knew the way, and two airmen. All three were old enough to be my father. None of them relished the thought of being in the charge of an infant unaccountably with three stripes. They were not on the staff of the Apprentices School but it soon became apparent they had been on this visit before, with my predecessor. Surly looks greeted my wish to get back to Camp asap. I guessed I was cheating them of a day out.
The contact at the docks also knew them and also knew what I wanted, an unusual feat of telepathy because I hadn’t a clue. He pointed to a pile and the men loaded it immediately. It comprised deal planks measuring twelve feet by one foot by two inches. I tried to imagine using this to teach the boys how to make items of furniture such as my oak bedside table, then relinquished the mental effort. I knew it was impossible. This wood, about which I had no choice whatsoever, seemed ideal for house building or something similar.
Back in the workshop, with the planks shoved in rapidly right across the benches, I wondered where to store it but could find nowhere. The next flight told me they’d never seen such a delivery. I wondered whether to ask the CO but decided I’d better not run to him with such a simple problem on only my second day. I compromised by stacking it alongside one wall, moving the benches to keep a gangway open.
It was obviously going to be difficult to cut a plank into manageable pieces using the small handsaws in each tool cupboard, especially because many were not at all sharp. I enquired whether the boys knew of any power tools. Few such items were commonplace in those days, but lathes, drills and circular saws were to be found in some school Woodwork rooms. Here, though, they were not.
In the depths of a cupboard in the NCO’s office I was directed to an electric drill. This, I was pleased to note, was a robust breast drill, the sort with two handles on each side and a small platform you placed across your chest to supply pressure. There were a number of drill bits as well. The downside was evident at the end of the flex which was devoid of a plug. I expressed regret and asked where plugs were kept. As on the previous day my enquiry added to the view that I was a budding comedian. To my horror it was explained that electric plugs were as difficult to come by as basin and bath plugs in the ablutions, which were always missing. Apparently my predecessor just put the bare wires into the holes in the wall sockets and inserted small chips of wood as individual plugs to keep them in place.
‘But that’s very dangerous!’ I exploded.
‘Sure,’ rejoined one lad, ‘that’s why he wouldn’t let us do it. He always did it himself. He let us use the drill, though.’
My predecessor had been doing it for a long time, I was told and there had never been an accident. How then could I, a very green newcomer, complain? I didn’t. Fortunately whatever fates cast their protection over such events continued their ministrations and there was no accident during my incumbency either. Health and Safety....?
I soon teamed up with the other NCO members of staff both because our rooms were close together, albeit separated by the distance between any two billet huts. We were also members of the Sergeants Mess on that side of the Station. These served various units of which the Apprentices School was only one, so the members were largely career serving men who had been through the war. We young National Servicemen stood out like babes in woods. But on the whole we were well tolerated.
Very soon I became friendly with the man in the next room to mine, Jonny Skyle. An earnest manner and upper class tone of voice suggested a superior attitude at first glance, but this was rapidly dispelled on better acquaintance. He was well educated, had a B.Sc. (Econ) degree and as a POM had been selected for a commission but failed the course. About this he was totally blasé. After we knew one another well he laughingly said I would have probably made it for a commission.
‘They want people with Service minds, like you, Nigel. I wasn’t prepared to go along with all their rigmarole.’`
He taught English at the School and, as I found, was passionately concerned to improve the boys’ knowledge of both literature and the arts in general. When he was demobbed, however, it was not to take up teaching. He went into his family’s law firm to be articled as a solicitor.
He laughed at my enquiries about the role my predecessor had undertaken in the matter of practical workshop experience.
‘Rhys was character; law unto himself. He was building his own house - stayed on here until it was finished. Did enough around the camp to be useful, of course, but no one enquired too closely about other times. You couldn’t be less like him. The boys will get used to you, though. They have to be adaptable to stay the course. They’re going to be in th
e RAF for many years, remember.’
Both they and I quickly settled into a routine. We couldn’t be particularly inventive with the materials available, but the lads seemed to enjoy their brief time away from more formal lessons. As a group my colleagues were always ready to offer wider experiences to them, so I joined in a number of visits to the theatre in Cardiff. The apprentices, of course, had to wear uniform at all times, so when we took them out we did the same. Public eyebrows rose as a flight marched along a main road, halted outside the theatre and entered to watch a visiting ballet company perform Swan Lake and later Coppélia. We were pleased the boys responded well, as they did when we took them see Gwen Ffrangcon-Davies as Lady Macbeth.
With another staff member, Jonny found a local opera training group. This unusual affair was organised by a formidable lady who counted herself a true doyenne of the genre. She readily agreed to bring some of her students to music appreciation meetings the two set up for anyone to visit on occasional evenings. One young woman was particularly striking when she sang arias from Carmen. These events were sufficiently successful for us to attempt a full blown evening at the Astra Cinema. This was capable of seating a couple of thousand people and for popular films it achieved capacity houses. We knew this would be far less attractive, but the Station Commanding Officer, an Air Commodore no less, agreed to attend, which certainly ensured a good attendance of officers. Other ranks were very thinly represented
Performances by various group members were excellent and those present who could appreciate them were well satisfied. The one highly unfortunate moment occurred right at the end when the SCO walked on to the stage to thank the company. The formidable lady marched across the stage, grabbed him by the hand, marched to the centre and gave a lengthy diatribe thanking him for being so cognisant of the arts and opera in particular to sponsor such an event, reminding him how fortunate he was to have such dedicated NCOs supporting him in such endeavours. Finally she released his hand and the curtain descended. We made ourselves scarce until the SCO’s driver lured him back into his car.
Greetings Noble Sir Page 26