by Brian Carlin
We signed in the notebook, then gathered up our bundles of webbing and hurried back to the billet where we threw them into our bedside lockers, just managing to get out on parade in time for afternoon workshops.
When we returned to the billet after workshops, there wasn’t any time for the evening meal because we needed to prepare for the Defaulters’ Parade at 1830 hours. This meant changing from our working blue into our best blue and wearing the webbing that we’d picked up earlier from the Guardroom. There was only about an hour available in which to clean and assemble the webbing, clean our buttons and polish our boots. Thankfully, the other older, more experienced boys in the billet rallied round to help us. The webbing belt was the basic element of the complete webbing assembly, anchoring a harness arrangement that supported the large haversack carried on the wearer’s back. Our small-pack hung at hip level from the left side of the webbing belt and a water canteen balanced it out at the right hip. Two ammunition pouches, clipped to the front of the harness, completed the ensemble. There was brass-work all over the webbing, which needed to be cleaned, but cleaning the brass-work wasn’t the only part of the preparation. There seemed to be square miles of webbing on which to daub blanco, if we wanted to pass inspection. Somehow, we managed to get it all done in time to go on parade with our fellow janker wallahs in the Drill Shed. The boys in the billet gave us a great send-off as we struggled out of the door under the weight of the webbing and the items of kit that it was required to contain.
A janker wallah was, and probably still is, a slang word often used in the RAF for someone unfortunate enough to be on Defaulters’ Parade. The word wallah is a Hindu word that was probably assimilated into the military vocabulary during the time of the British presence in India. It means a “fellow” who performs some type of menial activity. For example, a man who launders clothing and bed linen is known as a dhobi wallah—“dhobi” being another Hindu word meaning “laundry”. Similarly, a person assigned to make tea is known as a char wallah. Jankers, whilst not being performed as a service to others, somehow attracted wallah as a companion word. And although the root of wallah is known, the origin of the word jankers is not.
The Defaulters’ Parade was conducted by the Orderly Officer, assisted by the Orderly Sergeant. Different junior officers and senior NCOs were assigned to fulfill these duties on a daily basis. Defaulters’ Parade was just a small part of their overall responsibilities. Other duties included handling and managing incidents that occurred on the camp outside of normal operating hours; raising the flag in the morning and lowering it again at sunset; supervising mealtimes in the Boy Entrant messes and of course making sure that janker wallahs were appropriately occupied in performing fatigues during their confinement to camp.
When Butterworth and I arrived at the Drill Shed, we formed up with the twenty or so other defaulters in three ranks.
At 1830 hours, the Orderly Sergeant took up his position in front of our three ranks and commanded, “Defaulters,” followed by a slight pause before continuing, “Defaulters attention! Right dress.”
We shuffled around for a few moments, getting an arm’s length spacing between each other. Then, when the shuffling stopped, the Orderly Sergeant called out “Eyes front.”
We stood at attention, staring straight ahead for a few moments, before receiving the next order, “Defaulters! For inspection, open order march!”
Smartly, both front and rear ranks took the necessary one pace forward or backwards to open up the ranks. Then the sergeant turned to face the Orderly Officer, who was waiting a short distance away.
The Orderly Sergeant threw up a smart salute as he addressed the officer, “Defaulters ready for inspection, Sir!”
The sergeant held his salute until the officer walked forward the few paces necessary to bring him to an arm’s length distance from the sergeant, before returning the salute.
“Thank you sergeant,” he responded in a normal speaking voice.
