Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat

by Brian Carlin

  * * *

  The first part of the journey to Shawbury followed much the same route as I’d taken on previous trips back to St. Athan. First there was the sea leg from Belfast to Heysham and then the train to Crewe. From there, the new route diverged from the old. Instead of taking a mainline train to South Wales, I boarded a local train for the one-hour jaunt to Shrewsbury. The next and final leg was by Midland Red bus from Shrewsbury to RAF Shawbury, which was less than 10 miles from the city centre in a north-north westerly direction. It was still only early afternoon when I presented myself at the Guardroom to sign in. The Snoop on duty was less surly than those at St. Athan and after getting me to sign the Visitors’ Book, he directed me to the transit billet and bedding store. My first stop was the transit billet, where I dumped my kitbag on one of the unoccupied beds—the one that seemed to have the least amount of sag in the middle. I noticed that another bed had been made up, but there was no sign of the occupant. Then I walked the short distance to the bedding store and drew out a set of blankets, pillows, bed linen and some eating utensils. After that, I returned to the billet to make my “pit”. It was too late to report to the Station Orderly Room by the time all of this was accomplished, so I set out to find the NAAFI where perhaps I might be able to get a sandwich or something to eat, since I’d missed lunch at the airmen’s mess.

  When I returned to the transit billet, the occupant of the other bed had also returned. Not surprisingly, it was Butterworth, who had arrived earlier in the day. In fact, he had already been to the Station Orderly Room and begun his “arrival” process, but didn’t get far because most of the Sections he needed to visit had closed for the day. We sat around and chatted about our experiences while on leave, until it was time to go for early tea at the mess. After that we spent some time exploring the station to find the important places, such as the camp cinema, and since the NAAFI seemed dead we decided to see the film that was currently showing.

  The Shawbury Astra was much smaller than its namesake at St. Athan and the audience behaved quite differently as well. They joked around a lot more and there seemed to be much more camaraderie than the standoffish entry-ism that permeated everything in the Boy Entrant world, including going to the cinema. It was there that I first heard the standard RAF cinema audience’s reaction to a particular screen credit that follows every “Tom and Jerry” cartoon—an Astra staple in those days. When the producer’s name, Fred Quimby, appeared on-screen, the entire audience, as one, shouted out, “Good old Fred!” This, I found out later, was a universal ritual in the regular RAF, but it startled both of us on hearing it that first time. The feeling of being a part of this new adult community made me feel good inside. But I was tired after an almost sleepless night during the sea crossing from Belfast, so we had an early night and agreed to “arrive” together next morning.

  After breakfast, I presented myself to the Station Orderly Room clerk. He munched his way through a bag of Smith’s crisps as he otherwise silently noted my details, before handing me a blue card that looked exactly like the one I’d taken around to clear from St. Athan. My name appeared on the “Arrival” side, together with a list of the Sections I needed to visit. The Station Establishment would then be aware—and no doubt feel suitably reassured and relieved—that a fully trained LAC in the trade of Electrical Mechanic (Air) had now joined its strength. Richard waited around until I got my blue card and then accompanied me to the Sections he’d already visited, until I caught up to where he’d left off. After that, we tackled all of the other Sections together.

  Probably the most important signature for us to obtain was identified on the Arrivals card as “Tech. Wing Adj.” We would be working within Technical Wing, so the Tech. Wing Adjutant was responsible for assigning us to whatever duty we were considered best suited, in light of our hard-won qualifications. The Technical Wing Adjutant was a junior officer whose main job was to deal with the Wing’s daily routine, on behalf of the senior officer in overall charge of the Wing.

  After obtaining directions from one or two passers-by, we found our way to the Tech. Wing office in one of the large hangars on the perimeter of the aircraft ground-handling area, otherwise known as the Pan. The Wing “Discip.” Sergeant took our blue cards and made some notes, then told us to wait a moment. With that, he disappeared through the doorway of an adjoining office. Very soon he returned and told us that we were to go in and meet the adjutant. We walked cautiously through the open doorway, then stopped and saluted. Simultaneously, our jaws must have hit the floor because the adjutant wasn’t quite what we expected. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, a WRAF Flying Officer in her mid-twenties whose neat short dark-brown hair framed a face of such classical beauty that it could quite easily have belonged to a film actress. To say that I was absolutely stunned is only putting it mildly.

  “Ah! Butterworth and Carlin,” she said, looking up from her desk. She wasn’t wearing a hat and Service protocol therefore dictated that she couldn’t return our salute. Instead, she stood up and came around the desk, then reached out her hand to shake each of ours in turn.

  “Which one are you?” She asked as she politely and gently shook my hand, her eyes twinkling with amusement at the impression she obviously knew she’d made on both of us.

  “Carlin, Ma’am,” I managed to stammer.

  “And Butterworth I presume,” she said, turning to Richard and holding her hand out for him to shake.

  “Yes Ma’am,” he replied in a voice that was every bit as shaky as mine had been.

  “Welcome to Shawbury. We’re very glad you’ve joined us,” she said with a radiant smile that revealed her perfect white teeth. She returned to sit behind her desk before continuing, “Now, what trade are you?”

