by Brian Carlin
The band turned right and then proceeded down the road that we had been following up to this point, marching past the boiler house and towards a complex of billets that I could see in the distance. By this time, the column of marchers was passing in front of us. They were all carrying bundles of khaki coloured clothing of some kind under their left arms, but exactly what these bundles were, I couldn’t tell. As our small group stood there gaping, one of the marchers yelled in our direction, “Hey you sprogs, go back home while you still have a chance!”
Immediately, a boy entrant with a stripe on his upper arm, who was marching alongside the column, loudly ordered the commenter to be quiet or he’d be put on a charge, whatever that was. We continued to watch as the last of the parade passed in front of us before it too turned right to follow the band down the road that took them away from us. Meanwhile, the sound of the drums and trumpets became ever fainter as they marched off into the distance, until finally it finally ceased altogether.
What we’d just witnessed was the 2 Wing Drum and Trumpet Band leading Numbers 3 and 4 Boy Entrant Squadrons from Workshops for the midday meal break. And later, I learned that the instruments were indeed valveless trumpets. One other thing I had noticed was that most of the marchers wore berets, not the big hats that we had seen at Cosford.
As we continued our walk in the relative quiet that now surrounded us, I reflected on the comment that the marcher had flung at us. I’d never heard the word “sprog” in my life before that day, although its meaning was fairly clear from the context and I soon learned that it was RAF slang for a new recruit, sometimes also known as a rookie. But with regard to the comment, as far as I was concerned the marcher was wasting his breath because I hadn’t the slightest intention of taking his warning to heart. For me, the journey here had been a long one, in more ways than one, so I certainly wasn’t going to give it up now.
When I arrived back at the billet, many of my travelling companions were still lounging around reading, playing cards, or just chatting. Corporal Hillcrest came through the rear door on his way to his bunk. This time, he was in uniform, wearing a sharply creased battledress blouse and trousers and heavy boots that were studded with hobnails on the soles and steel tips at the heels. An immaculate blue/grey webbing belt with its gleaming brasses was clipped snugly around his waist. The loose material of the beret he wore on his head was pulled sharply down over his right ear. Some of the lads called out “Hi, Corp” in a familiar manner. He acknowledged the greeting in a friendly way, and stopped to chat with them and answer their questions. During this exchange, we learned that we were in the Initial Training Squadron, or would be when we took the oath of allegiance. Usually, the squadron was known just by its initials, ITS. Hillcrest was one of several drill instructors attached to ITS.
Long before coming to St. Athan, I’d heard scary stories about drill instructors, but this chap didn’t seem the slightest bit fear-inducing. In fact he would come into the billet and chat with us most evenings. Usually, during these visits, he would pick up a broom and use it to sweep the main area of the floor, whilst chatting and patiently answering our unending questions about life in the RAF. On occasions, he would even ask us, in friendly manner, to sweep the areas around our own beds.
Hillcrest also demonstrated the use of the strange-looking implement I had noticed nestled with the brooms on the day of our arrival. It turned out to be a floor polisher and was known as a Bumper. RAF issue wax floor-polish, which was bright orange in colour, was usually dolloped onto the linoleum floor and then spread around and worked in by pushing the bumper backwards and forwards over it. “Swinging” the bumper was very hot work and took a lot of energy, especially as the polish spread out and the liquid component evaporated, leaving behind a stubborn coating of wax paste. Buffing off the wax to obtain a polished surface entailed placing a felt pad underneath the bumper head and then repeating the process, although it did get a little easier as shine started to appear. The result, after a lot of hard work, was a brilliantly gleaming billet floor.
The billets started to fill up as more new recruits arrived that day and the next. In the meantime, I continued to explore my new surroundings with several others of the Irish contingent. We discovered the Navy Army and Air Force Institute, better known as the NAAFI (pronounced “naffy”), which operates recreational and canteen facilities on most military installations, where servicemen can relax, buy snacks, watch TV, or play games such as darts, snooker, billiards, and table tennis. There was also a separate NAAFI shop where I was able to buy some more Woodbines, having smoked all the ones I’d brought with me.
During this time, we met most of the drill instructors, the DIs, who would be in charge of our training. In addition to Corporal Hillcrest, there were also Corporals Blandford and Kaveney who were both married and therefore lived with their wives and families in the Station Married Quarters. The squadron disciplinary sergeant went by the name of Clarke and he manned the squadron office. Sergeant Clarke seemed reluctant to take part in any of the activities connected with the obnoxious horde of teenage boys who had suddenly burst into his calmly ordered life. Most of the time, he walked around with his nose in the air, exuding a detached demeanour that seemed to say I’m-above-all-of-this-distasteful-stuff, like some Jeeves-like butler.
