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Bob Gordon's memories from Autumn 1956.

The events at Bridgnorth begin on Tuesday 23 October 1956, after a few paragraphs that sum up the final hours of the ten-day Cardington stopover.
 
Word came, to be greeted with sighs of relief all round, that next morning's departure for West Kirby had been cancelled. Instead, we would move out on Tuesday bound for Bridgnorth, said to be forty miles West of Birmingham.
That estimate, though an exaggeration, served as a rough guide to this geographically-ignorant Scotsman. The rumours about West Kirby may also have been exaggerations but, in any case, the grapevine told us that Bridgnorth was a slightly less rigorous camp to be sent to.
Perhaps in case desertion became too easy an option, the day's first order had us saying goodbye to our civilian clothes. Folded up in my battered suitcase (a survivor from my college days) my "civvies" were to return home to Perth. The procedure (with insurance cover against loss en route provided for) was efficiently organised.
"There goes our last link with civilisation!" someone observed ruefully.
Nothing was lined up for that afternoon. It was free time. The calm before the storm. We had orders to report at 5.30pm for our introduction to the hated world of "fatigues", that wholly appropriate name for the thousand-and-one often exhausting jobs that are necessary to ensure the smooth running of any camp.
All that evening, and for the whole of Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday, we were kept busy at a variety of fatigues. Fully "kitted-out" and awaiting our next move, we would otherwise be idle, so our labouring potential was fully exploited.
We cleaned Bedding Stores, loaded sheets and pillow-cases for delivery to the laundry or for distribution to huts, cleaned out cast-iron billet stoves, swept and polished floors in Trades Lecture rooms etc., etc. (on top of our already compulsory billet duties, of course)
I spent most of Sunday in the cookhouse, cleaning enormous cooking-vats, sweeping and scrubbing tiled floors, scraping food left-overs into refuse bins, washing mountains of dishes, and heaving huge tea-urns from one place to another. And, in common with most Servicemen, I must surely have peeled a potato or two. (My memory didn't register that as unusual, I'd been so used to it at home). In several layers of clothing and denims, it was hot work.
"Put you off eating, this would!" declared Mac through clenched teeth, as cockroaches fled before his advancing brush and crushing boots
(Mac's surname McKernon was referred to in earlier pages of my book)
"The food did that several days ago!" muttered Charles
(Lawrence)
At that camp, I was inclined to agree with him!
Next morning, to the now-familiar chorus of rasping commands, we were once more hounded, this time with laden kit-bags, onto RAF 'buses.
After a brief road journey, we transferred to a train (at Bedford Station? or did Cardington have its own rail halt perhaps? I was too pre-occupied to notice, or remember)
In those pre-Beeching days, the country's all-embracing rail network was still virtually intact but, even in the hey-day of steam locomotion, a journey from Cardington to Bridgnorth must have been tortuous and convoluted. It was certainly a long drawn-out trip!
Adding to the time it took, our elderly coaches, used exclusively for troop movement, were signalled as a "goods" rather than a passenger train. They spent a lot of time shunting in and out of, and standing motionless in, unsightly sidings.
But, at last, we steamed into a pleasant rural station.
And I hadn't the slightest doubt it would be the only pleasant circumstance we'd encounter for some considerable time to come!

