by Brian Carlin
The weekend saw us flocking into Southport en masse. There were lots more girls around during these two days, and the sight of our uniforms seemed to attract them like bees to honey. But the uniforms also attracted some attention that we could well have done without. Teddy boys from Liverpool came to Southport at the weekends as well and they didn’t like us for many reasons. The image we presented to the world was the complete opposite to theirs. We were smartly dressed in our uniforms and had short, well-kept hair. Teddy boys, on the other hand, dressed in slouchy loose “drape” jackets, drainpipe trousers, thick crepe soles and long greasy hair. The older generation saw them as a threat to traditional values (along with rock ’n’ roll), whereas Boy Entrants exhibited the image and values of the older folks (but little did they know that we also liked rock ’n’ roll). Scuffles broke out in several places, but were usually broken up by the civilian police. I didn’t have the misfortune to get into a scuffle, but came as close as I wanted to on the only Saturday that I was there.
Three or four of us were walking along on one of the main Southport thoroughfares, talking amongst ourselves and generally minding our own business, when we suddenly became conscious of being surrounded by several tough-looking individuals dressed in Teddy boy clothes, all of whom looked a few years older than we were. One of the toughs produced a flick knife and started playing with it, repeatedly making the blade spring out by pressing the release catch and then folding the blade back in again, obviously trying to intimidate us—and succeeding.
“Oh look at the little Brylcreem boys,” mocked one youth, who appeared to be the leader. He made a grab for one of our SD hats, but the wearer saw the move coming and grabbed it off his own head and clutched it to his chest. We all followed suit, knowing that they would try to snatch someone’s hat.
“How much money have you got?” The gang leader demanded and with this he made a menacing step towards me, his face not more than six inches from mine.
“None,” I stammered weakly, betraying the fact that I was scared.
“Liar,” he snarled and then grabbed me by the lapels of my tunic. It seemed that I was going to have to fight whether I wanted to or not; I was worried about the flick knife and whatever other weapons they might be carrying. One of the others started patting my pockets, trying to find if I had a wallet. At this point, I began to think that my chances of getting out of this situation unhurt and without being robbed weren’t very promising. But help arrived when it was needed most, like the cavalry arriving in the nick of time. Only it wasn’t the cavalry that arrived, it was two Southport Bobbies, one of them a sergeant and the other a constable. Both were dressed in their summer attire of blue shirts with rolled-up sleeves.
“What’s going on here?” The sergeant demanded, but no one answered. The question was redundant anyway, because the situation was very obvious. The gang leader still had a good grip on my lapels and didn’t seem in any hurry to let go.
“Let him go,” the sergeant ordered. Reluctantly, the Teddy boy released me, shoving me away as he did so. “Now, move along,” the sergeant commanded and then turning to us, “you lads get on your way too! That way!” He pointed in the opposite direction to the one taken by our attackers.
Scowling, the Teddy boys started ambling off in a deliberately unhurried fashion that was intended to show their contempt for authority, but as they walked away one turned and spat in my direction. A large ugly green lump of sputum landed on my trouser leg at about calf level. Angry as I was at this insulting act, I realized it could have been a lot worse, so I turned and walked away with the other lads in the direction indicated by the police sergeant, which happened to be towards the railway station. I don’t know about the others, but it took me quite a while to stop shaking after what seemed to be a narrow escape. At the railway station, I made a beeline for the public toilets and gingerly removed the disgusting gob of spit from my uniform, using plenty of toilet paper in the process. There was some talk around camp about a large group of us going into town armed with our webbing belts and doing serious battle with the Teds, but it was all talk and nothing ever came of it.
