Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat

by Brian Carlin

  And now it was time for the final act of the ceremony—arguably the best part of the entire ceremony. It began with Flight Sergeant Boy Gilkes advancing once more to the dais, saluting the Reviewing Officer and requesting permission for the paraded squadrons to leave the parade ground—the March-Off. Air Vice-Marshal Hutton returned the Flight Sergeant Boy’s salute and granted permission. Gilkes then made an about turn, marched back towards us and halted when he arrived at his post.

  “Numbers 1 and 2 Squadrons will march off in column of route! Into line LE-eft TURN!”

  The order was smartly executed.

  Gilkes then ordered, “NCOs, take post.”

  When everyone was in position, the Sergeant Boy in command of the supporting entries made an about turn and faced his charges.

  “Supporting entries,” he commanded, “PRE-sent ARMS!

  Gilkes now gave us the order to march and simultaneously the Station Band struck up with “Auld Lang Syne”. Gilkes, at the head of the column, wheeled to lead the flight out of the Drill Shed and into the drizzle that had replaced the earlier fog.

  All three flights of No. 1 Squadron followed behind in turn, as the supporting entries maintained their “Present Arms” position. A happy grin spread broadly across my face and the faces of those around me that I could see. We were revelling in the same feeling of pure joy that had been visible on the faces of the 26th, 27th and 28th entries when they too had passed this way before us. I also had a good idea of the thoughts that were passing through the minds of the poor sods in the supporting entries, as they were forced to gaze on our brazenly smirking faces—thoughts that ranged anywhere from, “It’s our turn next” to “I wish it were me!” And one day it would come to pass for them, just as it had come to pass for us after much patience and forbearance.

  By rights, we should have had a proper Guard of Honour for our send-off, but it was impractical. The limited space in the Drill Shed forced the supporting entries to remain in place, instead of forming up into the traditional Guard of Honour that we would then have marched through, had the parade taken place on the Square. But it was a small loss compared to the major prize—the Passing-Out itself.

  The first stop after marching off the parade ground was to return to the Armoury and hand in our rifles and bayonets. That’s where we took the opportunity of breaking ranks to congratulate each other for the first time on successfully passing out of Boy Entrant service.

  CHAPTER 13

  Manhood Delayed

  There was time to enjoy a quick “Woody” Woodbine, for those of us who had handed our rifles back in to the Armoury and now waited around for the others to do likewise. Quite a few of us were smokers, as was made evident by several small clouds of blue tobacco smoke that suddenly started appearing all around the exterior of the Armoury. The order to fall in soon came, however, so we got rid of the fags and formed up in our ranks once again, but minus rifles this time. After all the preliminaries of dressing off and turning into column of route were completed, we marched back to the Drill Shed. By this time the supporting entries had left the scene and were on their way towards the Armoury to return their weapons. For them, it was all over with nothing more to look forward to right now but a return to normal duties. Later in the evening it would be a different matter, but happily we wouldn’t be there to witness the ascendancy of the 30th to senior entry status. For the moment, though, it was still the 29th Entry’s day and there were yet more items pending on the Passing Out programme. The first order of business was to partake of some light refreshment, in the form of familiar urns of mess tea and trays of mess tray-baked sponge cake, kindly provided by the Station catering staff. Parents and other family who had attended the ceremony were also invited to join us. Half-an-hour or so passed by as we all stood around munching cake, drinking mess tea from disposable cardboard cups (also kindly provided by the Station catering staff) and answering the urgent call of nature, although not necessarily in that particular order of priority.

  When it was time to get back to matters concerning the Passing Out proceedings, Permanent Staff NCOs gently shepherded everyone into the adjoining Astra cinema for the next phase of the programme. Once seated, the School Commandant, Air Commodore Perkins, took the stage to provide a plethora of statistical information relating to our Entry. Reading from a book, like Eamon Andrews in a performance of “This is Your Life”, he mentioned that 311 boys were initially inducted into the 29th Entry at St. Athan on Thursday the 18th of October, 1956. Of those, 28 transferred to RAF Halton for Apprentice training and the remaining 283 continued training at St. Athan. Although some members were lost along the way, replacements came via relegations from the 28th Entry and when it was time for our final trade test we were 244 strong. Sadly, some 19 boys didn’t make it through the finals and of these, 17 were relegated to the 30th Entry and 2 were “CT’d”—an acronym for “Ceased Training”. The Air Commodore then read out the names of individual Boy Entrants who had performed the best overall in their respective trades, whilst Air Vice-Marshal Hutton presented them with prizes in recognition of their achievements. In addition to the academic achievements, Flight Sergeant Boy Gilkes was also awarded a prize for coming first in general service efficiency.

  When the prize-giving ended, the Air Vice-Marshal gave an address in which he congratulated us on our smartness on parade and successes in workshops, school and on the sports field. He then urged us to use the technical skills we’d learned for the good of the Service that had trained us and finally counselled us never to lose our curiosity, but continue to seek further knowledge and strive for excellence.

