by Brian Carlin
It was a relief to everyone aboard when we finally entered the shelter of Belfast Lough in the early hours of the morning and even more so an hour later, when the ship docked at Donegal Quay just as a watery dawn lit up the morning sky and I was able to step onto solid, unmoving dry land once again. It had been a rough crossing for sure, but after experiencing many Irish Sea crossings during the next few years, I eventually came to know that a rough ride such as this was fairly common in the winter season.
After wishing the other lads a merry Christmas, I set off walking along Corporation Street in the damp early-morning Irish air, towards York Road railway station, carrying my kitbag over my right shoulder, then over my left shoulder and then back to the right shoulder again. By now, the glamour of carrying the kitbag had worn a bit thin. I cursed it for its awkward shape and for the fact that I’d filled it with more than just my kit. I could still feel the motion of the ship as I walked along, even though I was now firmly on dry land. The sensation stayed with me for the remainder of the day and was probably due to a lack of sleep as much as anything else. But in spite of the awkwardness of the kitbag and the queasy feeling that still grabbed at my stomach, I was happy and excited to be back in my homeland again.
My sense of excitement increased with the miles on the train journey from Belfast to Coleraine. My heartbeat sped up at seeing familiar names on the platform nameplates as the steam locomotive hissed into one station after another along the single gauge line: names like Ballymena and Ballymoney. Then finally, just over an hour after leaving Belfast, we pulled into Coleraine station. I had already left my seat several minutes before and was at the door, with the window pulled down to feel the hometown air on my face, whilst the train was still moving. Then it lumbered to a stop with a loud hiss of steam and squeal of its brakes. I reached outside for the large brass carriage door handle, turning it a full quarter turn until it clicked open, setting me free to walk on my home turf.
My old friend the station porter was there and he greeted me with a question. “Home for a wee bit of leave, son?”
I grinned and replied, “Yeah,” forgetfully using the English way of saying yes, instead of the local “aye”.
“When d’ye haff tae g’back?” It was question that was to become only too familiar in the following days. Everyone seemed to ask it, unintentionally of course, but just hearing it always reminded me that leave wouldn’t last forever. Right now, going back seemed a long way off and there would be time enough to think about it later. All I wanted to do at that moment was to enjoy the next two weeks. There was money in my pocket and a whole lot of plans in my head.
There were big grins all around when I walked in through the door of the pre-fab—the pre-fabricated house—that was home. I felt proud and embarrassed all at the same time, very conscious of my uniform which still looked relatively smart in spite of the rough journey it had just suffered.
Annie spoke first, “Huh! Wid ye luk at the Brylcreem boy,” she mocked, ending the sentence with a cackle that, in her mind, was intended to “cut me down to size”. It didn’t work. I was proud of my progress and allowing her mockery to get to me was a thing of the past as far as I was concerned.
My father studied my uniform, eying the eagle flashes on my shoulder. “I thought you had to earn your wings,” he said.
“These aren’t wings. It’s only pilots who have wings and they wear them here.” I pointed to the left side of my chest, just above the breast pocket. “Everybody has these,” I continued, gesturing with my head towards the eagle flash on my right shoulder.
“Aw,” he nodded, accepting the explanation without further comment.
I dropped my kitbag on the floor, happy that I could put it down at long last and then took off my hat and greatcoat. There wasn’t any locker here to hang my clothes up in, so I went out into the hallway and found a hook to hang them on with all the other coats. Then I came back, unbuttoned my tunic and sat down. Annie asked me if I wanted something to eat. The queasiness was still there, but I felt hungry too, so I nodded yes. Soon the appetizing aroma of eggs and bacon filled the kitchen and before long I was eating the most enjoyable meal I’d had in a long time. One thing I had to admit—her eggs and bacon were a lot more appetizing than those dished up in the Boy Entrants’ mess. Being fed like that also gave me the sense that I had “arrived”—eggs and bacon hadn’t come my way too many times from Annie’s frying pan in the years before I had left home to join the RAF. So it was with great relish that I polished the whole meal off and washed it down with a mug of her weak milky tea.
When I had finished and we were sitting around talking, Annie picked her moment and brought up the subject of money by remarking that I would be expensive to feed while I was home on leave. I reached in my pocket and gave her five Pounds, but she only looked at it disdainfully. “Surely they paid you more than that?” she protested.
I mumbled something about giving her some more and handed her another fiver, which seemed to satisfy her. The subject then changed to something else and for the next hour or so I answered questions about life as a Boy Entrant in the RAF. My father countered with some of his stories of life when he was in the Royal Navy during the war and we compared notes on the differences and similarities of the two services. I had always enjoyed his stories of the Navy and now felt that I had some of my own to bring to the table. Yes, it was good to feel that I was getting some respect, now that I was “making something of myself”.