On the whole, this unpleasant episode was an isolated one and didn’t mar the good feeling I had about Southport. Ironically, that very same weekend I met someone who was more than just the usual run-of-the-mill type of girl. Her name was Jennifer and, not surprisingly, I met her at the funfair. When I first came to Southport I had decided just to have a good time and pursue a policy of love-‘em-and-leave-‘em in the belief that two weeks wasn’t long enough to get serious with anyone, but Jennifer had a quality that attracted me and made me want to get to know her better. And she was different in another way; she actually lived in Southport and wasn’t just a fleeting holidaymaker. That had an immediate advantage, because she was there all the time that I was (if anything, it was I who was the fleeting holidaymaker). For the remainder of summer camp I took every opportunity to spend time with her. Most of the time I went into Southport at the end of our daily activities, cash situation permitting. But to make it easier on my meagre finances, she sometimes made the trip to Freshfield by electric train and we walked on the beach together, talking and laughing as we dodged the small wavelets that tried to catch us by surprise and overwhelm our unwary feet. Then, when we got tired of that, we kissed and cuddled in a secluded hollow amongst the sand dunes until it was time for Jennifer’s train back to Southport.
All good things come to an end, and so it was with summer camp. The wonderful time that I spent there was easily the highlight of my entire time as a Boy Entrant. We were blessed with near perfect weather during the whole of our stay, which is very surprising, given that our predecessor campers from Cosford suffered cool rainy weather that mysteriously came to an end at the same time as their summer camp finished. Just as mysteriously, the rainy season resumed as soon as we struck camp and headed back to Wales. Maybe it helped, on some higher plane, that our home station was named for a saint.
Jennifer and I said goodbye, temporarily, and we promised faithfully to write to each other; a promise that we both kept for a long time. I would see her again, although it wouldn’t be for quite some time after I completed my Boy Entrant training.
For most of the boys, summer camp lasted an enjoyable two weeks, but not for the trumpet band members. We departed for St. Athan on the 1st of June, a few days ahead of the main contingent, because we needed to make some final preparations for our appearance at the Royal Tournament. As a farewell gesture, we all joined together as a group to play our final Last Post. By this time I’d taken the good advice offered to me earlier and kept my trumpet mouthpiece warm in bed with me throughout the night, so that my subsequent renderings of Reveille sounded a lot sweeter than the first attempt—if Reveille can really be described as “sweet”.
The Last Post was a much nicer piece to play and on that final evening we put everything we had into it because we knew that it truly was the Last Post for us. Six of us formed up around the flagpole and at a nod from the senior trumpeter we played it out, the notes bringing moistness to our eyes though we tried hard not to show it. When the final notes had faded away, we sadly lowered our trumpets and then shook hands with each other in mutual congratulations for a job well done. Summer camp was over for us.
Our return to St. Athan that Saturday was quite a different experience compared to the jubilant journey to Woodvale of two weeks earlier. This time there was no special train to take us there. Instead, our small group was issued with travel warrants to be exchanged for normal British Railways train tickets and a travel allowance for food. An NCO was also detailed to accompany us to make sure we got there safe and sound, or to keep us from getting up to mischief, or probably both.
We started off by taking the electric train service to Liverpool, which was in the opposite direction to Southport. That by itself was reason enough for a heavy-hearted feeling as the train pulled away, putting more distance between Jennifer and me with every clickety-clack of its wheels
on the rails.
Much bull awaited us at our destination, because of the need to get our kit all cleaned and made ready for the big event. We had already been informed that a full dress rehearsal was planned for the coming Tuesday, which would be our last performance before appearing at the Royal Tournament itself, on Thursday the 6th of June, 1957.
At Liverpool we changed trains, taking the mainline train to Barry, then a change at Pontypool Road and another change at Barry to get us to Gileston, where we waited around for ages until an RAF bus came down from the camp to pick us up and deposit our weary bodies at the Guardroom. Finally, there was a long walk to our billets, carrying our heavy kitbags. On entering my billet, it seemed as though I’d never been away and that it had all been a dream, although it was eerily quiet without the others, who were still enjoying themselves at Woodvale.
