Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (53 page)

That evening, I prepared my kit for the Big Day that would start in the morning. I did a final check of the shine on my boots, another session with buttons and Brasso, ran the iron over the creases in my trousers and checked the white blanco on my webbing. I wasn’t alone. All of the other graduating boys were doing exactly the same thing. Finally, everything was ready. Then it was time for the very last bed check that I would have to suffer through, the very last lights-out and the final rendition of The Last Post over the station broadcasting system. There was a little nostalgia, but not much. The predominant feeling was one of long-suffering tolerance—that I had outgrown these petty and restrictive Boy Entrant rituals, but could tolerate them for just one more night, knowing that I wouldn’t have to endure bed-check or lights-out ever again.

* * *

It would have been a fitting end to our training if the day of our passing-out had dawned bright and glorious. But sadly, it didn’t. As we made our way to breakfast, the pale early morning light was filtered through a heavy blanket of fog that had descended over the countryside during the night, replacing the rain and drizzle of the previous day. Sometimes a light fog would lift shortly after sunrise, but not today. This was a persistent pea-souper and during our initial assembly at 0800 hours we were informed that the parade would be held in the Drill Shed instead of on the Square. It was an ironic turn of events, because our ITS passing-out parade had also been held in the same indoor venue for the same reason—“inclement weather”. Fortunately, we had rehearsed an indoor version of the passing-out parade once or twice, just in case of the bad weather that was an all too real possibility at this time of year. Given our preferences, we would much rather it had taken place on the Square. But no matter. Ever since the arrival of the 29th Entry at St. Athan, the smooth, well-oiled machinery of No. 4 School of Technical Training had focused on moving us successfully towards this point in history. And now, at 0800 hours on 27th March 1958, the time had finally arrived when we could fasten the pristinely white webbing belts around our waists and then fall in on the road outside E7 for the very last time. But instead of going to Workshops with notebooks and denims tucked under our left arms, we marched to the Armoury carefully carrying our spotlessly white rifle slings in our left hands. Once there, we would pick up the rifles and bayonets needed for the ceremonial rifle drill associated with our passing-out parade.

On arriving at the Armoury, we were dismissed and directed to form a queue at one of the doors in the Armoury building. The door was open and those ahead of me were already shuffling through it in single file. When I crossed the threshold, it was necessary to pass an Armourer, who stood at a table handing out unsheathed bayonets to each of us in the line as we went by.

I immediately slid mine into the shiny black scabbard that dangled from the bayonet frog on my webbing belt—on the left side and slightly to the rear. We continued to shuffle forward, still in single file, until we reached two more Armourers who were busily handing out Lee Enfield .303 rifles. I accepted the one offered to me and then, with a little more shuffling, exited the Armoury through another door out into the foggy air once again. Resuming my memorised position in the flight once more, I opened and closed the rifle bolt six times to make sure that the weapon was unloaded, just as I had been trained to do, and then pointed the muzzle of the rifle harmlessly skyward before pulling the trigger to hear the action releasing with a loud click. Next, I attached the rifle sling, tightened it and then assumed the “stand-easy” position whilst waiting until everyone else was ready. At this point, both squadrons were arrayed along the road in front of the Armoury, six flights in all. Each squadron was under the command of a Sergeant Boy and each flight under the command of a Corporal Boy.

When it seemed that everyone was ready, the Parade Warrant Officer, Sergeant Boy Stannard, took up a position facing us at the midway point between both squadrons.

I groped for the hilt of the bayonet with my left hand, as did everyone else, and then withdrew it from its scabbard to hold it out at arm’s length in front of me, with the gleaming stainless steel Bowie knife-like blade pointed upwards. This bayonet was no practice pig sticker—it was the real McCoy.

“Fix bayonets!” Shouted Sergeant Boy Stannard.

Steely blades flashed as I fitted the special receptacle in the bayonet hilt over the end of my rifle muzzle and then gave it a quarter turn twist to lock it into place with a loud click. My left hand remained there at the end of the muzzle, still grasping the hilt, until Stannard was certain that all bayonets had been properly affixed.