With that, the officer walked to the end of the front rank which was nearest to him and began inspecting us, followed closely by the sergeant. His inspection was detailed and meticulous, taking several minutes for each person. Apart from checking our buttons and boots, the officer also ordered several of the defaulters to reveal the contents of their small pack, their large pack, or their water bottle. It was a requirement that each of these contain certain specific items: the large pack was supposed to contain certain articles of clothing such as shirts and underwear, whilst the small pack was required to contain toiletry items and the brushes that we used to clean our buttons and boots and of course the water bottle needed to be filled with clean fresh water. Only the ammunition pouches were to be left empty. Any janker wallah unlucky enough to be found wanting of any of these mandatory items would probably be placed on another charge. It was common barrack-room wisdom that it was a very difficult accomplishment to finish the original “award” of jankers and avoid being put on another charge, during the usual course of these defaulters’ inspections. More often than not, the original award became a self-perpetuating vicious circle, because the risk of getting even more days of punishment seemed to increase exponentially with the length of time that a person remained on jankers. Much depended on the mood and personality of the daily Orderly Officer and Orderly Sergeant, many of whom took their duties very seriously with regard to defaulters, often to the point of mean-spiritedness.
Happily, Butterworth and I both managed to sail through the inspection that night. After the parade, we performed an hour of fatigues in the mess, scraping congealed gravy from greasy cooking pans, before taking a one-hour break and then going back on parade at 2100 hours. There was no inspection during this short parade, since its main purpose was simply to inconvenience us and make sure that we weren’t out somewhere having fun. With that, we came to the end of our single, solitary day of CC. Had we been unlucky enough to have been “awarded” more than one day of punishment, it would have been necessary for us to report to the Guardroom early next morning for the first parade of the day, and to perform some fatigues, before returning to the billets for the workshops parade. Indeed we had been let off lightly on our first charge, but not so the next time, nor the countless times after that.
Back at workshops we progressed through our training, covering topics such as “Instruments”, during which we learned how voltmeters and ammeters worked. We then progressed on to “Aircraft Wiring”, during which we were taught familiarity with the different types of electrical wire used on the aircraft of that era. Our instructor for that topic, Mr. Edridge, involved us in practical work to help the learning process along, which turned out to be typical of the overall instructional technique as our training advanced.
For this particular topic, we were each assigned to bench-mounted panels on which several types of the small cockpit lights, switches and terminal blocks had been mounted. These components were typical of aircraft of that time: lamps with red bulbs for general cockpit lighting that didn’t compromise the pilot’s night vision and ultra-violet lights that caused the indicators and numbers on the cockpit instruments to glow when the other cockpit lighting was turned off. The ultra-violet effect had even less of an effect than the red lighting on the crew’s ability to see into the outside darkness during night flights. The task before us was to wire up the lamps, using information from a simple wiring diagram. The work gave us practical experience in reading and using the information available in wiring diagrams. It also helped us to develop the skills of cutting the wire to size and stripping back its insulation in the manner we’d been taught, before connecting it securely to the correct terminal screws. I had to borrow a screwdriver from someone else to make the connections. For some inexplicable reason, my screwdriver was found to be missing during the pre-work tool-check ritual.
In fact, quite a few of my tools seemed to be missing and I wasn’t the only one: many of the other boys complained that tools were missing from their tool kits also. This discovery was unfortunat
ely accompanied by the bad news that those of us with missing tools were going to be docked some money from our pay, to cover the cost of replacing them. It seemed as though some funny business was going on—our tools were going missing when they were supposed to be in Corporal Simpson’s safekeeping. Could there be a connection? We started speaking up about this to anyone in authority who would listen.
I finished wiring my panel and then raised my hand to let Mr. Edridge know, but by this time he had several others already waiting to have their completed work inspected. If Mr. Edridge was satisfied with their wiring, he rewarded them by turning on the 24 volts D.C. power supply to their panels. These early birds were then able to savour the satisfaction of operating the switches they had wired up on their panels and see the results of their handiwork when the cockpit lighting illuminated. The circuits also included dimmer switches that enabled the brightness of the lighting to be adjusted, which gave the lucky few something to play around with, in addition to simply switching the lights on and off. Something about my wiring didn’t meet with Mr. Edridge’s approval, which meant that I had some rewiring to do before getting his approval and the application of the power supply. Finally, I got it right and was then able to proudly light my lights and tweak them through all the intervening intensities between dim and bright.