BRIDGNORTH

As expected, the destination boards said "Bridgnorth", but we had no chance to take anything else in. The moment we left the train, our ears were assaulted by a barrage of bellowing that, by comparison, made even Cardington sound no more noisy than a Trappist monastery. There must have been upwards of twenty corporals in the reception committee, each infinitely more unpleasant than any we'd met before. Positioned at random (standing robot-like to attention with fists clenched at their sides) they spewed out an endless stream of invective and obscenity, that battered our brains with almost physical intensity.
Spirits plummeting, we climbed aboard waiting 'buses. Their sputtering motors almost inaudible above the vocal uproar, they trundled off to "Number 7 School of Recruit Training".
Set back a little from the approach road, each topped by an electrically-lit glass "flaming torch", four brick pillars supported the camp's main gates. To the left inside the gates, its hunchbacked profile unmistakable to anyone who'd been a youngster during World War Two, was a pensioned-off Hawker Hurricane and on the right, in front of the main guardroom, stood a similarly retired Vampire jet. Ahead, in front of a lofty flagpole, a board displayed the camp crest. Shell-shocked by volleys of explosive commands, I was aware of little of this at first. My immediate impression was that the camp was vast. Beyond the cluster of administrative buildings by the gates, stretched countless rows of billet blocks, dark-brown instead of black and raised clear of the ground on short brick piers, but otherwise identical to those at Cardington. And the whole camp was cunningly sited so that, from almost every part of it, nothing could be seen of the surrounding countryside, giving it an ominous, and deliberate, isolation from the civilised world outside.
"Which way to the gas chambers?" someone muttered, not altogether in jest.
"Quiet, that man!" screeched several corporals in unison.
Yelling NCOs lined us up and marched us briskly about just for the hell of it. I had thought it only happened in comedy films but there really were men uncoordinated enough to swing their left arms with their left legs, right arms with right legs! The NCOs had seen it all before, but weren't about to let a little thing like familiarity lessen their contempt!
Some of the corporals carried lists of names. With ear-splitting roars, they shuffled and dealt the men into groups of around twenty-five and, still constantly screaming at the now confused and bewildered recruits, hustled them off to new homes, bringing to light a facet of Services life I found quite unsettling at first. It was a mere fortnight since I'd met and made friends with the four lads who'd shared my first cautious steps in an alien world, but already I was to be almost totally separated from Rhys
(Lewis) and Mac, Charles and Ken (Mekie). Apologies Ken and Mac, if I spelt your surnames wrongly.
Though not one of us had been accepted as suitable for aircrew, inappropriate "airborne" terminology cropped up once again. Collectively, the Cardington men became "D Squadron" but whereas Ken, Charles and I were to be members of its "40 Flight", Rhys and Mac were packed off elsewhere on camp. And within 40 Flight itself, my hut for eight weeks would be Number 295, but Charles and Ken were sent to a different billet. The only chance the five of us would have to meet up with each other would be off-duty time and, God knows, there would be precious little of that during Basic Training!
Such separations would occur time and again over the two years (and in due course I would become inured to them) but the first, when my morale was as low as at any time since I started National Service, was very depressing. I felt much as I did on the first day, friendless in a hostile environment. Despite two weeks of constant companionship, I was as reserved as ever amongst strangers, with no natural talent for making new friends. And I could hardly expect a second extrovert Rhys to coax me out of my shell. This time, I was likely to be on my own!
So what were the billets like? How unpleasant were my new surroundings? At first glance, Hut 295 was slightly less intimidating internally than its Cardington counterpart. I'm not sure what gave that impression. Maybe the windows were larger, or perhaps the current weather made it brighter, less gloomy, inside. I cheered up a little.
In common with the other Bridgnorth billets, the hut was laid out with twenty-four "bed-spaces", but the fall of the dice had given it only eighteen occupants. The Flight was made up of sixty-six men in all, so the other 40 Flight huts must each have had a full complement.
The beds stood end-on against the long walls and a wide passage separated the two rows. A little off-centre in the passageway, a quarter billet-length from each end of the hut, was a cast-iron, coke-burning stove on a concrete base, with its cylindrical metal flue disappearing between the exposed roof beams.
A writing-table and two chairs stood midway between the two stoves.
A bed-space (so-called) consisted of an iron bed with a six-foot-high wardrobe on one side and a three-foot-high locker on the other. The layout of each bed-space was the mirror-image of its neighbour, so two lockers and a bed alternated with two wardrobes and a bed along each wall. They were arranged so that the cill-high lockers coincided with a window.
Each man had what was laughingly called a bedside mat, but it was the general opinion that the linoleum that covered the entire floor was actually more comfortable under our bare feet.
There was always a mad rush for beds when men moved into a billet. They were all equally uncomfortable (and there was invariably at least one each), so there was no reason for the rush other than basic animal territorial behaviour. Our stay would last well into winter, so it was perhaps advisable to steer clear of outside doors and choose a spot near a stove.
But the prime place to avoid was unknown to any of us when we moved in. We soon found out!
The door at the far end of the hut wasn't the outside door it seemed to be. It opened on to a short corridor leading to the rear door and, in a room off the corridor, lurked Public Enemy Number One, the resident Drill Instructor! (the "D.I."). To be near his end of the hut was to be at his constant beck and call, a frequent "volunteer" for unwanted duties.
He made his entrance as we dumped our kit-bags on our beds. Of above average height and of compact build, he had a round, puffy face with glinting, beady eyes that were almost hidden by the peak of his cap, worn flat against his forehead, Guards Regiment (or Gestapo) style. Quietly spoken (for a Drill Instructor) he seemed anxious, at first, to give the impression that he was a perfectly reasonable, decent human being.
He fooled no-one! Forced mateyness from one of his breed aroused instant suspicion. In any case, he was unable to hide an over-fondness for sarcasm. Most Instructors relied on bullying, foul-mouthed aggression, but his favourite vocal weapon was sneering, sarcastic comment.
His mouth curled into a smile, which failed to reach his eyes.
"My name's Gail. Got it? Gail! Spelt G - A - I - L. But you lot can call me by my first name - 'CORPORAL'!!"
He allowed himself the hint of a self-satisfied smile. But he got no support from the men. They'd already learned that NCOs, in positions like his, made 'jokes' for no-one's benefit but their own!
"Right! It's my job, ev'ry eight bloody weeks, to wave me magic wand 'DISCIPLINE' an' turn a bunch o' useless civilians into the sort o' men the Royal Air Force is gonna be proud of ......"
Pig-eyes glaring from under his cap, he looked us over with exaggerated distaste and added, in heavy, measured tones,
"...... an' I can see it ain't gonna be easy!"
This, in his book, was the psychological approach, and it worked, I guess! Our resentment was immediate and, as intended, we were already vowing to prove him mistaken! "You're gonna work like none o' ya ever worked befowah! BU-UT! Do wot y'told, when y'told, to the best of your, limited, abilities, an' you're gonna make life an 'ole lot easier fo' y'selves and, MORE IMPORTANT, for ME! In uvah words, you play ball wi' me an' I'll play ball wi' you. I can be a right bast'd. OR, I can be like a lovin' favver. TAKE Y'PICK!"
"Na-ow! If it should come to the Flight Officer's attention that you ain't showin' signs of improvement, bloody quick abahrit, I'm the one wot's gonna carry the can ......"
The nasal voice sank to a menacing growl,
"...... an' I ain't gonna like that, am I? GET THE PICTCHAH?"
He paced the length of the billet while he spoke, giving each man an icy stare of blatant disapproval. He spun round at the hut entrance, clasped his hands behind his back and puffed out his chest.
"I shall be assisted on the p'rade ground by my colleague Corp'ral Wallington."
He shook his head sadly. A mirthless smile flickered briefly over his ever-wet lips.
"An' if you take me for a bastard, wait'll you run in to 'im! Half an hour wiv Corp'ral Wallington an' you'll be dahn on your knees. PRAYIN' TO GET BACK TO ME!"
Contrary to that "p'rade ground" warning, however, time would prove that we'd rarely see Corporal Gail outside the hut. His primary concern was the state of our living quarters and, with that in mind, after our first Bridgnorth meal (which, if not up to Hornchurch standards, was better than Cardington's thank goodness) he began to outline the official billet chores.
No great intelligence was required to appreciate that there were excellent reasons for the mandatory duties. The men of Her Majesty's Armed Forces came from every conceivable walk of life, not a few from backgrounds where personal and environmental hygiene ranked low on the list of life's priorities. As a result, it was essential that high standards of billet cleanliness were achieved and maintained.
But, so far as Corporal Gail was concerned, the sole reason the chores were to be carried out was because "orders from above" insisted they be carried out. He may never have realised why. He certainly wasn't one to seek a reason. Rules were rules and it was his duty to ensure that they were obeyed without question, whether they made sense or not.
An attitude that served to arouse mutinous hostility in even the most fastidious recruit.
The message was clear, just the same. Not a speck of dust or dirt would be tolerated ANYWHERE IN THE BILLET. That included everything that was visible, and a great deal that wasn't. The windows and their ledges, the upper surfaces of the enamelled or plastic ceiling lampshades (however difficult to reach without a ladder), the notice-board surrounds, the Tannoy loudspeaker, the tops of doors and roof beams, etc. etc. etc. ALL OF IT must be kept spotless, and on a daily basis! The stoves, in full use every winter evening, would be purged of all trace of coke and ash every morning, and left black and glistening with grate polish.
And the floor covering? The linoleum was to be worked on till it was entirely dirt-free and be polished to a gleaming, mirror-like surface.
But the evidence of a mere glance seemed to indicate that the rules had just been invented. Anyone with half an eye could tell that the stoves were filthy, that every surface was covered with dust and grime, and that the entire floor was blackened and ingrained with grit.
Yet Corporal Gail assured us, with an untypical grin, that the billet had been vacated by the previous "intake" a mere twenty-four hours before! It would be eight weeks before we fully understood that grin.
"Na-ow then," he went on. "Wot I gotta do now is pick out two lucky people. One will be billet "Senior Man" and the other will be "Deputy Senior Man". The responsibility of Senior and Deputy will be, amongst uvah fings, to organise and supervise the work to be done inside the 'ut ...... an' in all fings they will be answerable to ME! UNDERSTAND!
Eighteen wary faces met the corporal's stony stare. "Who's the oldest in the 'ut?" he demanded. The only reply was a confused, nervous muttering. Not many of us had met before.
"Okay, okay!" he broke in impatiently. "Any of ya over twenny-one?"
Three reluctant hands moved ceiling-wards, one of them mine. (No good hiding the fact. He'd have a note of our ages somewhere).
Gail spun abruptly on the likeliest candidate. "Name?"
The man scowled. "Cain," he mumbled, unwillingly.
A hint of expectation lingered in Gail's manner so Cain decided his Christian name must also be required.
"Richard C ......" was as far as he got.
"CAIN, CORPORAL!" screamed the incensed NCO, adding in rapid staccato, "Wot'd I tell ya? Wot's my first name? Yeah! CORPORAL! Don't any of ya forgerrit!"
He lowered his voice again, "'Ow old are you, then?"
"Twenty-two ...... ah ...... corporal."
All at once I felt very uneasy. That made Cain two years younger than me! Hornchurch had rejected me as unsuitable for leadership but here, apparently, age alone decided the issue.
My uplifted arm became exceedingly heavy! Responsibility for a mixed bag of unknowns was something a still-shy, near-recluse, could well live without.
But there was hope. The other chap with his arm raised was older than any of us, wasn't he?
"Name?" yelped Gail again.
"Ferris, corporal."
Ferris accompanied the acknowledgement of rank with an audible click of his heels. The corporal made no attempt to conceal his pleasure.
"Better! Much better!" he said, smirking broadly. "Your age?"
"Twenty-three, corporal."
Oh no-o-o!! I tried sneaking my arm down but I was too late. Gail turned to look in my direction, but was strangely casual. I looked younger than my years then, and he would think his questions were a formality. He noted my surname and asked my age with total indifference.
"Twenty-four, corporal". I said it quietly. But he heard me. He stared in disbelief and his jaw dropped. He closed and opened his eyes, his mouth working soundlessly as he strove for words. He stared wildly at the floor, clenching his fists, wondering how to avoid nominating this nervous-looking runt as his billet Senior Man!
At last he raised his head. Hope gleamed in his eye, and I swear he crossed his fingers.
"Any of ya in the ATC or school cadets?" he asked.
"I was, corporal," said Dick Cain wearily.
With a triumphant "Hah!" Corporal Gail swung round. "Right Cain!" he snapped. "You're Senior Man!"
But the "oldest in the 'ut" rule was an "order from above" he was reluctant to forsake.
He looked slowly from me to Ferris and back again, before at last adding desperately,
"I suppose you'll have to be Deputy, short-arse. Come wi' me, both of ya!"
Dick and I followed him to his lair.
Senior Man Cain was given a white armband with a central dark-blue stripe and I was given a plain white one.
The corporal issued instructions, cleaning materials and tools and, mouthing dire threats, sent us back into the billet to delegate the various jobs.
In truth, Dick no more wanted the responsibility than I did but, saddled with it, he shrugged his shoulders and made up his mind to get on with it. Taking his cue from hints thrown out by the corporal, he played up the idea that we should concentrate on becoming the best billet in the Flight. He appreciated the value of an appeal to a spirit of competition.
The men grumbled, of course, but most realised there was no escape from what had to be done. They started off slowly, but soon everyone, more or less, was hard at work restoring the hut to a recruit's idea of what was expected.

