by Brian Carlin
Workshop practice took up one day of instruction each week and on the other days we sat in the classroom, being instructed in subjects that were designed to give us the knowledge and skills we’d need to become the best aircraft technicians in the world. That’s not to say that we were finished with our general education. We still went to classes at the Education Centre once a week for maths, physics and current affairs. Then there was PE, which was always a welcome break from sitting in a classroom. And of course, the weekly Padre’s Hour and Sports Afternoon all helped to provide some variety in our week. Thankfully, the drill sessions and Ground Defence Training had been removed from our curriculum and we went to Workshops for trade training instead. Other than that, the activities involved in our training seemed to remain just about the same.
* * *
Life in the new billet settled down into a routine of sorts. When we finished Workshops for the day, we were expected to do homework in the evenings, which involved transferring the scribbled notes that we’d copied down from the blackboard during the day into our “best” notebooks. The theory behind this was that the information that we had received in the classroom during the day would be reinforced by transcribing our rough notes and diagrams into the “best” notebooks, using better handwriting and draughtsmanship. I didn’t agree with this theory, because I felt that the act of transcription was somehow automatic and that the knowledge didn’t sink in very well this way. In retrospect, it would have been better for me if I’d read over the notes after having neatly written them out into my notebook, but by the time I’d finished writing them out I wasn’t in any mood to read them again. That’s really a pity, because I think it would have helped me a little later on. Sometimes, when transcribing notes, I had difficulty in reading my own scribble or the hasty free-hand sketches that I’d made during the day. At such times, it was difficult to produce neat copperplate hand-written notes and elaborately-coloured diagrams from my scrappy, rough information. It was a necessary evil however, because our “best” notebooks were subject to weekly inspection by the current instructor and lapses in keeping them up-to-date could easily land an errant boy entrant an interview with Warrant Officer Dimwiddy, who was in charge of instruction in Workshops. Ginge Brown invented an apt expression for that particular experience: he referred to it as “having coffee and biscuits with Mr. Dimwiddy”.
Raids by the 26th still continued after “lights out”, but as the weeks wore on it seemed that the senior entry had become bored with that particular activity and so the frequency of the after lights-out disruptions lessened progressively.
One of the seemingly exciting benefits that appealed to me when I first moved into my Wings billet was discovering that one of the occupants possessed a record player. We never had that kind of luxury in ITS, so at first I enjoyed listening to the “Rock around the Clock” LP by Bill Haley and the Comets and another LP featuring “The Platters”. Unfortunately, that was the full extent of the collection possessed by the owner of the record player. The result was that both LPs were played over and over again, until I was sick to death of hearing both of them and longed for lights-out so that they couldn’t be played any more. One dubious advantage of this exposure is that, to this very day, I can easily remember the lyrics on each track, word for word, on the odd occasions that I am unfortunate enough to hear either of them again.
* * *
The bond of friendship between Butterworth and me, that had been born in ITS, was strengthened somewhat by the fact that we had both ended up in the same 2 Wing billet. But to a larger extent, the bond had already found considerable reinforcement due to similarities that we shared in our backgrounds. At an early age, we had both helplessly felt the pain of losing our mothers to untimely death, only to suffer additional salt being poured into our wounds when their places were unworthily taken by less than loving stepmothers. By becoming Boy Entrants, we had each found the very same escape route from our miserable home lives. The circumstances under which we both had suffered were so similar that, after listening to me telling of mine, Richard commented that I could just as easily have been describing how life had been for him. In many ways, it seemed as though we had truly lived in each other’s shoes. The only major divergence we could identify was in the jobs we held before joining the RAF. It was difficult for us to decide which of our previous forms of employment could possibly have been the better: mine as a message-boy or his as an undertaker’s assistant. I kidded him that his was a dead-end job—a joke he appreciated. We did lots of things together, such as going to Barry at weekends and the Astra cinema during the week. We also got ourselves into the same kind of trouble. Butterworth was a non-smoker when he first joined the Boys, but he took up smoking within a few months of falling into my bad company. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but it seems that my regular bouts of puffing away at a Woody Woodbine influenced him to also become addicted to the “weed”. And that’s what got both us into hot water and introduced us to “Jankers”, shortly after moving into E-lines.
Smoking in the billets during “duty hours” was forbidden, including the period in the morning when we were tidying the place up before going out on parade for inspection. But the “standing orders” that forbade the practice didn’t stop us from lighting up and having a few puffs, as we made our bed-packs and swept out our bed spaces during the short period of time remaining between breakfast and the parade. Unfortunately for us, the squadron Sergeant Boy Goodrum sometimes patrolled the billets to make sure that everyone was out on parade on time. Goodrum, of the 26th entry, was a dedicated rugby player with a burly physique that suited him very well to the game. The combination of his build and the three stripes on his arm made him an intimidating figure to slightly built junior entry members such as Butterworth and me. As an athlete, he was also a non-smoker who had little or no understanding of the craving that we tobacco addicts suffered. On one particular morning the Sergeant Boy caught both us with cigarettes in hand—the smoking gun so to speak—and late for parade as well. He read us the riot act and ended by warning us that if it happened again we would be put on a charge.