Later on, my sisters Veronica and Pauline and brother Thomas arrived home from their last day at school before breaking up for Christmas. They were delighted to see me and plied me with questions about my experiences “across the water”. Being the big brother who was now such a man of the world, I’m afraid I laid it on a bit thick.
After the tea-time meal, I casually mentioned that I was going to see Maggie, our maternal great-aunt. This was greeted with an awkward silence that implied disapproval, but nothing was said, so I put on my tunic, greatcoat, hat and gloves and set off on the mile or so walk through the lamp-lighted streets to Maggie’s house. In Coleraine most people either walked or rode bicycles, because the town wasn’t large enough to have its own municipal bus service and most working people didn’t own cars in those days. The walk only took about twenty minutes and when I reached Maggie’s house in Bellhouse Lane I tapped on the lighted window as I’d always done in the past. Then I went to the front door of her two up—two down terraced house and heard her open the inner door.
“Who is it?” She called out.
“Brian,” I answered.
The door opened and her small frame stood there, a warm smile lighting up her face as her eyes began to fill up with tears. “Och, it’s you son,” she said, “I’m glad you could come and see me.” I stepped into the small hallway and she hugged me, which made me squirm uncomfortably like any 15-yearold boy. She laughed at this and then said, “Let me have a look at you.” I stood there as she weighed me up and down. “You look very smart in your uniform,” she said, “I just wish your mother could see you.” The thought made us both feel sad: she missed my mother probably as much as I did, having raised her from a child to an adult young woman. Then Maggie added, “But if she’d been here, you wouldn’t have had to go away and join up.” By which she meant enlist in the RAF. She then made some tea for us both and I sat and told her as much as I could about life at St. Athan.
“Are the higher-ups hard on you?” She asked, meaning my superiors. I immediately thought of Hillcrest.
“Naw,” I replied, shrugging off the question. How could I explain to Maggie—my grandmother in all but name—that I needed to tough it out without complaining? The officers and NCOs expected us to take the hard knocks of training like men. My fellow boy entrants were even more demanding, just as much as I expected the same of each and every one of them. There was no place in boy entrant training for cry-babies, and anyone who might have initially exhibited some weakness had either toughened up quickly or had already
fallen by the wayside. The truthful answer would have been “Yes, it’s no picnic.” But I couldn’t say that.
Maggie dropped the subject, perhaps because she understood better than I did that it was a rite of passage that would help me to make the transition from childhood to adulthood, building my self-confidence and self-respect in the process.
“They seem to have got you to stand up straight and not slouch,” she remarked.
“It’s the marching,” I replied and then offered, by way of further explanation, “We have to swing our arms up as high as our shoulders and it makes us straighten up.”
“Aye, you look a lot better straightened up and very smart in your uniform,” she remarked. This observation made me feel pleased and proud.
I told her about the sea crossing and how rough it had been. Maggie had never been out of Ireland in her life, but had heard many similar stories from those who had crossed the Irish Sea. She was very interested to hear about Wales and the Welsh people and laughed when I mimicked their accent and the words they used. We talked for about two hours like this and then it was time for me to leave and make my way back home.
On returning back there, I discovered that I would be sharing a bed with my younger brother. It was just like old times in our little overcrowded house. Ever since I’d arrived home I’d been struck by how small and claustrophobic everything seemed after the large open space of the barrack room I’d become used to. Just finding space for my kit was a challenge. And everything seemed to be damp. The only source of heat in the house was a fireplace in the living room that also heated the water. Having become used to the central heating system that we had in the billets and just about everywhere else on camp, I had forgotten about the damp feel of the bedclothes that made them seem cold and damp until our body heat warmed them up. Going to bed in the dead of winter at our house was like taking the plunge into a cold icy pool. It was a case of just gritting your teeth and getting in there, braced for that first shock of coldness until the body got used to it. Getting dressed in the morning was a similar experience because the clothing accumulated moisture from the dank air during the night, but with clothing the shock passed sooner. Despite the initial damp chilliness of the bedding, I slept well, making up for lack of sleep during the previous night on the boat.
The very next morning after my first night at home was the Sunday before Christmas. There wasn’t any other choice but to dress in my uniform, because I didn’t have anything else to wear. I don’t know what happened to the clothes I’d sent home in the brown paper parcel, but they weren’t available. Nevertheless, I was proud of the uniform and wanted to show it off. At around half past ten I set out with Veronica and Pauline to walk the mile or so to St. Malachy’s church for the 11 o’clock Mass. I could sense that they felt proud of their big brother as we walked together and were enjoying the escort.