Section 2

The men were a typically assorted crowd. One or two had been Hornchurch aircrew-hopefuls (on the whole reasonably intelligent men), but most were typical National Service conscripts, ranging from obviously bright lads to downright near-morons.
They came from all over the British Isles and from widely varying environments.
But despite their dissimilarities, they would knit together into a smart, well-disciplined team, with no significant clashes of personality. The sense of comradeship I'd been aware of, that feeling of being united against Authority, by that very unity played right into Authority's hand! Auty, Barlow, Bill, Boustead, Bulford, Cain, Clark, Connolly, Coventry, Davies, Derricott, Desborough, Dunkley, Faraday, Ferris, Foster, Franklin and myself, survived the dreaded eight weeks very amicably on the whole.
The odd one or two, I suppose, fitted in marginally less well. Boustead for instance, compensated for small stature, with a cocky manner that seemed at times to really annoy the men. He had a Christian name but people regularly addressed him by only his surname (at least I think that's what they were saying)!
Bob Dunkley habitually slouched around looking disgruntled. He gave the impression of trying to avoid work, and that pleased no-one.
And Jim Auty, too, was a bit of a "skiver", but his cheeky, likeable personality kept him on as good terms with the men as Dunkley's morose nature failed to.
 
As we settled to the first evening's work, the Flight's senior NCO put in a brief appearance.
A corpulent figure, Sergeant Dark's chubby, rosy cheeks, bushy eyebrows and handlebar moustache would have made him instantly recognisable even without his other obvious idiosyncrasy. The fact that he propelled his bulk energetically around camp, mounted precariously on a low-geared lady's bicycle.
His carefully cultivated, absent-minded manner was the sugar on the bitter pill of the drill corporals' unpleasant approach, but I couldn't quite shake off the feeling, that he would be more dangerous to cross than any of them.
He fussed and bustled about like a mother hen and the comical impression didn't lessen when he spoke. His voice was high-pitched, with a tendency to break into a squeaky falsetto.
"I reckon he's 'ad the operation," drawled Barry Franklin (a Lincolnshire lad as I recall) with a toothy ear-to-ear grin.
"Yeah!" agreed Terry Connolly. "He does sound like he's firing on one cylinder doesn't he."
The sergeant produced a splendid meerschaum pipe, of the shape we associate with Sherlock Holmes, and after filling it with some sweet-scented mixture and lighting it, stood puffing away with evident enjoyment, while giving his version of the Introductory Talk. Couched in less hectoring tones, requests rather than commands, it amounted to the same thing as Corporal Gail's version, except that the accent was on "best Flight" instead of "best Hut in the Flight".
It was more nuisance than anything. The moment the portly sergeant pedalled off, ringing his bell at all and sundry, Dick and I had to start again, persuading the men to get back to work.
 
If nothing else, my selection as Deputy served as a handy ice-breaker. Assisting Dick to supervise the billet duties forced me to mix with the others, and I didn't start the eight-week spell, as I might otherwise have done, barricading myself behind a wall of shyness.
I had a long way to go (especially where barrack-room back-chat was concerned), to becoming a fluent, witty conversationalist (yes I know, I still have aged seventy-odd!) but it was a step in the right direction.
One thing the job did not do was give me less work. It might have been possible to play the "gaffer", and remain idle while the men did all the work, but that would have been boring, and downright unpopular! Nor was there much danger that my diffident approach to my "position of authority" would make enemies. I had to put up with some verbal abuse, but it was all harmless, good-natured stuff.
 