On Sunday, we attended band practice, during which we went through all the marching routines to clear away any mental cobwebs that might have accumulated during summer camp. Corporal Naylor seemed satisfied, after going through the routine a few times and called a halt. Now it was time to receive the special kit that would embellish our uniforms for the big event. Each of us was issued with a white webbing belt, a white bandsman’s music pouch complete with a white leather shoulder strap and what looked like a large tangled clump of red and gold rope-like material, complete with tassels, that was similar to the binding on our trumpets. Like the others, I was supposed to wear the small music pouch across my back by draping the shoulder strap from my right shoulder across my chest. It was purely for decoration because, as I’ve already mentioned, we didn’t use sheet music to play our trumpets.
The red and gold rope material, when untangled, turned out to be braid that was to be worn on our uniforms. One end of the rope was knitted into a kind of epaulette that I had to hand-stitch onto the crest of my tunic’s left shoulder. When that was accomplished, it resulted in the two tassels hanging down on the outside of my upper arm from the epaulette. The other end of the braid was also knitted into a shape that was thinner and longer than the epaulette. It had a loop at the very end by which means it was attached to the top button of my tunic underneath the buttonhole. Then, between these two extremities, a pair of single ropes was passed over my head and worn loosely around the neck like a lanyard. A pair of white gloves completed the whole ensemble. Altogether, the heavily-overdone braid with the white belts and gloves, when added to our chequered hatbands, wheel badges and stripes, certainly brightened up the uniforms, giving us the appearance of a delegation of Generals from some far-off banana republic.
Oh and I nearly forgot to mention that I got a new trumpet to replace my sadly battered horn. I don’t suppose it was quite the thing to appear in the prestigious Royal Tournament playing something that resembled a ragman’s battered old bugle. The new instrument was flawless in its curved lines and I took unusual pleasure in applying some Brasso to polish the yellow metal to an eye-catching gleam.
There was other work to do as well. My uniform needed pressing to give the creases a razor-edge appearance and I needed to clean my boots, buttons and badges until they gleamed and then sew the braid epaulette onto the shoulder of my tunic. After that, the white belts and music pouch needed a fresh coating of white blanco. All of this had to be completed by Tuesday, when we were to be put through our paces in the full dress rehearsal.
Tuesday arrived and just to add a little stage fright to the whole proceedings, the Station Commandant, Air Commodore Perkins and his wife, as well as a very large group of officers and their families, attended the event. I’m pleased to say that all went well and we completed the rehearsal without anything going seriously awry. Our audience treated us to a hearty round of applause as we marched off the parade ground, making us feel proud and ready for the greater challenge ahead.
The next day was another day of continued preparation involving more Brasso and black Kiwi boot polish. On top of all this, the main contingent of boys returned from summer camp. I sat on my bed cleaning and polishing as chaos swirled around me; people unpacking kitbags, making up beds and talking as they tried to get settled back into life under a solid roof. I watched and cleaned, going about the normal routine that I’d already adjusted to a few days earlier and mildly resenting the mayhem that had arrived with these Johnny-come-latelys. The irritation was partly justified because I had an early start next morning, since the band would be leaving at 0700 hours on a specially chartered motor coach for the journey to Earls Court, so I needed to get a good night’s sleep. Alas, it wasn’t to be.
Bed check settled everyone down and it seemed as though all would be well. The lights were turned off and before long the billet fell quiet as everyone went off to sleep. I don’t know what time it happened, but I was awakened by a peculiar sound that seemed to be coming from the end of the room. It sounded like a scratching, fumbling sound and then I realized that someone was down there in the darkness mumbling to himself.
“Where’s the flap?” The voice said, over and over. This puzzled me in my half-asleep state, but I suddenly understood when I heard the unmistakable sound of someone peeing in the same general area where the voice had been muttering.
“What’s going on?” I called out. This woke up most of the other sleepers and then someone switched on the billet lights. The mystery piddler was revealed for all to see. He was one of our new 30th entry boys, standing sheepishly in a puddle of urine that was spreading widely around him in all directions.