  “Electrical Mechanics, Air, Ma’am,” we answered together.

  “Oh, gooood,” she responded, “We can find plenty for you to do—we’re a little short-handed in the Electrical Section at the moment.”

  We smiled politely at this observation. It was nice to know we were wanted.

  The beautiful Flying Officer continued interviewing us. “Where did you do your technical training?” She asked.

  “St. Athan, Ma’am,” one of us replied.

  “I see,” she said thoughtfully and then continued in a more upbeat voice, “I’m a little familiar with St. Athan. So you were Boy Entrants then?”

  “Yes Ma’am,” we smilingly responded together.

  “Have you come straight from there?”

  “No Ma’am, we’ve been on two weeks’ leave.”

  “Yes, but this is your first posting since finishing your training. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  “So, how old were you when you first started your training?” Her voice took on a more serious tone as she asked this question.

  “Fifteen and a half, Ma’am,” we both answered independently. This was more of a pat answer than an accurate one; I had been two months past the 15½-year mark when I joined the Boy Entrants’ Service, whereas Richard had somehow managed to enlist one month before achieving the lower age limit.

  “And how old are you now?” She asked.

  “Seventeen,” I answered.

  Richard said nothing. In fact, he still had about another month to go before he would reach his seventeenth birthday in May.

  “So you’re not eighteen yet?” she asked.

  “No Ma’am,” we both answered.

  She frowned at this and then looked down at some paperwork on her desk. “Then, technically speaking, you’re both still Boys,” she announced, still looking at the paperwork on the desk. Quietly, almost to herself, she said, “That could be a problem.” When she looked up at us, the twinkling eyes had been replaced by a more serious look.

  The Adjutant’s pronouncement surprised, shocked and horrified both of us. We thought we’d left Boys’ Service behind at St. Athan, so what was all this about? Could she possibly be thinking of sending us back there?

  “Whe
re are you billeted right now?” She asked.

  “In the transit billet, Ma’am.”

  “Are you aware that QRs (Queen’s Regulations) forbids anyone under the age of eighteen living in the same accommodation as adult servicemen?”

  It was our turn to frown. After all, it wasn’t our fault if we were breaking QRs. “We thought that was just when we were Boy Entrants at St. Athan Ma’am,” I responded, speaking for both of us.

  She gave a little laugh, “Oh no. It applies anywhere in the service.” The laughter that had briefly flitted across her face was quickly replaced by a concerned look. “I’m not sure how we’re going to deal with this, but for the moment you’d better remain in the transit billet. I’ll have to get in touch with Personnel Records to see what we can do.” With that, she looked towards the open door of the office and called out “Sergeant!” in a slightly raised voice.

  The sergeant came through the door with an expectant look on his face. “Ma’am? He asked.

  “Sergeant, Butterworth and Carlin are elec. mechs. They’re going to be joining us, so can you please take them to the Electrical Section and introduce them to Chief Tech. Smith. We have a slight problem due to the fact that they’re both under age, but hopefully we can sort it all out.”

  “Yes Ma’am,” the sergeant responded. “Right lads, come with me.”

  We saluted before turning to leave the office. The beautiful Flying Officer smiled in response, but it was very brief and was replaced almost immediately by a look of determination as she reached for the phone on her desk.

  The sergeant signed our blue cards after we followed him into the outer office and then handed them back to us.

  “You need to go to the E and I Section next,” he said, referring to the Electrical and Instruments Section. “It’s in the next hangar,” which he indicated by pointing in that general direction. “Go in through the fire doors on the airfield side and then turn right. It’s a couple of doors down.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” we responded, then turned and made our way out onto the pathway that ran along the hangar frontage.

  Chief Technician Smith, the NCO in charge of the E&I Section, possessed a seemingly pleasant disposition. He welcomed us to the Section and then introduced us to the other Section members, who were sitting around drinking what looked suspiciously like very strong tea from of an assortment of cups and mugs.

  “Who ’ave you got there then, Chief?” One of them asked.

  “Couple of lads straight out of St. Athan who are going to show you sorry lot how it’s done,” he replied with a grin.

  “Wot? A couple of brats?” the first speaker retorted. “Cor blimey!”

  This was the first time that we heard ourselves referred to as brats on account of our Boy Entrant pedigree, although it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The two or three other men in the room behaved in a more friendly way towards us, as did the WRAF girl who was apparently also a member of the E&I Section. She was as thin as a rake and wore a battledress blouse and WRAF issue slacks. We found out a little later that she was known to all and sundry by the nickname of “Splitpin”, because of her slim frame and very long legs. Her resemblance to a split-pin was accentuated by the slacks she was accustomed to wearing.

  One of the other lads, a tall cockney named Bert who wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, offered us a cup of tea, which we gladly accepted. He searched around until he found some grimy, tea-stained cups, which he rinsed out with hot water from the kettle by pouring a small quantity into each and then swirling it around before tossing it out into a white-enamelled tin basin that had seen much better days. He then filled the cups with some of the same strong-looking brew that the others were drinking, from an ancient brown-enamelled metal teapot.

  “Milk and sugar?” He queried.