Given its appalling condition, the billet floor had to be swept and scrubbed, several times over (and digging out the ingrained grit wasn't exactly a five-minute task either)!
With its basic colour restored, it was swept again as soon as it was dry. Then, armed with small wooden sticks and large commercial-sized tins, two men deposited dabs of War-Department issue white floor polish here and there, and others followed with "bumpers" (as I think they were called) which, with their felt-faced, heavy cast-iron heads swivel-mounted on long handles, effectively, if primitively, spread the polish evenly over the brown lino.
Numerous energetic goings-over, the bumper heads swathed in dusters, gave the floor the required shine. Or so we believed.
We sat back, weary but immensely satisfied with our joint efforts, until Corporal Gail re-appeared.
"You call that clean?" he bellowed. "It's f---ing manky!" (He didn't omit any letters, of course).
It was rumoured that NCOs were forbidden to swear at recruits. But who would have the nerve, or be daft enough, to report them? It could only make matters worse! Corporal Gail guessed correctly that not many of us had, as yet, come across the word "manky" but his way of clarifying the point, of offering an explanation, was simply to repeat it, THREE TIMES AS LOUD!
"D'ya hear me? F----ING MANKY!"
Only a comatose, deaf, terminally-ill recruit could have failed to hear him.
"Get goin' wi' them bumpers NOW! AN' PUT SOME BLOODY LIFE INTO IT! I've seen a better shine on shit!"
An odd choice of simile perhaps but wholly appropriate to the colour of the linoleum.
He stayed with us this time, to keep our noses to the grindstone. Subdued commands and restrained abuse (his "good-guy" image as he saw it) kept us all hard at work. The competence of the men, and the organisational abilities of the Senior Man and his Deputy, came in for their full share of biting sarcasm. He made it abundantly clear that our idea of what constituted a restored billet, fell light years short of his.
But the clock was against him. The RAF day began early and, to compensate, an early-to-bed end to it was enforced. Lights-out was at 10.30pm. The billet clean-up came to a halt long before the corporal was satisfied. The too-short evening was slipping away and we still had boots, uniforms and brasses to attend to.
And he reserved his choicest sarcasm for work on those items. It was an exhausted, dispirited bunch that undressed for bed.
As the D.I. swaggered off to his private quarters, Roger Coventry aimed a look of purest hatred at his retreating back.
"That's what I like about you, Gail" he muttered. "NOTHING!"
 
All-in-all, though, I was a great deal more at ease than I could have hoped for earlier in the day. The depression that had settled, following the morale-shattering Bridgnorth arrival, was lifting fast. It didn't dawn on me till later, but the same "good luck" that brought Rhys to my rescue at Elm Park Station had now, as a result of my "promotion", forced me to cast aside my reticence a little, and mix freely and fairly unreservedly with the cheery inmates of Hut 295.
 
Set high on an end wall of each billet was a square Tannoy loudspeaker and, in the evenings, we were treated to a selection of wireless music. The BBC's "Light Programme" had the lion's share of air-time, but the flawed reception of "Radio Luxembourg" (from "208 metres on the Medium Wave") was given an occasional chance to fade in and out. Popular music usually found someone to reach up and turn the volume control to maximum. Serious music was switched off, quicker than you could say "Dmitri Shostakovich" ( even if you could say it! But even less welcome than classical music, was the loudspeaker output in the morning.
At 6.15am on that first Wednesday, the silence was shattered by an inexpert bugler (outside on the square) blowing "Reveille".
Then the loudspeaker crackled to life. Strident commands, insisting we abandon our warm, cosy beds and speed to breakfast, echoed round the hut (but in more explicit terms than those)!
Even the soundest sleeper had no choice. There was nothing for it but instant obedience! And bugler and Tannoy soon had impressive backing.
The front outside door crashed open. Ducking as he entered, a tall, slim corporal stood framed in the doorway. His youthful features (you might, at a stretch, call them boyish) were overlaid with deeply-etched lines of severity. The fair hair at his temples was cropped so short it was almost invisible, his forward-thrusting jaw, clamped tightly shut, hid his thin lips completely.
And his uniform? It was unbelievable! Immaculate presentation was normal, and essential, for Drill Instructors, but I've never in my life seen pressed creases so sharp and precise as Corporal Wallington's.
Yet all the meticulous care in the world couldn't disguise age. The entire outfit was long overdue for replacement. Laundered again and again in its obviously extended life, and so often subjected to the pressure of (probably over-hot) electric irons, all trace of "nap" had disappeared, and little of the colour blue remained to justify the RAF description "blue-grey".
"Grey-brown" would have been closer to the mark! He levelled a contemptuous stare at each man in turn and, having sized us up, astounded us with a first sample of the Wallington voice. A razor-edged baritone, it rasped out the English language, with usually a generous sprinkling of "Anglo-Saxon" (the "F-word", to be precise) at what, to anyone else, would have been tongue-twisting velocity!
Yet his enunciation, with a hint of a Cornish accent, was flawless.
"On parade! In threes! Outside the billet! Eight-fifteen! Workin'-blue, berets, webbin'-belts, boots! Izzat clear-r-r!" He swivelled on his heel and was gone.
"Blimey!" gasped John Barlow. The otherwise stunned silence seemed to last for several minutes.
"See wot I mean?" sneered Corporal Gail, as he slunk in from his corridor den.
The ingratiating smile impressed no-one. Drill Instructors weren't paid to be pleasant. The pretence lost rather than gained him respect.
Despite the brevity of his visit, Wallington struck me as altogether more straightforward. That he was a harsh disciplinarian was obvious. But instinct told me that no-one, of high rank or low, would induce him to vary his approach the way Corporal Gail was ready to do, in order to curry favour. You would always know where you were with Corporal Wallington.
Despite the martinet image, I somehow sensed that those under his command would always find him scrupulously fair.
But Gail, I was certain, would "shop" his granny to keep on the right side of his superiors.
Prolonged acquaintance changed my opinion of neither man.
 