Being put on a charge was very much like being booked for some misdemeanour by a policeman and was always accompanied by the same sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach. It was something that we had been sheltered from up to now. During our time in the Initial Training Squadron, punishment for minor infringements was dispensed directly by our DIs and usually involved us in performing some type of fatigues, such as cleaning greasy pans in the mess kitchen, or an equally menial task. But being put on a charge was to find oneself in a situation that had similarities to a court appearance in civilian life, from which a more formal type of punishment would be meted out. It usually began when an NCO accosted an individual with the accusation of a perceived transgression. The NCO would inform the accused that he was being placed on a charge and would then proceed to record the details of the transgression on a Charge form, better known by its RAF form number, “two-five-two.” The “court” equivalence was a nerve-wracking appearance before an officer, usually the person’s Flight Commander if the offence wasn’t of a too serious nature. And the most common punishment for minor offences was confinement to camp for a specific number of days, unofficially called “jankers”. But the punishment wasn’t just being confined to camp. There were activities that those on jankers were expected perform during the confinement that made the whole experience of jankers something to be avoided if possible.
Although Sergeant Boy Goodrum gave us fair warning, we must have been slow learners or didn’t take him seriously, because neither of us gave up dragging on a Woody each morning. And just as sure as night follows day, he caught us smoking again a few days later. This time there was no getting off with a warning.
“Okay you two, I’m putting you both on a charge this time,” said Goodrum as he unexpectedly entered the billet and caught us cigarette in hand. With that, he unbuttoned his breast pocket and took out a pad
of the little RAF form 252s. “Let me have your twelve-fifty,” he demanded of me, referring to my RAF identity card, form 1250.
I produced the blue identity card from out of my pocket and handed it to him, then watched in silence as he copied down my personal details on to the 252. Next, he repeated the same process with Butterworth.
“Okay, you’ll hear when you have to go before the Flight Commander. Now get out on parade before I put you on another charge for being late.”
We grabbed our hats and coats and hastily left the billet, struggling to put them on as we ran out to the road where the others had already formed up in the ranks.
All morning long, in class, I wondered when we would be called before the Flight Commander, but we didn’t have long to wait because at lunchtime the same day, Leading Boy German ordered Richard and me to report to the Flight office right away. Sergeant Savoury was waiting there to meet us, together with Sergeant Boy Goodrum and two other boys who had been picked at random to be our escorts.
“Carlin and Butterworff,” Savoury barked, “you ’ave been put on a charge and will be taken before the Flight Commander. Remove your ’ats!”
This was standard procedure for someone appearing on a charge, the reason for which I am completely ignorant, but we did as we were told and left our berets on a hat rack in the Sergeant’s office. Everyone else involved was required to wear their hat.
Sergeant Savoury then explained the protocol of going up on a charge. “You will bofe go in to see the Flight Commander togevvah, and will be referred to as ‘the Accused’. Understood?”
We both answered, “Yes, sergeant.”
He continued, “When I give the order: ‘Accused and escort quick march’, you will march into the Flight Commander’s office between the two escorts. Listen for my order to ‘mark time’ and mark time in front of the desk. Then, I’ll give you the order to ‘alt, whereupon you will cease marking time. Izzat understood?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
On hearing that we understood, the sergeant continued, “I will order you to ‘right turn’ so that you will be facing the Flight Commander, you will ‘en remain at attention at all times and look straight ahead. Do not speak until the Flight Commander asks if you have anyfing to say.” He continued, “If you ‘ave some mitigating circumstances, although I doubt it in this case, speak clearly and loudly enough for ‘im to ‘ear. Okay? If you have noffink to say, just say ‘no sir’ and ‘en be quiet. Izzat understood?”
We both meekly answered, “Yes, sergeant.”
“Okay, get fell in over ‘ere,” he said, pointing to a spot adjacent to the corridor wall, just outside the Flight Commander’s door.
We lined up along the wall, both of us sandwiched between the two escorts, with Sergeant Boy Goodrum taking the lead ahead of us to make a fifth person in our party. Sergeant Savoury went into the Flight Commander’s office, presumably to check if he was ready to hear the charge. Then, reappearing in the doorway, he called out “Accused, escort and witness, attention! Qui-ick march, left wheel, left wheel, mark time, ‘eft right, ‘eft right, ‘eft right!”