Although we had the impression that our complaints about tools mysteriously and systematically going missing were being ignored, we were wrong. One day, at the beginning of a workshop practice session, two other corporal instructors took us through the tool check procedure, whilst Corporal “Gummy” Simpson was very conspicuous by his absence. I could tell from the whispered comments passing between the two corporals each time they discovered that not everyone possessed each category of tool, that there was more than the usual emphasis on what was missing. By this time, most of my tools had disappeared and the tool-bag felt embarrassingly light. When a few of the boys began to sense that something was in the air, they strongly protested that their tool-bags were being systematically looted when the bags weren’t in their possession. Very soon, most of us jumped on the bandwagon and echoed the same protestations. The corporals conducting the tool check openly sympathized and, to our relief, informed us that we wouldn’t have to pay for the missing tools. A few days later, we heard that Gummy Simpson had been charged with stealing the tools. Apparently, he unlawfully retained duplicate keys to our tool-bag locks and had been using them to open various bags and remove tools, which he then sold at a local market. For him, it was more than just being awarded jankers because he had used his position of trust as an NCO and instructor to commit theft. Corporal Simpson quickly disappeared from St. Athan and we never heard exactly what became of him. But he was most probably demoted to the ranks, possibly spent some time “inside” and most certainly had to pay restitution for the tools that he had stolen and sold. We, on the other hand, had our tool kits fully replenished with the items that had gone missing and never lost any more after that.
* * *
On the 14th of February, St. Valentine’s Day, the 30th Entry was inducted into the Royal Air Force Boy Entrant Training Scheme. In doing so, they relieved and replaced the 29th Entry from the unenviable position of being the lowest form of life to crawl on the earth.
CHAPTER 7
Farewell to the 26th
After the first few weeks, life in the Wings settled down into a regular routine. Whilst discipline remained strict, there seemed more of a willingness on the part of the authorities to treat us as thinking individuals. We no longer suffered from the “herd instinct” mentality that seemed to have featured so prominently during our time in the Initial Training Squadron. This was most evident at mealtimes, especially during the midday meal when we observed the 30th entry going through the same painful introduction to Boy Entrant life that we had only recently suffered ourselves.
Instead of being marched to the mess, as we were during our time in ITS and then participating in the ensuing mad stampede to be avoid being last in the queue, we were marched to our billets instead. This gave us the individual freedom to casually stroll a short distance to the mess and have our meal at any time during the allotted midday break. Usually, most of us wanted to find out if we had mail, or perhaps visit the toilet, before going to the mess. The advantage in doing this was that it allowed time for the queue to die down, which meant less time standing in line waiting to be served. By way of contrast, the ITS boys were marched to the mess and dismissed en masse, precipitating a giddy race for a place near the head of the queue. And, as in life, the race always went to the swift.
The mess was actually split into two halves. The Initial Training Squadron had one half all to themselves, whilst we in the Wings had the other half. One of the reasons that it was beneficial for me to wait for a while before going to the mess had to do with the seniority culture of the entries. One of the senior entry privileges that the 26th wielded was the right to move to the head of the queue for meals in the mess and ahead of everyone else, except other senior entry members. The pecking order proceeded from there; members of the 27th could move ahead of the 28th, who in turn, could move ahead of the 29th. Since we were the junior entry, we found ourselves perpetually at the end of the line. At first, having been used to the free-for-all in ITS, I began to object when this happened to me, but only until I caught sight of the chevrons on the cuff of the other person’s sleeve that marked him as a member of an entry senior to mine. At that point, my objection would wither on the vine and I would reluctantly make room for the senior person to squeeze into line in front of me. It therefore paid for me not to go to the mess immediately on being dismissed at mealtimes, but to wait instead for the queue to become shorter. This meant being served a meal much quicker and with less risk of having someone pushing into the line in front of me.