At 8.15am prompt, Corporal Wallington marched "40 Flight" onto the barrack-square. The fundamental stuff of Basic Training (which gave it its familiar nick-name "square-bashing") was about to begin. And "Wallie" wasted no time.
"Single file! ... Shortest on the left, tallest on the right! ... Move y'selves!"
Without hesitation, I sped towards the left. Where else would a "short-arse" go?
"By the right. NUMBER!"
The command was greeted with bewildered silence. Wallie uttered an explosive growl and his lanky legs shot him to the head of the line. Fists clenched, forehead veins bulging, he thrust apoplectic features to within inches of the first face.
"ONE! You f----ing idiot!"
A crisp side-step to the left and he was face-to-face with the next man.
"TWO!"
One more crunching side-step.
"THREE! ... AND SO ON DOWN THE LINE! IZZAT CLEAR-R?!"
"Yes corporal," we stammered.
The ritual carried out to his satisfaction at last, a sequence of commands transformed the line into three ranks.
"Shoulders back! ... Chests out! ... As if you meant it! ... You there! Little man! What's your name? ... QUASIMODO?"
"Auty, si'. Sorry. Corporal."
"'Sir' me again, any of ya .. an' I'll have your guts for garters! Straighten your back, then, Auty! And wipe the f----ing grin off your stupid face! D'you think you're here to enjoy yourself? You'll soon find out f----ing different m'lad!"
"Fli-ight! By the left! Qui-ick march! ... Left, right, left, right, lef' SHOULDERS BACK I said! ... And swing those arms out shoulder high! No, Auty! SHOULDER high! ... Fists closed, thumbs uppermost and point'n' forward! HIGHER, Auty! A little effort isn't gonna make 'em fall off. PUT A BIT O' LIFE INTO IT!"
D.I.s as a breed had this unpleasant habit of pouncing on some hapless scapegoat, whose fate it was to bear the brunt of the abuse. Auty was a natural for the treatment. Though no less clean and tidy than the others, he had a slightly round-shouldered appearance which, accentuated by his small man's efforts to stretch to the Regulation stride, readily caught a Drill Instructor's eye (and had given rise to Wallington's "Quasimodo" comment).
Unlike the Corporal Gail type, whose sadistic preference was to harangue the same victim over the entire eight weeks, Corporal Wallington chose to change his target on a regular basis. But, for the moment, poor Auty was marked down for more than his fair share of attention.
"Dig those Heels in! ... Heels! Heels! Heels! ... Bring 'em down har-rd! So it hurts! ... I said HARD! You're like a bunch o' f----ing Girl Guides. In plimsolls! ... Heels! Heels! Heels! ... Left, right, left, right, left. That's better-r!"
Then, almost in self-parody. "Auty! I can't hear your feet!"
Auty was already blessed with high colour but, under the continuing onslaught, his cheeks turned redder and redder. Exertion was there, and embarrassment, but mostly it was seething, suppressed rage.
We marched, marched and marched some more for what felt like all the hours of the day. Calf muscles and heels, unused to such treatment, signalled the beginnings of protest, but Wallie's remarkable roar, with a reverberant ring to its uncanny loudness as though he was bawling through a megaphone, never let up for a moment. He seemed tireless, although, to maintain a commanding position at all times, he probably covered three times the ground we did.
From the start, no-one, however uncoordinated, made the basic left-arm-forward-with-left-leg mistake. No-one dared!
"FL-I-GHT! HALT!"
Not for the first time, we cannoned into each other. Not for the last time, the air turned blue with Wallington curses!
"You bloody idiots! Listen for the word o' command! An' this time get the footwork RIGHT! ... Qui-ick march! Left, right, left, right, left, right le-eft. Fli-ight! Halt! No Auty! That's the f----ing Army way. Is that the way I showed you? IN THE ROYAL AIR FORCE WE DO IT PROP'LAY!"
And once more, the lofty corporal gave an immaculate demonstration of the manoeuvre, according to the RAF rule-book.
 
As the morning progressed, basic marching, with "Halt!" and "About Turn!" commands, was embellished with numerous additions. "Right Wheel!", "Left Wheel", "Right Turn!", "Left Turn!", "Right About Turn" etc., had us lurching about like a Flight of badly-operated wooden puppets. Only gradually, did we settle to something vaguely resembling the required well-oiled machine.
And the next command had us exchanging blank looks again.
"Dressing by the left! By the left! DRESS!" John Barlow winked at his pal Tony Derricott, bent both knees a little, and wriggled his backside as though to adjust his genitals inside his trouser-leg.
"I SAW that, smart-arse!" Wallie snarled. "Come the f----ing funny-man wi' me an' you won't have anything to dress, left OR right!" [I still can't believe how fast he spat that out! When I try to mimic his delivery, my tongue gets tied in knots, and my throat totally seizes up!]
He advanced on the nearest line. "Eyes left! ... Raise your left arm! ...... Place your fist against your neighbour's right shoulder! ...... Left-hand man stand firm! ... The rest move smartly apart till your arms are straight and level!"
[Or words to that effect. At the time, I was sure Wallie's every syllable was deposited in my memory banks for life. But the passing of the years has ensured that the exact wording of even basic commands has dimmed, so I can't vouch for the complete authenticity of that outburst. Some such welter of words, spattering out like machine-gun bullets, conveyed the procedure for the spacing-out of the ranks]
Our initial attempt was merely chaotic, the second an out-and-out shambles! Wallie, hopping with rage, swore to keep us there till we got it right "If it takes ALL F----ING NIGHT!"
We performed the manoeuvre again and again, never managing to please him. At last he was forced to give up, for the moment! Time was running out and there was still further ground to be broken, the "important" business of saluting. He pummelled into us the Regulation way to salute to the left, to the right and even "to the centre", standing still and on the move. "SLOPPY!" he roared. "Smarten up those arm movements! You look like bloody YANKS!"
In a British Instructor's drill-book that was the crowning insult.
 
We were exhausted by then. Surely there wasn't a lot left to do? Basic Training was to last for eight weeks, but Corporal Wallington seemed intent on fitting all the Drill that existed into the first morning! But we still had a long way to go. Listing our shortcomings with customary "Anglo-Saxon" eloquence, Wallie indicated a more advanced Flight on the far side of the square. The difference was staggering! Could we ever look like that? Wallie, with an abundance of choice epithets to illustrate the point, claimed to despair of it! I can't have been alone in enduring it all in a state approaching terminal shock! Dick Cain, and one or two others, had cadet experience at school but, to the majority, this gruelling toy-soldier behaviour was as unfamiliar, punishing, and ridiculous, as it was to me.
When I think back, I wonder that so many were willing to submit to it all. Yet however unwelcome National Service was, with whatever struggles its victims were enmeshed, abject servility was almost universal the moment we passed through the first camp gate.
And not only my Flight, but an entire generation allowed itself to be degraded and humiliated in this manner (with not even the excuse of a defensive wartime cause to justify it). Each of us was there against his will, yet we accepted the whole system of rank, discipline and, above all, obedience, without question. Held in check by who knows what misguided notions, or more often simply by apathy or fear, we (and those like us the world over) allowed countless Wallingtons and Gails their very existence.
And worse, were part of the age-old idiocy that permits any self-appointed "leader" so inclined (any Hitler, Pol Pot, Stalin, Thatcher or Genghis Khan), to indulge in the never-ending passion of the power-crazy for the pointless cruelty and suffering of WAR!