We marched the short distance to the office door, turned left to pass through the doorway at “left wheel” and then immediately made another left turn at the second “left wheel”, to bring us in front of the officer’s desk, marking time for a few moments. Flight Lieutenant Grafton, also wearing his hat, gazed at us with a bored, disconnected look as he sat with both elbows propped on the desk, supporting his chin on clasped hands. His demeanour suggested that, for him, this was just another dreary day at the office. More petty Boy Entrant shenanigans to suffer through, when he would really prefer to be flying off up into the wide blue yonder, perhaps hurtling through the sky at the controls of a Javelin or Hunter, or anything with some horsepower behind it, instead of being stuck behind a damned desk and forced to participate in all this bloody schoolboy stuff and nonsense.
We seemed to mark time longer than was really necessary, but finally Sergeant Savoury gave the order, “Accused and escort, ‘alt! Right turn! Stand still, you’re at attention!” With that he gave a smart salute in Flight Lieutenant Grafton’s direction, which was half heartedly returned by the Flight Commander’s hand flopping limply to the peak of his hat.
“Sir, Boy Entrants Carlin and Butterworff are charged wiff smoking during duty hours. The charge has been preferred by Sergeant Boy Entrant Goodrum.”
“Thank you Sergeant Savoury,” said Flight Lieutenant Grafton. Then, addressing Goodrum, “Sergeant Boy Goodrum, present the evidence.”
Sergeant Boy Goodrum produced a small notebook and whilst reading from it, barked out the details of his confrontation with us that morning, “Sir, I entered billet E7 at oh seven fifty hours on .....” and here he gave the date, “and found both of the accused smoking during duty hours. I had previously cautioned them about this behaviour, so I informed them that I was placing them on a charge.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Boy,” the Flight Commander said and then turning to the sergeant he said expectantly, “Let me see their one-oh-ones.”
RAF form 101 was a document that was used to record all charges brought against an individual, together with the punishments handed out for each transgression. Flight Lieutenant Grafton saw that each form 101 was completely blank. His gaze returned to us.
“Do you have anything to say Carlin?” He asked.
“No sir,” I replied.
“Butterworth, do you have anything to say?
“No sir,” replied Richard.
The Flight Lieutenant studied our blank forms again for a few moments, before directing his attention back to us as we stood stiffly before him.
“You know that you’re not allowed to smoke without permission during duty hours, don’t you?” He said, in what sounded suspiciously like a fatherly tone of voice.
“Yes sir,” we both answered in a timidly muted manner, one after the other, responding to his fatherly tone by playing our part as the errant sons.
“Well, since this is your first offence I’m going to be lenient with you,” he said, still speaking in his fatherly voice, “but you must follow orders.” Now he raised his voice slightly, “If the Sergeant Boy, or anyone else in authority, tells you not to do something then pay attention to them.” He glared at us for a moment from under the peak of his hat, allowing time for his words to sink in. Then, “Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” we answered in unison, the eagerness in our voices betraying our anticipation of being let off the charge.
“Well, I’m going to give you a little taste of the type of punishment that we have here in the Wings. Perhaps it will convince both of you to keep your noses clean in future and not appear in front of me again.” Then, in a change of tone, he loudly and officiously pronounced, “I award you both the punishment of one day confined to camp.” And then, barely pausing for breath, “March them out sergeant!”
Sergeant Savoury immediately sprang to life, with a look of surprise clearly etched on his face. “Accused, escort and witness, mark time, ‘eft right, ‘eft right. Ri-iight turn, quick march, ri-iight wheel, ri-iight wheel.” And then we were back in the corridor, outside the Flight Commander’s office. “Mark time. Accused, escort and witness, ‘alt!”
We came to a standstill.
“Accused, escort and witness, into line ‘eft turn.”
We swivelled around to face the opposite wall of the corridor.
“Boy Entrants Carlin and Butterworff, you ‘ave been awarded one day of confinement to camp,” the sergeant intoned in his Cockney accent, even though he was making a huge effort to speak “proper-like”. “Report to the Guardroom forfwiff and sign out your defaulter’s webbing.” Then he dropped the pretence of trying to speak correctly as he added in a quieter tone, “Cor blimey! In all my years, I’ve never ‘eard of anyfing like it! Getting only one day’s jankers! You got off very loightly moy lads!”
It seems that we made history that day because nobody else
had ever heard of such a light sentence and everyone was at a loss to understand why Flight Lieutenant Grafton was so lenient with us. As far as Richard and I were concerned, it didn’t matter too much because the only important outcome was that we got off so lightly, much to Sergeant Boy Goodrum’s disgust.
We both headed for the Guardroom right away, where we were issued with a large haversack made of blue coloured webbing material, several other accessories and a tangled mass of webbing straps. The snoop at the Guardroom sneered, “You brats are going to be kept busy sorting this little lot out,” as he dumped the equipment on the counter in front of us. Then, when it appeared that he had put everything out, he said, “Sign here,” in a more officious voice, whilst indicating a large ledger-like notebook, labelled “Defaulters”.