  Appropriately motivated, we filed out of the Astra and formed up to march back to the billets, where Corporal Longfellow awaited us. He held in his hands a bunch of the coveted black crepe hatbands that we would now wear around our SD hats, to signify our transition to the regular RAF. In exchange, the corporal collected our chequered hatbands and the red and blue discs from behind our beret cap badges. As he was doing this, Corporal Longfellow told us to bring our white webbing with us when we cleared from the Flight office and with that we were dismissed in time for early lunch.

  I was hungry, but there was something more urgent than food on my mind just at that moment. It was a matter of pride that I get changed into my brand new T63 uniform with my new Leading Aircraftsman badges neatly sewn on both sleeves and plop my equally new T63 SD hat, complete with its black crepe hatband, on my head. Everyone else was also changing into the new uniforms, before going to the mess for our last lunch at St. Athan-by-the-Sea. Excitement and elation took the edge off my appetite, so I didn’t eat much in the end—just enough to stave off the sensation of hunger. Butterworth and I then headed back to the billet to pack our kit and finish the clearing process, so that we could say farewell to St. Athan and Boy Entrant Training as quickly as possible and begin our well-earned leave.

  Most of our kit had already been packed and what little remained didn’t take very long to stuff into our kitbags. We then gathered our blankets and bed linen together and piled our old “hairy” blue uniform on top, before carrying all of it out of the billet. First stop was the bedding store, to dump the bedding and obtain a signature on our blue clearance cards in return. The next stop was the clothing store; to hand in the old uniforms and likewise have an autograph added to our clearance cards. With both of those chores taken care of, we went back to the billet to get our white webbing and take it to the Flight office, so that we could clear from there. Corporal Longfellow took the webbing from us and smilingly wished us good luck as he signed the cards. We shook hands with him and said goodbye. When we got back to the billet, the 30th, 31st and 32nd Entry boys had returned from workshops for their lunch break. They commented admiringly and also a little enviously on our change of uniform and rank. Then one of them, a boy named Brown, came up to Richard.

  “The lads wanted to give you something as a going-away present,” said Brownie, “so we had a whip-round.”

  Wit
h that, he thrust a handful of cash towards Richard, who reached out and accepted it with a very surprised acknowledgement of thanks.

  Brownie then went on to explain that Richard had always treated them fairly and had never used his senior entry status to lord it over them. It was a touching gesture and one that I’d never heard of before. It was the rule rather than the exception that junior entries were always glad to be rid of the outgoing senior entry and were hardly inclined to give them any parting gifts. I was glad for Richard to the extent that it brought a lump to my throat, but at the same time I inwardly noted that it was he and he alone who had been the recipient of the gift.

  During the time that the 29th had been the junior entry, Richard had frequently been a lightning rod for bullying, scorn and derision. I’m not sure why this was, but maybe it was because his short physical stature housed a feisty nature that could very quickly put him at odds with anyone who raised his hackles. He didn’t easily accept the role of being a bull-boy for the senior entry and made this well known to those who had expected him to uncomplainingly clean their boots and buttons and suffered the uncomfortable consequences as a result. It would have been very easy for him to exploit his senior entry status when that time finally arrived, as a way of compensating for the trials and tribulations he’d been forced to suffer. Not my friend Richard, however. Much to his credit, he turned down the opportunity of having junior entry members perform menial tasks on his behalf and made a point of cleaning his own kit and keeping his own bed-space clean.

  By way of contrast, I had wholeheartedly embraced the privileges of senior entry-hood. In fact, my basic philosophy during that period was always to look out for number one, probably due to the tough childhood I’d experienced—on top of the “survival of the fittest” mentality permeating the Boy Entrant culture. Richard Butterworth had experienced a childhood every bit as difficult as mine and he had also suffered through the same bullying and humiliations that Boy Entrant service had dished out to me, perhaps even more so. Yet from somewhere deep within himself, he had adopted a philosophy that dictated compassion towards those in lesser circumstances than his own. The lesson wasn’t lost on me. Although unaware of it at the time, I also received a gift from the junior entries that day. It was one that I believe stayed with me and in the years that followed helped me to develop a more respectful and compassionate attitude towards my subordinates, both in the service and later in civilian life.

  We said goodbye to our former billet-mates, knowing we wouldn’t see them again because we would finish clearing and be gone long before they returned from workshops. In fact, we had cleared from everywhere except the final two Sections: Pay Accounts and the Station Orderly Room. So we now made our way to the Station Headquarters building, where both Sections were located. Before long, we emerged from the SHQ with our wallets stuffed full of back pay and the travel warrants needed to take us home on leave and then get us to RAF Shawbury when the two-week leave period was over. We felt as though we were walking on air heading back to the now empty billet, where our kitbags lay waiting on the stark stripped-off beds which up until that morning had been the one small piece of territory we considered our own. There was a brief sense of nostalgia, but it was soon over-taken by a greater sense of happiness at the prospect of finally leaving St. Athan.