As one, we pulled the rifles backwards into the upright position beside our right legs and came to attention. As we executed this movement, I couldn’t help noticing out of the corner of my eye just how ominously close the tip of the bayonet came to my right armpit. Typically, one or two people would faint during a long parade such as this and I just hoped that it wouldn’t be my turn today, because the idea of being accidentally impaled on my own bayonet was discomforting. I pushed the thought aside. Our bayonets were fixed and we were ready.

“Number twenty-ninth entry! SLO-ope ARMS!” Yelled Stannard.

In three movements that were executed in perfect synchronism, we brought our rifles from the position alongside our right legs to rest at a slope on our left shoulders, with the brass heel of the rifle-butt cradled in the gloved palms of our left hands.

Stannard then ordered, “Number twenty-ninth entry will move to the left in column of threes, LE-eft TURN!”

The words enunciating the order seemed to issue visibly from Sergeant Boy Stannard’s mouth in little puffs of vapour, before quickly dissolving into the surrounding fog. In unison, we all pirouetted anti-clockwise in a quarter-turn. Stannard then executed a right turn and strode off to the head of the column, as Parade Warrant Officer. He disappeared from my view because of the fog, but I knew from previous experience that he halted and then turned to his right to face in the same direction as the members of the flight. Sergeant Boy Foster took up position behind him, as commander of No. 1 Squadron. At the same time, Sergeant Boy Eric Critchley marched into place at the head of No. 2 Squadron. In a likewise manner, the Corporal Boy flight commanders each moved to the head of their respective flights. When everyone was in position, Stannard yelled out an order, which sounded incomprehensible because of the muffling effect of the fog. But we all knew very well not to react to this command anyway, because it was really only addressed to the commanders of the individual flights, ordering them to each march their own formations forward in turn.

Since the combined 1 and 2 Wing Drum and Trumpet Band would have the honour of leading us to the Drill Shed, Drum Major “Nobby” Duff was the one who actually gave the first order to march. Almost immediately, the drummers beat out a tattoo of “two threes and a seven” during which the No. 1 Wing Trumpet Major, “Adgy” Barber, called out the name of the first trumpet tune to be played. The trumpeters began playing right on cue when the tattoo ended, whilst Drum Major Duff swung his mace with a practised flourish as he proudly led his Entry to the passing-out parade.

The No. 1 Squadron ‘A’ flight commander waited until the band had marched a few paces and then ordered his formation to march forward. Then, one by one, the other flights started marching as the flights ahead of them moved off.

When our turn came, Corporal Boy Spinks, who was in charge of my flight, turned his head slightly so that we could hear the order that he was about to give.

“‘B’ Flight, Number 2 Squadron…by the left, quick march!”

We stepped off on the left foot, pleased to be finally moving towards our moment of glory and happy to get some circulation moving through our bodies at long last. We badly needed to generate some warmth that would counteract the damp chilliness of the fog, which by this time had managed to seep through the fabric of our heavy greatcoats. We marched proudly, heads erect, right arms swinging vigorously, whilst our left forearms and hands remained immobilized and parallel to the ground, supporting the rifles resting on our shoulders. I could see very little ahead of me, except for a bristling forest of bayonet-tipped rifles that bobbed rhythmically together, reflecting the weight shift of the marchers from one foot to the other whilst they marched. Most of the flights ahead of us were enveloped by the surrounding dank greyness and it appeared that we were following them blindly into the grey oblivion. By now the faint boom of the bass drum was difficult to hear in our location far back down the column, so Spinks began calling out the step,
’eft, yoyt, ’eft, yoyt
. Similar but fainter calls from some of the boy NCOs leading the other flights reached my ears like echoes percolating through the denseness of the fog.