Section 3

But no such high-flown profundities troubled me at the time. A tantalising vision of my recumbent form, blissfully reclining on a welcoming bed, was all that filled my mind as the introductory square-bashing session ended. Medically fit for aircrew I might be but, as I'd known all along, I was in poor physical shape. My many unused muscles had abandoned mild protest. By that stage, they shrieked in violent mutiny.
But I was in luck! My armband proved useful at last. While the Flight marched off to attend a brainwashing lecture given by the camp's Commanding Officer, Dick and I, in common with the other Seniors and Deputies, were ordered to the huts to attend to the billet laundry. Collecting and tying together prepared bundles of dirty clothing and bed-linen, taking delivery of and distributing the clean bundles. That took only minutes and, sooner than I'd hoped, my vision became lovely reality. With my feet propped high on the bed-end, I revelled for a full fifteen minutes in the twin luxuries of total relaxation and glorious peace and quiet.
But it soon occurred to me that such breaks would be few and far between. I decided to write home while I had the chance.
"Good idea," murmured Dick, for once following his Deputy's lead.
Was it the morning's romp on the parade-ground that brought about my abrupt change of attitude? This time my letter to my parents hinted that I might be home for the first "48".
 
I half expected a return to the parade-ground and Corporal Wallington, after lunch (yes, though I could barely believe it myself, it was still only lunch-time) but instead, with protective denims over our uniforms, we were marched to a fairly level area at the high end of camp.
Up there, my first impression of the camp's vast size wasn't contradicted. It stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions.
"There's upwards of 3,000 men here at any one time," Sergeant Dark had confided, and it was easy to see he hadn't been exaggerating.
An activity called Ground Combat Training ("GCT") was to occupy the afternoon, and the Instructors belonged to a branch of the Service called "The RAF Regiment".
Though virtually the RAF's foot-soldiers (or "ground-fighting specialists" in today's Yank-speak), their own opinion placed them on a more exalted plane. The ones we came across during Basic Training seemed to fancy themselves the equal of the Royal Marine Commandos! That fine body of men might disagree, but they were certainly a hard-bitten bunch.
 
[The fact that Air Force personnel had to undergo battlefield training, came as a surprise to most of us. Apparently the idea was that we should be capable of defending RAF installations against unexpected ground attack.
"Whadda we keep a bleed'n' Army four?" grumbled Stan Faraday (a Tipton lad) as he stood in line like the rest of us, clutching a Lee-Enfield .303 rifle].
A typically tough-looking GCT corporal strutted forward, his cocky manner evoking instant loathing.
"I 'xpec' you lot are dyin' to fire these beauties ......"
"I know who f----n' at an' all," growled Tony Derricott, under his breath.
"...... bu', for your own an' evy'body else's safety, you 'ave to be familiar wiv 'ow to take 'em apart, clean 'em, and re-assemble 'em".
He demonstrated the procedure with the speed, dexterity, and indifference, of long familiarity. My recollection of it all is sketchy to say the least, but I retain a hazy memory of his introduction to the cleaning process. He held aloft what appeared to be no more than a tiny scrap of white, red-striped rag, knotted onto a length of thin, weighty, cord! "This piece o' cloff is wot we call a 'four-by-two, so called 'cos it measures 'xactly four inches by two inches. An' mounted in this manner it is known, froo-out 'Er Majesty's Armed Forces, as a 'pull-froo'. We make use of this sfisticaited piece of equipment to clean our rifle barrels. Thus." (He inserted the end of the cord into a rifle muzzle and fed it to some exit point near the other end, where he used it to pull through the scrap of cleaning rag).
The half smile that accompanied the ironic use of the word "sophisticated" suddenly faded.
He glared menacingly at the line of obviously-bored listeners and his voice gradually increased in volume, pace and vehemence.
"If, when you've followed my example, I find the slightest trace of grit or grease insoide any man's roifle barrel, I WILL PERSONALLY INSERT A FOUR-BY-TWO DAHN 'IS FROAT AN' PULL IT FROO 'IS A----OLE. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAH?"
The rifles, usually spotless when in the Armoury, had been left in an uncleaned state for our benefit and unexpectedly, having carried out his instructions, we gained the corporal's approval at his first barrel inspection. His threat, however impractical, must have been effective!
 
[I can only apologise to inhabitants of the area, for my crude attempts to imitate in print the GCT Instructor's East London dialect (as also, for all other regional accents equally badly treated within these pages)]
 
Instruction was then given on how to hold and aim the Lee-Enfield (while standing, kneeling and lying down, with correct "BY NUMBERS!" routines for taking up each position)
And spread-eagled face-down on the ground, we were taught the intricacies of firing procedure.
"It is of utmost importance to realise that your trigger mechanism is extremely sensitive. First of all, ease the trigger back smoovely, till you feel a slight resistance. We call this 'taking up first pressure'. At this point, there is only the my-newtist margin of play, before the rifle does its lethal stuff. Gorrit? GORRIT, I SAID? Good!"
He paused briefly to let his cautionary remarks sink in.
"Always BEAR THAT IN MIND! The difference between 'oldin' 'first pressure', an' firin' the rifle is only a hairsbreadf! Wiv a bi' o' practice, you can 'old the trigger in that position indefinitely, allowing you, when the need arises, to fire quicker than you can fink. RIGHT!"
"NOW! On the word o' command, I want each one of ya to take up first pressure. An' if you're stoopid enough to overdo it, after wot I just told ya, your rifle will FIRE!"
"None of 'em's loaded yet, so ALL I'll hear is a slight click."
"BUT IF I DO! Someone's in an 'ole lotta trouble! KNOW WOT I MEAN?"
(Jim Lomax was a skinny, underfed, scruffy-looking individual, more-than-likely the product of an impoverished background. A knack of inviting trouble, arising from a rebellious, "couldn't-care-less" attitude, would make him a favourite scapegoat of several corporals).
"RIGHT! Fingers on triggers! ...... Take up first pressure! ...... CAREFUL!"
Cautiously we eased back the triggers, warily assessing the degree of resistance.
It surprised no one at all, when Lomax immediately overdid the pressure.
In the tense silence, the "slight click" was like the report of a loaded rifle. The NCO fairly raced over and our eyes opened wide in astonishment! He was unbuttoning his trouser-fly as he ran.
"I'll p--s on you, you bloody moron!" he screamed.
For a split second, Lomax actually believed him. He shot up on his hunkers, tucked his head between his knees and clasped his hands behind his neck.
Even the corporal joined in the general roar of laughter.
[But Lomax never learned. He was forever in needless trouble. Later in the Course, he fell foul of a different GCT corporal, a Scot this time. An unpleasant practical demonstration was in progress. Crammed into a windowless hut, we had first to run round in full kit and rifles, learning that it was possible to breathe more-or-less comfortably whilst wearing a gas-mask. After several circuits, the contents of a canister of tear-gas were released, to demonstrate how effective the masks were. We blundered around, constantly colliding with each other. The hut interior was now an almost unbroken white cloud, and we couldn't see a thing! Then came the disagreeable part! In order that we'd appreciate what we were being protected from, the corporal ordered us to remove the masks and complete two final circuits.
Coughing and spluttering, our watering, stinging eyes screwed up in discomfort, we completed the circuits, and raced thankfully for the now open door, to gulp down mouthfuls of lovely fresh air, and wipe away the gas-induced tears.
But not little Lomax. As soon as he caught the first whiff of gas he scuttled straight for the exit, a move as natural as it was unwise.
"You therr! Wee man! Try tae ge' out o' yir share, would yi? Twice roond the hut no' enough fur yi, eh?" Poor Lomax had to do four circuits without his mask].
 