  The trudge to the main gate with kitbags on shoulders seemed effortless and it was the greatest thrill in the world to pass through those forbidding wrought iron gates as regular airmen for the very first time and also the very last time. The Snoops barely gave us a glance as we walked past the Guardroom, although I still felt the same sense of intimidation that experience had taught me to associate with running that particular gauntlet. Inwardly I tried to relax by reminding myself that we were no longer the lowest of the low in their eyes and were therefore less of a target, since we had managed to climb up one rung out of the primordial ooze. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help feeling the awful anticipation of some SP bawling out, “You there, boy!” No such call came, however, so we crossed the road outside the main gate without incident and walked to the bus-stop to await the bus for Barry that would drop us off at Gileston railway station. We were free—free at last!

  Butterworth travelled with me as far as Crewe and then we both caught separate trains, his was to Liverpool and mine was the boat train to Heysham for the trip across the Irish Sea to Belfast. We congratulated each other once again on our passing out of Boys’ Service and said that we would see each other at Shawbury on the day we were due back from leave. We then parted company and went our separate ways. It was impossible to make any definite arrangements to meet up since we didn’t know exactly what to expect when we got to Shawbury, but we knew it couldn’t be too difficult and so just left it at that.

  * * *

  Going home to Coleraine on leave was a different experience this time. Not just because it would be my first return there as a fully-fledged airman in the regular RAF, but also because the actual homestead itself had moved since my previous visit. My family had moved out of the pre-fab that had been our home since 1947 and into a new council house nearby. The pre-fabs had been erected just after the war, as temporary council housing, and were designed to last for ten years. Now, just a little over ten years later, the council had built more permanent housing for its pre-fab tenants. A brand new street, named The Crescent, had arisen in an area of green fields adjacent to the pre-fabs, where I had played as a child. As each new house on The Crescent became available, a pre-fab family was moved into it and their former home immediately demolished. New and more durable council housing was subsequently built on the site of the old pre-fab development, but that occurred some time later.

  I knew all about the move before going on leave, because Annie had given me the new address in one of her letters. Even so, arriving at the new house was a strange experience. It had two storeys, unlike the pre-fab, which had been a bungalow. The ground floor consisted of two rooms, one of which was the posh front “parlour” that was used only to receive visitors. The other room was the kitchen cum everyday living room at the rear of the house. It was rectangular in shape, about twenty feet by ten feet and was dominated at one end by a coal and coke fired range, which not only heated the room but also incorporated a boiler that heated water. The range was also the only means of cooking or boiling a kettle of water and consequently was kept alight day and night, summer and winter. The hot water was a nice touch. We never had that particular little luxury in the pre-fab except on bath nights, because the hot water tank there used an electric immersion heater, which cost too much to operate. And even on bath nights, Annie wouldn’t use it. Instead, she would boil a kettle of water on the gas cooker and then pour the contents into the bath, before adding enough cold water to bring it down to a tolerable temperature. The resulting volume of tepid water measured about three inches in depth—not exactly conducive to an indulgence in luxurious wallowing. Yes, the ability to enjoy a nice hot bath was indeed a luxury in the new house.

  The upstairs accommodation consisted of three bedrooms, the bathroom and a separate toilet, but it was annoying to learn that my father’s pet budgies were allotted a bedroom all to themselves, while the humans were squeezed into two rooms, just like it had been back in the pre-fab days. My brother shared the largest room with my father and Annie, while my sisters Veronica and Pauline shared the other bedroom. When home on leave, I had to share my brother’s bed.

  It was nice to get home and see the new house, but the novelty wore off after a few days and then I was ready and anxious to get back on the boat and discover what my other new home at Shawbury was like. The duration of my leave pass was for two weeks, however, which meant having to kick my heels around for all that time before being able to get on with that next big phase of my life. It also seemed that Coleraine was becoming just as irrelevant to me as I was becoming to it. It was as though a giant hand had scooped me out of a pond just 18 months earlier and the water had immediately closed in to complet
ely fill the space I had formerly occupied. A few faint ripples were all that now remained and they were fading away with the passage of time. There was still a sense of duty to return home on leave, but it just didn’t seem like “home” any more, especially since the house I’d known as home no longer existed. During earlier spells of leave I had dreaded the approach of the last day at home, knowing that when it finally came around I would be returning to St. Athan. This time, though, I wasn’t going back to St. Athan because I wasn’t a Boy Entrant any more—or so I thought—which made me feel that the last day of leave couldn’t come soon enough. So when the time came to say my farewells, it was with a great sense of adventure and excitement, rather than the heavy heart I’d experienced on other occasions. Indeed, the feeling was one of impatient eagerness as I stood on the Coleraine railway station platform, waiting for the Belfast train that would take me on the first leg of the journey to my new posting at RAF Shawbury in the County of Shropshire. I didn’t know exactly what to expect when I got there, but it certainly promised to be a lot more interesting than hanging around Coleraine just killing time. And as the train finally started pulling out of the station with me aboard, I silently cheered to be on my way at last.