Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (11 page)

The boy was utterly dazed, as we all were. “Yes corp—ORAL,” suddenly remembering to add the second syllable.

Hillcrest turned to look around at all of us. “This place is a shit-heap,” he pronounced with a look of disgust. “Take hold of those brooms and the bumper and get it cleaned up, NOW!” With that he turned on his heel and stomped off towards his bunk.

We all looked at each other in the aftermath, for what seemed an eternity, then someone picked up a broom and started sweeping around his bed area. No one said anything because we were all still too stunned by witnessing the unexpected transformation of our friend into the monster he had just become. The monster lived on thereafter, and we would never again see the friendly side of Corporal Hillcrest.

CHAPTER 3

Out of the Frying Pan…

A
t 8 o’clock the next morning—or oh-eight-hundred hours (0800 hours) in the military language with which we were now expected to become familiar—all new recruits in ITS were ordered to parade on the road near our billets in the same groups into which we had been sub-divided on the previous day. Everyone still wore civilian clothing,
combined with a variety of hair styles ranging from crew-cuts to Teddy Boy “DAs”. In retrospect, I can only imagine that our overall appearance must have given the DIs nothing short of acid indigestion. Although it was less than 24 hours since having been sworn into the service, we had nevertheless learned how to come to attention and dress off in ranks that were reasonably straight, so most of us were able to respond to these commands when the order was now given. The DIs in charge of our groups took a few minutes of strutting backwards and forwards to look us over and then with little more than grudging satisfaction, ordered us to stand at ease. Having done that, they all spent the next several minutes in a huddle with Sergeant Clarke before returning to their respective groups, each one carrying a sheet of paper in his hand.

Corporal Blandford addressed my group, “Okay, pay attention!” He paused for a moment to make sure we were all listening before proceeding. “We’re now going to assign you to the billets that you will occupy for the remainder of your time in ITS,” he said, then continued
:
“When you hear your name called, listen for your billet number and then, when you’re dismissed, go on the double to the billet that you’re now in, collect your belongings and take them to your new billet.” He paused and looked around, “Are there any questions?”

No one spoke, so Corporal Blandford then started to read off the names and billet assignments. When he got to my name, it was “Carlin—G6.” I made a mental note that I would now be housed in hut G6.

When all the names had finally been called out, he asked if everyone knew which billet they were assigned to. No one spoke, which apparently satisfied him that we all knew where we were supposed to move our belongings to, so he brought us to attention again and then dismissed us. We had been taught how to respond to the “Dismiss” command the previous day, at the conclusion of our march to the Mess; it was executed by swivelling the feet and body one-eighth of a turn to the right, then bringing the left foot to the right foot while still in the position of attention. Like any drill movement, it was performed by everyone in unison, but at its conclusion we broke ranks as individuals and usually just walked away. However, in this particular case the follow-up order had been to go at the double to collect our belongings, which meant that we were expected to run.

As soon as we were dismissed, there was a stampede of feet on concrete that very quickly transformed into a loud pounding noise on wooden corridor floors as we all ran to the billets we now occupied to collect our gear. Because G4 was the nearest billet, I got there almost right away and quickly threw what belongings I’d brought with me into my battered old suitcase, then folded my blankets, pillow and sheets, and carried the whole load to G6, which fortunately wasn’t very far away. Just through the rear door, a jog to the right, cut through the communal washroom—the Ablutions—into the corridor that served the billets on the other side of the complex, a second jog, to the left this time, and I was there. My immediate plan was to stake a claim to the best possible bed-space in G6 by wasting no time in getting there. But the plan turned out to be all in vain when I discovered that the beds had already been assigned by name. What was
more, there was no preferential treatment involved because they had all apparently been assigned alphabetically. My bed-space was near the midway point in the billet, on the right as viewed from the front entrance.