Most things seemed small when I had come home on leave, but this was one instance where it was the reverse. St. Malachy’s is a huge church, almost cathedral-like in size, so when I entered into the high, vaulted and cavernous interior it seemed to be a dramatic contrast to the little wooden building that housed the RC church I’d been attending at St. Athan for the last three months. It also seemed more formal, lacking the intimacy of the much smaller church that I’d become used to. Gradually, I began to notice that many people who would have normally greeted me with at least a “Hello,” before I left home to join the RAF, now pointedly ignored me. And then I understood why; they didn’t see me so much as they saw the uniform. The realization came that attending a Catholic Church service in Northern Ireland whilst wearing a British military uniform wasn’t exactly the smartest thing in the world to do. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. The religious teaching I’d received when growing up told me that it was a mortal sin to miss attending Mass on Sunday and in any case, there was my father to deal with if I didn’t go. Besides, this uniform was all that I had to wear. It would be Christmas day on Tuesday, which was another day when a Catholic was supposed to attend Mass under the pain of mortal sin, so it looked as though I would have to go through the same embarrassing situation all over again. It was too late now, but I promised myself that I would get some civilian clothes before next Sunday came around, so that I wouldn’t find myself in this uncomfortable situation once more.
After the service, I parted company with my sisters and took a different route from theirs, one that took me to my Aunt Alice’s house—just like I’d always done for the past one or two years before becoming a Boy Entrant. Alice, my father’s spinster sister, always went to early Mass, so she was at home when I arrived. She beamed when she saw me and told me that I looked very smart. Did I want something to eat, she wanted to know, as if she hadn’t already correctly guessed my answer. There was a large pot of delicious Irish broth bubbling on the cooker, which I knew because its mouth-watering aroma had hit me as soon as I walked through the door. She made me sit at the table and then set a large soup plate full to the brim with the thick broth, full of vegetables and a few small chunks of mutton, into which four or five medium-sized potatoes had been plopped. As I spooned the nourishing broth into my mouth, Alice asked about all that had happened since she’d seen me off on the train back in October. Was I going to Mass on Sundays, she asked sternly in her brusque manner? Were “they” treating me all right? Was I getting enough to eat? Had I made any friends? I answered her questions and expanded further on the subject by relating a few additional experiences concerning my new life, as all the while she listened to me with an indulgent smile playing on her face. The good news was that she didn’t ask me to take the dog for a walk. Apparently, that was a thing of the past. So, after spending an hour or so with my Aunt Alice, I said goodbye and made my way home.
Sometime in the early afternoon, my pal John Moore came to see if I wanted to go out. He had called at the house a few times during my absence, so he knew when I would be coming home on leave. I saw him coming up the street and opened the door to let him in, but he just stood there in the doorway grinning at me.
“So they let ye out, did they?”
“Yeah,” I grinned, forgetting once again to use the local word “aye”.
“Ye’re talkin’ like an oul’ Englishman,” he mocked.
Annie joined in, “Och, he’s too posh for us now. Put a tramp on horseback and he’ll ride tae the divil.” It was one of her favourite expressions.
The banter continued for a while, which was typical of any time that John visited our house. He took a perverse delight in always feeding Annie enough ammunition to get her going on about all my faults and then kept stirring the pot. Good friend that he was, it was one trait that pissed me off about him, so it seemed to be time for a tactical withdrawal.
“D’ye want tae go out?” I asked.
“Aye. Where’ll we go?” He replied.
“Dunno. What about goin’ over for Melvin?” I suggested, referring to our mutual pal, Melvin Jackson, who had tried but failed to become a Boy Entrant during that first trip to Belfast that now seemed so long ago.
“Okay,” he agreed.
I went into the bedroom to put on the rest of my uniform. I had given the family a demonstration on using a button stick the previous evening and the buttons were still clean, despite my outing to Mass that morning. Even my father had been interested. It was something new to him, since his navy uniform didn’t include brass buttons or badges.
John looked me up and down now that I was wearing the full regalia. He didn’t really say anything, but his face took on a serious look. I could tell that for a moment he saw me in a very different light. Then the moment passed and the usual smile returned to his face.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Aye,” he answered, getting up from where he’d been sitting and following me out into the chilly December air.
When we were growing up, John lived just a few houses away in one of the other pre-fab houses and we went to St. Malachy’s School together. That’
s how we had met and became friends. Then, about two years ago, his family had moved two miles away, to a better house in the Kilowen district of town on the other side of the river Bann: the same part of town in which Melvin Jackson lived. On leaving school, John had been taken on as a trainee projectionist at Christie’s Picture Palace, a cinema not far from where we both used to live. He still worked there, which brought him back to his old home area every day and that’s why he was able to call at my house on a fairly regular basis.
We walked and talked. First, I grumbled at him for stirring things up for me with Annie, but he just laughed as always like it was water off a duck’s back. Then we talked about life in the RAF. He wanted to know if the drill instructors were as mean and nasty as he’d heard. I told him that they were, relating some of the dirty tricks that Hillcrest had played on us and probably exaggerating more than a little, to accentuate toughness at being able to survive in such a hostile environment.
When we arrived at Melvin’s house, his mother greeted us as old friends, which in a way we were. Mrs. Jackson had served school dinners to us during most of the years that we’d attended St. Malachy’s, so she knew both of us well.