  When we answered yes, he picked up a tin of condensed milk and poured a stream of its white syrupy-thick contents into each cup from one of the two holes that had been punctured in its top—although not too recently by the look of the yellowish, congealed gunk around the holes. He then added one spoonful of sugar per cup, shovelling it out of what appeared to be an old tin tea caddy and then briskly stirred both concoctions before handing them to us. I can’t say it was the best tea that I’ve ever tasted, but it was wet and warm. I also appreciated the hospitality, since it was coming from people with whom we would no doubt be working in the very near future. We spent a little time with them, listening to their banter, most of which I suspect was put on for our benefit. Then, when we had finished our tea, or as much as we felt was necessary to avoid being impolite, Butterworth and I excused ourselves and went off to finish doing our rounds of the Station to complete the Arrival process.

  We completed “Arriving” by lunchtime the next day and then reported for duty to the E&I Section early in the afternoon. The corporal in whose charge we were placed teamed me up with Bert, the tall cockney with the horn-rimmed glasses, and Richard was assigned to work with a spindly Senior Aircraftsman from Yorkshire who always seemed to have a liquid droplet dangling precariously from the tip of his thin beaky red nose.

  Bert was a kindly sort of bloke who said to me in his strong cockney accent, “Stick wiv me, me old mite and I’ll see yer oh-roight!”

  Our job was to carry out pre- and after-flight servicing, change batteries and check and adjust the generator voltage during engine run-ups, all on Vallettas and Varsities, or “Pigs” as they were more affectionately known. He confided in me about Splitpin and how she would occasionally entertain her many male acquaintances in one of the Ansons. He warned me not to follow if I saw her going into an Anson and close the door. When I told Richard about this later, we were both afflicted with uncontrollable fits of laughter as we took turns in describing to each other how the Anson’s tail-wheel might bounce around on the tarmac when Splitpin was busy “entertaining” her friends.

  In recognition of my eighteen months of intense technical training and grooming as a future NCO of the Royal Air Force, Bert entrusted me with the awesome responsibilities of carrying his tool bag when we went out on a job and making the tea in the Section servicing bay. And although this chafed, I somehow understood that we all need to pay our dues. My father had told me long ago that serving time in a trade meant having to put up with menial stuff like this and that there was no option but to take it like a man.

  In the evenings Richard and I went into Shrewsbury, since we were no longer fettered by the inconvenience of bed-checks. Shrewsbury was a picturesque town, more so than Barry, with many olde worlde buildings that were still in everyday use. On one of the major streets, we came upon an imposing statue of some important person. The statue stood on a massive cubic stone plinth on which was inscribed but the single name “Clive”. We wondered who the heck this character Clive was, but it gave us an excuse to invent all kinds of tall tales about him to explain why the citizens of Shrewsbury had erected a statue in his honour. Later, we discovered that the statue commemorated Clive of India, who had been born in the Shrewsbury area. It was interesting to find that out, but it ruined the fun we’d been having inventing strange identities for him, or at least for his commemorative statue.

  At the weekend, we ventured into the village that adjoined the RAF station and started getting to know the local young ladies, with some success I might add.

  All in all, we liked Shawbury and the City of Shrewsbury and felt content with our technical duties. It seemed as though we had achieved perfect balance with the potential for interesting work and pleasant leisure activities. But as we blissfully enjoyed our new life at this wonderfully idyllic station, we were completely unaware of the urgent “signals”, of which we were the subject, that were flying rapidly back and forth between the Station Personnel Records Section and Flying Training Command HQ. The exchange of correspondence continued for about two weeks, before the Brass arrived at a momentous decision. The first we knew of it was when, one day, the Beautiful One—the Tech. Wing Adjutant—summoned us into her presence o
nce more. We were quite excited at the prospect of gazing on her flawless countenance again, never suspecting that the outcome of this meeting might not be quite as joyful as we expected. When we arrived in the outer office, the Wing Discip. Sergeant motioned us to wait and then popped his head through the doorway into the Adjutant’s office, to let her know we had arrived. He then beckoned for us to go in. We entered her office, then stood at attention and saluted, somehow sensing the sombreness of the atmosphere at the same time.

  “Stand easy,” she said. Then, seeming to choose her words carefully as though she’d been rehearsing them, she began, “As I mentioned to you before, Queen’s Regulations expressly forbid underage personnel from being accommodated with adult personnel.”

  “Yes Ma’am,” we agreed.

  “Well,” she continued, “We’ve tried to make some arrangements to provide separate accommodation for you at Shawbury, but I’m afraid Command won’t hear of it and has ruled that all of the underage personnel in Flying Training Command must be stationed at one place.” Her voice dropped to a softer tone, “So, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you are both being posted to RAF Cranwell.” She allowed us a moment for this to sink in before adding, “I’m sorry. We liked having you here and the reports I’ve had tell me that you seemed to be fitting in well, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.” She seemed genuinely sorry as she said this, but then continued, “You need to report to the Station Orderly Room right away to begin clearing. We’ll miss you and all I can do is wish you both good luck.” With that, she sadly shook hands with both of us and smiled encouragingly. Crestfallen, we saluted her and then turned and left the office.