That evening was more or less an exhausting repetition of the night before, with the billet getting a mite closer to Corporal Gail's ideal, though to hear him ranting on, you'd never suspect there had been any improvement.
In the seclusion of his room, he told Dick and I that a full week of Basic Training was ear-marked for fatigues, on top of our other duties! By staggering "fatigue-weeks" between Flights, there was always a large body of men on hand to keep the camp in good order.
[One of the perks of the Senior/Deputy jobs, though, was that we would be excused the more unpleasant and onerous duties. Good news for us, but unlikely to increase our popularity with the lads we had to pass it on to].
 
Les Ferris was the only married man in the billet. Sparely built and, I would guess, about 5'7" tall, he had deathly-white skin, pale gingery hair and eyebrows and eyelashes so fair they were undetectable. And he was obsessed with cleanliness. His clothing was spotless and fastidiously groomed, his webbing-belt invariably immaculate, his brasses unfailingly bright.
Cleanliness was a religion. Everything about him had an air of nun-like sterility, and his self-righteous, holier-than-thou attitude, didn't make for instant, or lasting, popularity.
Naturally, Les had already spent longer than anyone on his boots . His toe-caps looked like best patent leather.
On the second or third Bridgnorth morning, a corporal (so unpleasant that even his colleagues noticed), bawled us out of our billets at the usual time (Wallie had been temporarily summoned elsewhere).
And unlike Wallie, this man wasn't just a disciplinarian. He was totally nasty too. We sensed it, instinctively, right away. Like a well-worn recording, he trotted out the now over-familiar cliché.
"You play ball wi' me, my lads, an' I'll play ball wi' you."
"Yow'm on, matey" muttered Stan Faraday (you could cut his Midlands accent with a knife). "Oi'll boot yow all a-over a football pitch any toime yow loike!"
The corporal lined us up and began inspecting uniforms, passing the time till Wallie returned. His remarks, as he moved along the line, were typical of the species.
"Do I detect Blanco on your belt brasses, little man? If we'd wanted blue buckles, we'd 'ave issued 'em blue, wou'n't we? CLEAN IT ORF NOW if you wanna live a minute longer!"
"Bloody 'ell! Look at them creases! Forget to switch the iron on, son? OR MAYBE YOU SLEPT WIV YI TRASSIS ON, DIDYA?"
"Is that wot you call a shine? I WANNA SEE MY FACE IN THEM TOE-CAPS TOMORRA!"
"I wanna see me toecaps in 'is face, with me kickin' 'it!" muttered a Liverpudlian next to me.
"I'd spread boot-polish on me mirror, if I'd a face like 'is!"
"YOU THERE! YES YOU! THERE'S BRASSO ON YOUR BERET! Next time I catch you cleanin' your 'at badge wivaht removin' it from your 'at, YOU'RE IN THE GUARD'OUSE!"
Squeaky-clean Les Ferris stood in line, head high, chin up, a "wait-till-he-sees-me" look on his shining, well-scrubbed face. The corporal looked him up and down and could only be impressed. New recruits seldom turned out on parade looking like that!
I've no idea what went on in the D.I's brain-dead noddle, but whatever it was, he looked once more at the perfect toe-caps, glanced back along the less-than-perfect line and, as he spun round to move on, deliberately dragged his heavily-studded boots across Les's, leaving deep, almost permanent, weals on the carefully built-up layers of polish.
"Oo-oops! Sorry," he smirked, and walked on.
Surprisingly (given his known opinion of Les) the fiercest reaction came from Tony Derricott!
"The filthy f----ing shit-faced bastard!" he growled, clenching his fists and nearly stepping out of line, only to be dragged back by the firmly restraining facial expression of his pal John Barlow.
Les's face couldn't turn paler than its natural state, but for all that he looked mighty sick! Nevertheless the incident, by arousing sympathy, did him more good than harm in the billet.
"Ri-ight turn! Qui-ick march!" yelped the corporal, the incident already dismissed from his nasty little mind.
The version of the marching commands that followed bore no resemblance to the words "Left, right, left, right, left." In fact most D.I.s (Corporal Wallington is the sole exception I can recall), seemed to cultivate their own unique variant of the words.
And none more unique than this man.
"Ilks, tsvelf, ilks, tsvelf, ilks, tsvelf, ilks!" were the clearly-enunciated but very peculiar noises he chose to chant, and we could only wonder how he ever evolved them.
 
Corporal Wallington was, by then, pacing impatiently back and forth on the parade-ground.
"Never thought I'd be glad to see Wallie," I heard Malcolm Bill murmuring. "I wasn't looking forward to a day on the square with that lunatic!"
With a curt nod to his colleague, "that lunatic", shot off elsewhere and Wallie "worked us on the treadmill" for the rest of the morning. Whatever else, he was fair. I couldn't see him stooping to his colleague's mindless toe-cap trick.