After a several minutes of marching, (
’eft, yoyt, ’eft, yoyt
), the huge monolithic shape of the station water tower began to take shape as it loomed out of the murk, taking on a progressively darker grey hue as we approached, in contrast to the unchanging light greyness of the surrounding fog. Nearly there! The Drill Shed was just across the road from the water tower. Ahead of us, I was just able to see the faint silhouette of Drum Major Duff making a right wheel to lead the band down the slightly inclined concrete ramp that would take him to the large entrance-door and then into the Drill Shed. Shortly after that, we also made the same right wheel and followed the other flights down the ramp into the Drill Shed. Inside, the steady “boom-boom” beat of the bass drum, which was supposed to pace the march, actually defeated that purpose by echoing around the interior of the Drill Shed. It was impossible to separate the real drumbeats from the echoes, causing confusion and forcing the Flight Commanders to compete directly with the band by calling out the step even louder.

Ceiling-mounted floodlights brightly illuminated the interior of the Drill Shed, where it was also dry and relatively warm. Being inside and out of the fog was quite a relief. The dais, or saluting base, was set up along the wall nearest the road, which meant that after entering through the doorway, all flights left wheeled at specific points to form up in an array centred on the dais. On reaching our appointed position, we marked time until given the order to halt.

“‘B’ Fliiiiight, Number 2 Squadron…into line, LE-eft TURN!” Commanded Corporal Boy Spinks.

We turned and faced the saluting base, noticing that the Parade Commander, Flight Sergeant Boy Gilkes, stood near it, waiting for his cue to take command of the parade. Flanking the dais were two Standard Bearers, Corporal Boy Drinkwater of our squadron of Electrical Mechanics and Corporal Boy Crawford of 1 Wing, each Standard Bearer holding a No. 4 School of Technical Training Standard by his side.

When all six flights were present and facing the dais, Sergeant Boy Stannard marched to the front and centre of the parade, then turned and faced towards us.

There was a moment of silence, while he collected himself, then he barked out the order, “Parade! Order arms!”

In unison, we transferred the rifles from our shoulders into position alongside the right of our bodies—the noise of our hands slapping against the various parts of the weapon magnified by our number and amplified by the echo-chamber acoustics of the Drill Shed. The movement was finally punctuated by the dull
thunk
of the brass end caps of the rifle butts, as they made gentle contact with the concrete floor.

All seemed silent for a moment, but it was short-lived. For the next few minutes, we were brought to attention and then stood at ease several times, as dictated by ceremonial necessities of the parade. Eventually, the cue was given for the Parade Commander, Flight Sergeant Boy Gilkes, to take over command of the parade from Sergeant Boy Stannard.

More drill movements followed as Gilkes now put us through our paces, ending with the order that transformed our close ranks into open order, ready for the Reviewing Officer’s inspection. When this had been accomplished, Gilkes momentarily surveyed the scene and then ordered the parade to stand at ease to await the arrival of the Reviewing Officer. The time was now 0930 hours.

We remained in this position for a few minutes, until Gilkes acted on a discreet signal from the sidelines by bringing the parade to attention once again and then giving the order to slope arms. As we performed the drill movement, both Standard Bearers hoisted the golden eagle-crested Standard staffs onto their right shoulders and then marched together towards the large door that we had entered several minutes ago. The sky-blue, golden-fringed Standards that they carried hung limply from the angled staffs and swayed from side to side with the bearers’ motion, each displaying the school badge with the legend “Number 4 School of Technical Training RAF St. Athan” beneath it.

When the Standard bearers arrived at the doorway, they came to a well-rehearsed, simultaneous halt. Almost immediately, the Reviewing Officer, Air Vice-Marshal Hutton, appeared framed in the doorway. The Standard bearers then escorted the Air Vice-Marshal towards the parade centre, followed by two other figures. They were Air Vice-Marshal Spreckley, Commander of 24 Group—the Group to which we belonged—and Air Commodore Perkins, the commandant of No. 4 School of Technical Training—our headmaster in a sense, although he was an administrator rather than a teacher.