Entry seniority culture was unfair and the recollection of it would trouble my sense of fair play when I had matured to adulthood, but at that time it was the nature of the world we lived in. It was the unwritten law that an entry member had precedence over those in entries junior to him, but he deferred to those in entries that were senior to his. The proficiency stripes on the cuff of our tunics indicated the level of seniority. Three stripes identified the wearer as a senior entry member, which was the 26th when we first became the junior entry. The next entry in seniority sported two stripes, as worn by the 27th who were the next entry in line of succession and one stripe by the 28th. We of the 29th, just being new to the Wings and not having taken any proficiency tests as yet, were devoid of stripes. So, although we now wielded some puny seniority over the ITS boys, anyone with a stripe on his cuff could and would push into the queue ahead of us, two-stripers would push in ahead of the one-stripers and the senior entry would go straight to the head of the line.
The seniority system also extended to the Astra camp cinema. The senior entry occupied the rear rows of seats and junior entry members knew very well not to sit there. The lesson was driven home with each new ITS intake, when several sprogs would learn the hard way that their place was on the front rows. Although there was no set number of rows reserved for any specific entry, the rule was that if any senior entry members sat in a particular row, it immediately became exclusively reserved for them. Any lesser entry members already occupying seats in that row were obliged to move—or else! Of course, the 27th didn’t allow less junior entries to sit in rows that they had taken over and so it flowed on down the pecking order to the front rows where, if the cinema was full, the ITS kids were forced to crane their necks back at an uncomfortable angle to view the flat distorted images on the screen. Luckily for them, it wasn’t too crowded most of the time.
But there is an exception to every rule and the exception in this case was Marianne (which is not her real name), who could sit in any row she chose.
There were two performances per evening at the Astra: the early show catered to Boy Entrants, who were subject to “lights out” at an early hour. The later performance wa
s aimed at the adult camp staff and their families, who understandably avoided the early performance. Marianne, however, seemed to prefer attending the early performances. She wasn’t an adult, but just a teenager of around 16 years old like ourselves. Needless to say, her female presence in that all-male, teenage, testosterone-charged environment was polarizing to say the least.
Marianne usually sat about a dozen rows back from the screen where a wide aisle traversed the cinema. This allowed her to stretch out her long legs and provide many of us with the kind of view that maintained our interest until the house lights went down and the film began. Most of the time, she wore provocative short skirts and clothing that was intended for women a few years older and on top of that, her makeup was very much overdone for someone of her years. Rumour had it that she was an officer’s daughter who lived with her family in Officers’ Married Quarters. But the really exciting rumour concerning Marianne was that she had a “reputation”. It was whispered around in hushed, confidential tones that she was a “sure thing” and the tales of her exploits with any number of Boy Entrants were legendary. Strangely, it was always someone who knew someone who had heard that someone had been “all the way” with her and how eager she had been to cooperate.
If Marianne chose to attend the first sitting at the Astra for the sole purpose of meeting boys, it didn’t seem to work very well for her. In fact, most of the time it seemed that she sat alone for the simple reason that few of us had the courage or the confidence to approach her. But occasionally a brave lad would throw caution to the winds to go and sit next to her. This move was generally accompanied by cheers, jeers, catcalls and explicit offers of advice from those of us who were made of less courageous stuff. Bill from my billet, who was coincidentally in the 29th entry, was one such person. I’m not sure whether it was an act of blatant bravado on his part, or his reaction to the irresistible attraction of the opposite sex, but at least he waited until the house lights went down before making his move and slipping into the seat beside her. Perhaps he hoped to avoid detection by waiting until then, but his sly move failed to go unnoticed and the usual great cheer went up from those in the immediate vicinity who witnessed it. The cheer set off a loud buzz of interest that spread around the dark, cavernous interior like wildfire. Interest then faded for a while, as everyone became more interested at what was happening up on the screen, but the catcalls resumed with a vengeance when the lights came up for an intermission prior to the screening of the main feature. Bill, to his credit, turned around, looked at the chanting faces and just grinned in a way that said, “Don’t you envious bastards just all wish you were sitting here instead of me?” Of course he was right—we both envied and hated him in equal quantities.