“I thought I was in the tent,” he explained, “and I couldn’t find the flap to go out for a piss.”
“Well, you better get it cleaned up,” said Leading Boy German, who had appeared in the doorway to find out the reason for all the sudden noise.
The Phantom Piddler, as he came to be known after that, set to work and cleaned up his mess, but it was a good hour before we were able to turn the lights out again and the whole episode cost me the loss of some badly needed sleep.
Next morning, the 6th of June 1957, I was awakened at 0530 hours, having booked an early call at the Guardroom on the previous evening. The early call procedure was identical to what I had experienced at summer camp—the Orderly Corporal made the rounds of billets where early calls had been requested and woke up those who had stretched a white towel across the foot of their bed before going to sleep. After being roused from sleep by the Orderly Corporal’s gentle but forceful hand shaking my feet, I got up, washed and dressed and then headed to the mess for an early breakfast. Many of the other band lads were already there, but no one was talking very much at this ungodly hour of the morning. The only sounds that disturbed the pre-dawn quietness were the occasional loud clanging of pots and pans that echoed off the tiled walls of the mess kitchen and the rattling and rumbling of the steam being forced into the hot water tank that we used to wash our mugs and irons.
With breakfast over and a few puffs on a Woodbine to complement the food, I made my way to the Guardroom with the others. All of us were dressed in the full regalia that we would be performing in that evening and were thankful to be spared the nudges, stares and sniggers of the other camp inhabitants, who were still comfortably tucked up in their beds. Two luxury motor coaches that had been hired from a Barry company were waiting for us, so I climbed aboard, trumpet in one hand and small pack containing my overnight stuff in the other and settled into the comfortable softness of the luxury coach seat. At 0700 hours, the driver started the engine and we pulled out through the main gate on the first leg of our journey to London. The plan was to stop for a meal at the RAF Halton apprentice school just outside Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire, before continuing on to Earls Court. Nestling down in the snug comfort of my seat and being rocked by the smooth suspension of the coach, I soon fell asleep, although it was broad daylight by this time. Falling asleep was due in no small part to the effects of being disturbed the previous night and then from having to get up earlier than usual. But although I enjoyed the nap, it caused me to miss seeing many
of the towns and villages that we sped through on our way east towards Aylesbury. I think most of the others were sleeping too, because the unusual quietness allowed me sleep for at least an hour. Then I awoke and was able to enjoy the unfolding scenery as we sped along. It was late morning when we arrived at Halton, where arrangements had been made for us to have our midday meal. We were also going to return there to spend the night in a “transit billet” after our Earls Court performance, since it would be too late to return to St. Athan that same evening.
As we climbed down from the coach, a vaguely familiar figure detached himself from a nearby group of apprentices and approached us. He was grinning from ear to ear and I suddenly realized that it was Jock Murray, one of the boys who had originally been with us in ITS. He had been awarded a well-deserved place at the Halton apprentice school for doing exceptionally well in the education test that had been administered to us in those early days. Jock had apparently recognized the chequered hatbands that identified us as St. Athan Boy Entrants (apprentices wore solid colour hatbands) and on coming closer had recognized a few of us with whom he had briefly shared the ITS experience. We shook hands and talked and joked around for a while, comparing notes on St. Athan and Halton. He inquired as to what we were doing at Halton and why we were wearing all the “scrambled egg”. We explained about the Royal Tournament and, in turn, learned from him that the Halton bagpipe and trumpet band would also be appearing there another evening. He had many questions about Saints and about some of the friends he had left behind on being transferred. He also half-heartedly complained that his apprentice training would take three years, but it was easy to tell that he didn’t really mind the extra time because of the higher prestige he would gain by graduating as an apprentice. After several minutes of animated conversation, Jock said that he would have to go. In saying goodbye, he told us how nice it was to see all of us again and then, with a wave of his mug and irons, hurried off to join his apprentice friends.