To the best of my recollection, the following are the names of the people who were assigned to hut G6. Starting from the left side on entering from the front door: Niall Adderley; “Bertie” Bassett; John Beech; “Dicky” Bird; Geordie Brand; Howard “Ginge” Brown; Cecil Burden; Richard Butterworth. Opposite Butterworth, on the other side of the billet: “Barney” Barnes; “Jock” Campbell; “Jock” Callaghan; myself; “Charlie” Chaplain; Derek Chinnery; “Cokey” Cole; and George Coaten.

When everyone had found his assigned bed-space and all belongings had been transferred, Corporal Blandford proceeded to give us the first of many lessons on military life. The subject of this particular lesson was on how to maintain a smart, military-like billet, by showing us how to make our blankets and pillows up into bed-packs and demonstrating the manner in which our personal bed-space areas were to be left each day,
so that they would be ready for inspection at any time during “duty hours”.

The first step in making a bed-pack was to strip all sheets and blankets from the bed, except for one blanket that was used to cover the bare mattress. This blanket needed to be stretched as tight as a drum so that there were no wrinkles, and the loose ends tucked beneath the mattress on both sides and at the foot end of the bed. When tucking the blanket in at the foot, we were to use “hospital corners,” which are little diagonal folds that are made by folding and tucking the blanket in a certain way. Next, three of the blankets and both sheets each had to be folded in half three times and then stacked on top of each other, starting with a blanket on the bottom and then alternating with sheets and blankets on top of each other. The remaining blanket was then folded once lengthwise and wrapped around the stack of sheets and blankets. This pack of sheets and blankets was then placed at the head of the bed, with its folds facing towards the foot. To complete the arrangement, the pillow was plumped up and placed on top. The final result of all this was a bed-pack. That, at least, was the theory, but it took some practise to get the bed pack to appear anything like it was supposed to. Managing to fold the blankets so that they were all the same size seemed to be the greatest challenge. Next, and only slightly less challenging, was acquiring the ability to wrap the final blanket tightly enough around the pack so as to endow the completed construction with an appearance that closely resembled the perfectly square contours of the model bed pack featured in a poster pinned up on the billet bulletin board for our guidance. Achieving these important skills didn’t happen overnight, so it wasn’t
unusual to make the unpleasant discovery, on returning to the billet at lunchtime, that your bed pack had been pulled apart and strewn all over your bed during the daily barrack room inspection.

In addition to making our bedding up into a bed-pack, we were required to display our mug and irons on the top of our small bedside locker. The china mug had to be positioned upside down in the exact centre of the locker top, with the knife, fork and spoon arranged around it in a pattern that mimicked a table setting. Needless to say, all of these implements were to be spotlessly clean. Dirty mug or “irons” would be thrown on the bed, but if the white porcelain of the mug exhibited even the faintest of hairline cracks, the inspecting NCO would immediately break the vessel and toss it into the billet waste bin, leaving the unfortunate owner with little choice but to buy a replacement from the NAAFI.

But the unpleasant experiences of toppled bed-packs and smashed mugs were to come later. On this particular day of learning about bed packs and the locker-top layout, we finished around lunchtime and were then formed up in threes on the road outside the billets—that is in three ranks or columns—and marched to the mess for our midday meal. Directly after lunch, we were marched to the camp barbershop to be confronted by three middle-aged Welsh barbers from nearby Barry who quickly busied themselves in converting our assorted civilian hairstyles into the standard military “short back and sides”. They weren’t much given to barber shop chatter with the customers, although they prattled incessantly to each other in their almost unintelligible Welsh accent as they efficiently, and none too gently, sheared us of our cherished locks.

Having been collectively relieved of such a great weight from our shoulders but now suffering the irritating torture caused by those tiny hair clippings that stubbornly insisted on clinging to the insides of the neckbands of our shirts, we were marched off to our next destination. This was to be the clothing store where we would be issued with our kit. When we arrived another group was still in the process of being kitted out, so we were permitted to “stand-easy”. Those in possession of a smoking pass, duly signed by a parent, were allowed to smoke. I didn’t have a pass, but I lit up a cigarette anyway. No one challenged me, so I continued, smoking half of the cigarette before carefully putting it out to save the remainder for later. Then it was our turn to be kitted.