Within two days of our arrival at St. Athan, we were all gathered into a large room and instructed to be seated at some tables and chairs arranged in parallel rows. Sergeant Clarke then handed out mimeographed form letters to each of us and told us that we were to address them to our parents and sign them. The letter briefly advised “Mum and Dad” that the supposed writer had arrived safely at St. Athan and was being well cared for. It also went on to say that his civilian clothing would be mailed home in the coming days. We were allowed to add a personal sentence if we wished, so I scribbled a few words about how long the journey had taken, about the fog, and what the local weather was doing. After signing my letter, I folded and placed it inside the ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ envelope that I had also been given, then licked the gummed flap and sealed it before passing it along to the end of my row of tables, from where it was collected by Sergeant Clarke.
After breakfast the next morning, which was Wednesday, we were shepherded into the same room again and, after being seated, a plump sweaty-looking little Pilot Officer took the floor. His opening statement is forever burned in my memory, “My name is Pilot Officer Morgan-Williams,” he said, “and I’m here to tell you about the R. A. F.” He enunciated each letter separately—“Arr Ay Eff.”
Morgan-Williams’ puffy white face was crowned by a thick oily mat of slicked-down jet-black hair and the pale upper part of his face stood out in contrast to the heavy dark shadow that covered its lower half. In fact, he looked more than a little foreign to me, an impression that was reinforced by what sounded like a strong foreign accent when he spoke. I later discovered he was Welsh, and that his “foreign” accent was overwhelmingly shared by a rather large Welsh population that was spread out for many miles from the gates of Royal Air Force St. Athan. Morgan-Williams, a teacher in civilian life, was in fact doing his 2-year National Service stint by serving in the RAF Education Scheme teaching RAF history, the subject on which he now proceeded to lecture us. We learned that the service had first come into being as the Royal Flying Corps during the First World War, as a branch of the army, but then evolved into a separate service in 1918, changing its name to the Royal Air Force at the same time. Because it was the first “air force” ever to be created as a separate entity, it has always had the distinction of being known simply as “The Royal Air Force” in contrast to all other air forces that have their national identity incorporated within the title.
The portly little Pilot Officer finished delivering the history lesson and left. Now it was Sergeant Clarke’s time to brief us on more down to earth matters.
“Pay attention, now,” he called out in his strained manner, as though the very act of addressing us was painful for
him. “Tomorrow you will be inducted into the Royal Air Force and you will be asked to take the oath of allegiance.” He paused to let this sink in. “Now, if there is anyone amongst you having second thoughts about going through with this, this is your last chance to back out.” He looked around briefly to see if anyone had reacted to this solemn announcement and then continued, “If you should decide not to continue with induction, the Royal Air Force will provide you with a travel warrant back to your home town and you will be free to return there.” He paused again and looked around, “Okay, anyone who doesn’t wish to be inducted tomorrow, put his hand up.”
A small number of boys decided to take advantage of this final offer and were politely but quickly ushered out of the room. The sergeant then addressed those of us in the majority who had remained.
“Following induction, you will be known as the 29th Entry. Your training will consist of three months of initial training here in ITS, followed by fifteen months of technical training after you have passed-out of ITS and go to the Wings. On completion of your technical training, you will pass out of Boys’ service into the regular RAF, with the rank of Leading Aircraftsman.” He paused for breath and then added, “The training you will receive here at the Number 4 School of Technical Training is the finest in the world—second to none!”
Such a claim could easily be taken as a gross exaggeration, but having personally been the beneficiary of the training he spoke of for the greater part of my life, in retrospect I have no doubt that he was completely truthful in this regard. Of course, he was referring specifically to the technical training we would receive, but in a wider sense his words also included another form of training that came as part of the package. This other training, which also turned out to be second to none, involved the acceptance of discipline and learning to live in an ordered world, whilst developing initiative and the ability to be self-assertive. These were traits that would prove invaluable for successful and productive lives in a future that few of us could have imagined at that particular moment.
That evening, after eating in the mess, I entered a NAAFI canteen that I had noticed nearby. The ITS NAAFI was a long way from the mess and I needed to buy some cigarettes, so why not use this more convenient NAAFI, I thought? One of the other boys came with me and as we walked up to the counter, the ambient noise level in the place dropped several notches. It was like in one of those Westerns, where the sheriff walks into the saloon to confront the baddies and everyone in there knows that a big showdown is about to happen. Immediately, we knew that we had made a mistake by coming into this NAAFI, but there was no turning back now. The lady behind the counter didn’t appear to realize anything was wrong and served us, but very soon a tough looking kid with stripes all over his arm came up to us as we stood at the counter.
“What are you sprogs doing in here?” He sneeringly demanded.
“Just getting some cigarettes,” I replied.
“You’ve got your own NAAFI over there at ITS,” he growled, “this is the 2 Wing NAAFI and we don’t let sprogs like you in here.” He stopped, waiting for some kind of response.
Meanwhile, the NAAFI lady completed the transaction and handed me the cigarettes and some change. As this happened, several others gathered around in a circle, hemming us in.