“Flight, attennn-shun,” yelled Corporal Blandford.

We were then marched in single file into the clothing store, which was in reality a huge warehouse. A long wide counter separated us from the racks and racks of clothing and equipment. On the other side of this counter a team of weary and bored looking storemen waited to fulfil our every need. On our side of the counter, Sergeant Clarke from our squadron office supervised the proceedings.

The plan was simple; we moved forward along the counter in single file until every storeman had a “customer” facing him from our side of the counter. The storeman then made a note of each person’s name, rank and service number—we were all the same rank; Boy Entrant, or B/E in RAF shorthand—and then proceeded to issue us with items of kit, calling out the name in military-style reverse order as he did so. “Drawers, cellular, six”—that was six pairs of loose-legged underwear that came down to mid-thigh made from a cellular cotton fabric. We would later learn that the RAF slang name for these garments was “shreddies” because of their tendency to become threadbare and shred at the crotch where they rubbed against the harsh worsted material of our trousers.

The items were dumped onto the growing heap of clothing before us, and whilst a complete listing of every item of kit we received would be prohibitive, not to mention boring, it can be recorded that our mounting pile included three collarless shirts, the kind our fathers and grandfathers were more likely to wear, and six separate collars to go with them, plus two black ties. We were also issued with six pairs of knitted woollen socks, two pairs of leather lace-up boots, a V-necked sweater, one pair of canvas gym shoes known as plimsolls, two cap badges, one pair of blue-grey knitted gloves, three pairs of dark blue gym shorts and three white gym shirts, a service dress hat, a beret, and the oddest thing of all—a housewife. This was a little cloth wallet-like object containing sewing and darning needles, white and black thread, blue darning wool for our socks, a thimble, and several buttons. It was a sobering thought that if there was any darning or sewing to be done, we were going to have to do it ourselves. And this wasn’t the only non-clothing item to be issued, we also got a set of four brushes, two boot-polish brushes—one to apply the boot polish with and one to shine it off—a clothes brush, and a button brush to be used for cleaning our brass buttons and cap badges. There was also a little brass gadget called a button-stick to be slipped under any button being cleaned, to hold it in place and also to protect the fabric underneath from being soiled by metal polish. There was more brass-work on the square-shaped shoulder bag known as a small-pack, and on the webbing belt, both of which were included in the kit issue.

The webbing belt was standard British military issue; only its colour separated the services. The RAF version of the belt was blue-grey. It was made from a heavy woven material known as webbing, and had a fastener at the front comprising of two sturdy brass pieces that fitted together in a tongue and slot clasp arrangement. Two brass slides that were used to adjust the length of the belt, fitted snugly up to the clasp, and two buckles at the rear completed the brass-work. Probably the most attractive example of someone wearing this kind of webbing belt was Ursula Andress, when she first appears in the James Bond film “Doctor No.” However, hers was white, and it certainly looked a lot better on her than it did on me.

A dapper little middle-aged civilian tailor moved along our side of the counter, taking measurements of our chests, waists and inside leg, as we continued to receive items from the clothing clerk. Each time he did this he would call out a size to the storeman, who would then issue the individual with two uniforms and a greatcoat in that size. One of the uniforms was to be used as our “Best Blue” and the other as our “Working Blue.” When it was my turn to be measured, he called out, “36 regular.” The storeman disappeared amongst the racks of clothing and then returned a short time later with a bundle of blue serge, which he dumped on the counter in front of me. I was then directed to go into a small curtained-off cubicle to try on both uniforms and the greatcoat for size. The uniforms were both a good fit, which the tailor confirmed with a few tugs and a check of the waistband, but the legs of the trousers needed to be shortened. Also, the greatcoat was loose around the waist and needed a slight alteration. The tailor gathered in the surplus material and marked it with tailor’s chalk. Then I took it off and filled out three labels with my rank, name and serial number, one of which I tied on to the greatcoat and the other two on to each pair of trousers before leaving them in a pile with other clothing that needed alterations, having been told that I could pick them up from the tailor’s shop in a few days.