“Didn’t you understand what I just said?” The toughie resumed, while his friends sneered at us and egged him on.
“Yes,” I answered, and then said by way of explanation, “We didn’t know we weren’t supposed to come in here.”
There was more sneering by the others, as they made fun of us while taking turns at pushing us around in the circle. To say I was scared is an understatement. At that moment, I just wished that the earth would have opened up and swallowed me.
“Well you know now,” the tough guy finally retorted, “so just take your stuff and get out…and don’t come back again or you won’t get off so easy next time.”
The gang surrounding us supported this threat with “yeahs” and calls of “get out of here.”
We didn’t need any second bidding, but just muttered, “Yes”, and then beat a hasty retreat to the sound of loud jeers and catcalls, all the while expecting that someone would pounce on us from behind before we could make it to safety. That was my first encounter with the Wings people while I was an ITS sprog. It wasn’t entirely my last, but that came later.
* * *
The next morning, Thursday, the 18th of October, we were split into several large groups, each under the supervision of a DI. My group was shepherded into the same large room where we’d been the previous day. When we had been seated, hand-book-sized Bibles were passed around to everyone for the administration of the oath, although Roman Catholics were invited to come forward and all place their hands on a large Catholic bible. Several of us went to the front of the room to take advantage of this offer. Induction then commenced when we were each given a card printed with the following:
RAF Form 60
OATH TO BE TAKEN BY RECRUIT ON ATTESTATION
I, ............................, swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, Her Heirs and Successors, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, Her Heirs and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity against all enemies, and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, Her Heirs and Successors, and of the Air Officers and Officers set over me. So help me God.
An officer then told us to stand up, take the Bible in our right hands, or in our case place our hands on the Catholic Bible, and read the oath out aloud all together from the card, stating our own names when we reached the dotted line.
When we had completed this brief swearing-in ceremony, the officer congratulated us on being brand new recruits into the Boy Entrant service of the Royal Air Force. Then, when we were seated once more, an orderly distributed a package of paperwork to each of us. First amongst these was a blue “Arrivals” card about eight inches long and six inches wide. We were instructed to print our names neatly in block capitals on a line at the top of the card, last name first, first name last. Another line was reserved for our service number, but we were warned to leave this blank for the time being. Underneath, there were several columns of names such as Bedding Store, Pay Accounts, Sick Quarters, Bicycle Store, and many more, each with a blank underline alongside that was obviously intended for someone’s signature. We were then led into another series of rooms in which numerous separate tables and chairs had been set up. Uniformed airmen were stationed at each of these tables, which we were obliged to visit in a certain order. At the first table I visited, the orderly stamped a long number on a blank piece of paper, which he handed to me; he then took my blue card and stamped the same number on it. He told me that this was my service number and advised me to keep the white scrap of paper somewhere safe until I had memorised it. I did exactly what he told me to do, hardly realizing that in the course of time the number on the paper would become as familiar to me as my own name. I was then instructed to sign on a sheet of paper attesting to the fact that I’d been issued with my service number, after which the orderly signed my blue card on the blank line against “Records” and handed it back to me.
As the morning wore on, we trooped from table to table, each one representing a particular Section of the station Administration, where our personal details were noted and fed into the bureaucracy. The person manning each table signed my blue card on the line appropriate to his particular interest in me; Pay Accounts, Rations Clerk, and so on. Eventually, everyone in my group visited every table and our cards were filled with signatures proving that we had been duly recorded and processed into the Royal Air Force. By then, it was time for lunch.
After Corporal Kaveney had shepherded us out on to the roadway, he gave the order, “Fall in, in threes!”
Having spent some time as a Sea Cadet, I knew what this meant as did several others, but not everyone understood. Eventually, the c
orporal managed to get us lined up in three columns, facing toward the building that we’d just left.
“Flight, attennnn-shun!” He commanded.
We all seemed familiar with this command, so everyone knew to bring both of his feet together and stand erect with arms vertically down by his side. Corporal Kaveney seemed to be reasonably satisfied as he surveyed the motley crew in front of him.
“Okay, good,” he announced with a moderate amount of praise in his voice. “Now pay attention while I demonstrate the actions on being given the commands “Stand at ease” and “Stand easy.” He then proceeded with a brief demonstration of the movements in time with the commands that he gave himself. Then it was our turn.
“Flight, stand at eeeeease!” He commanded.
We copied the first movement he had shown us, which seemed to satisfy him.
“Flight, stand easy.”
We relaxed as he now he explained, in barking military fashion, that when he gave the order “Right dress”, we were each to turn our heads smartly to the right, and raise our right arms horizontally to touch the shoulder of our neighbour with end of our closed fist. Those at the right end of columns were to continue looking ahead, and the two boys at the end of columns 2 and 3 were to raise their arms to the front and touch their fist to the shoulder of the individual in front of them.