Section 4

Thursday afternoons were set aside for "organised games" and, sports fan or not, it was compulsory to take part in an activity. I'd hinted earlier in my book at my aversion to such goings-on (particularly team sports) and, at school, my hatred (especially of the games master!) had been so strong, that I overcame my usual timidity and dared to play truant. It was easily done at Perth Academy. The "games period" was the final one on Wednesday afternoons and you could sneak off (out the little-used front gates) without missing subjects with a roll-call.
But there was no easy outlet at Bridgnorth. What would they give me to do? No point, at that late stage in my development, in trying to tackle the intricacies of soccer or rugby. I'd only get in everyone's way! I soon discovered, though, that a monstrous barbarity was reserved for those unable or unwilling to indulge in pointless ball-games. Nothing less than a lengthy cross-country run! Incredible though it seemed to me, there were those taking part who actually enjoyed that sort of nonsense. They'd done it before in "civvy-street". They had to be masochists!
I suspect, though, that most of the "runners" were in my category. There was no other "sport" at that time of year, with Instructors to oversee them.
Be that as it may, the runners-to-be, willing or unwilling, were pounced upon by a crop-haired Physical Training Instructor (a PTI). A typical specimen, he strutted around in a white sweatshirt, his barrel-chest puffed out, like a pouter-pigeon in heat.
He set up a portable board, with a permanent diagrammatic representation of the route to be followed. I could see that "cross-country" wasn't really an ideal description. Most of the run was on narrow minor roads or country lanes.
A chance to see outside the confines of camp, was all I could detect in its favour.
"Nice short run to break you in," announced the PTI gleefully. "A mere five-and-three-quarter miles, start to finish."
Short if you say it quickly! I groaned out loud. In my physical condition, I'd be hard-pressed to run the "short" length of a soccer or rugby pitch.
And I didn't like the sound of the phrase "break you in" either!
"I'll run with you, lads, to show you how easy it is," the corporal promised.
He trotted effortlessly back and forth along the straggling line for most of the outward leg, not so much to keep us on the right track, as to ensure that no-one put less than maximum effort into the run! After that, we didn't see him till we finished, when he clocked each man in.
We plodded along attractive tree-lined roads and across one small field. I knew the latter was the "cross-country" section, when I carelessly planted my foot in the steaming heart of what one of my brothers-in-law calls a "country pancake" (and less poetic souls call a "cow-pat")
We shouted wisecracks and abuse at each other and waved at the occasional motorist (very occasional in those days) as though thoroughly enjoying ourselves. A cheery return wave surprised us from the rear of a passing lorry. One crafty runner had blatantly hitched a lift! With about a mile to go, a sudden torrential downpour burst upon us. The ice-cold rain was whipped up by a fierce wind that made it feel like hailstones. In seconds, my sodden (sodding!) gym-vest was clinging to my shivering torso and my abominable gym-shorts were dripping into my squelching plimsolls.
I staggered past the PTI exactly 50 minutes after I started. The "winner", an experienced runner, completed the course in only 37 minutes.
But I was pleased with my effort for all that. Some runners arrived 15 or 20 minutes after me.
My satisfaction dwindled somewhat, though, when, on BBC Radio's "Sports Report" the following Saturday, an athlete was said to have completed a seven-mile course in 51 minutes (one minute longer than I took over just under six miles).
And he was taking part in a walking race!
 
I would learn that demoralising fact after Friday's torture! I woke up, the morning after the run, with excruciating pain and paralysing stiffness in every leg-muscles. I could barely move!
So it was only to be expected that the entire morning was to be spent on the parade-ground! On my short legs, I'd always had difficulty keeping to Regulation pace. That day it was well-nigh impossible! Each step was agony.
Perhaps continued exercise was the most effective cure (as Wallie was keen to assure us) but my legs didn't agree at the time, and they eased up only slightly as the morning progressed.
I was fit by lunchtime, though. Fit to drop! But there was to be no let-up. The afternoon was set aside for another session of GCT. We assembled in full working-blue, plus denims, boots, back-packs and rifles. Inevitably, our pathetic efforts, at whatever we were supposed to be doing, didn't impress the Instructor and, as punishment (to the utter dismay of my poor legs) the sadistic swine forced us to run five times round an enormous aircraft-hangar (in full kit, naturally), carrying our heavy rifles horizontally ( at arms length above our heads!
 
As a logical aid to our likely future of servicing aircraft equipment, we were then treated to a lesson in the use of the bayonet. We lined up in four rows opposite four straw-filled dummies then, with bayonets "fixed", were to let out a blood-curdling screech and, still screaming, charge forward, plunge the bayonet into the dummy's "throat", withdraw it quickly (by planting a boot on its "chest") and run on, the whole barbaric exercise carried out in one smooth movement, with airman following airman at intervals, to regular cries of "Next!" from a Regiment corporal.
One or two men were extrovert enough to carry it off with the necessary gusto, but most efforts at screams were pitiable, amounting in many cases (including mine, needless to say) to little more than almost inaudible squeals.
When it was Jim Auty's turn, that worthy let out a squawk that wouldn't have alarmed an elderly maiden aunt, lumbered forward, tripped over his heavy boots and fell flat on his face.
"This ain't no time to 'ave a snooze, you 'orrible little man! GERRON YOUR FEET, you lazy sod! YOU'RE 'OLDIN' UP THE LINE!".
Auty tried to compensate by thrusting the blade into the dummy's "face" with every ounce of his puny strength (probably visualising the Instructor on the receiving end)!
But once again, he came to an immovable halt. He hadn't enough strength left in his exhausted body to pull the bayonet out!
It took several tries, with unrepeatable vocal "encouragement" from the corporal, before he at last succeeded.
No doubt our screams would have come more readily in battle conditions, as we fled in terror from the advancing enemy.
 
I was relieved to discover on Saturday, that my aches, after early morning stiffness, had largely subsided. In fact, I felt really good.
After breakfast, a corporal arrived with mail (the first to reach our Bridgnorth address) and John Barlow was astounded by the number of letters for him. His name cropped up seven times! "F--k-in' hell!" he gasped.
"I hope they do, mate. For your sake," retorted the corporal.
(I had to think about that one, but the general laughter suggested that no-one else did).
The NCO had just one brief letter for me, enclosing some handkerchiefs I'd asked for (paper tissues weren't around yet, I don't think). My mother commented on the camp's location, on the current weather ("lovely and bright but cold and windy") and worried about "trouble brewing in Europe". (With Soviet expansionism much on people's minds in those "cold-war" days, I believe she was referring to Russia's horrific clamp-down on the abortive Hungarian Revolution).
 
We were ordered en masse to the camp's barber. Before leaving Perth, I'd taken the precaution of being given a short (but professional) trim by a civilian barber to avoid, I hoped, being brutally scalped by an RAF amateur. The strategy, involving a measure of vanity I suppose, seemed to work. After queuing for a full hour, my "haircut" took less than a minute!
That over, the now well-groomed Flight assembled in best-blue, shoes, webbing-belt and the ludicrous flat hats, for a group photograph.
The sixty-six men lined up in four rows, some precariously balanced on wooden benches.
The photographer, an amply-built, eccentric middle-aged woman, had a yodelling high-pitched voice, reminiscent of dear old Joyce Grenfell at her most outrageous, and that large assemblage of (mostly) mature grown men were astonished to hear her singing out, in all seriousness "Watch the dickey-bird" and "Say cheese".
But the last request was unnecessary (if it was intended to bestow an artificial smile on each of us). We already wore broad grins, unable to suppress our amusement at the dotty female.
She'd been well chosen, though. A copy of the photograph would find its way into each man's home, and what better propaganda could the Royal Air Force wish for, than that everyone should be seen to have a happy smiling face!
And it wasn't over till the fat lady sang again, photographing us this time in PT kit.
 
Saturday afternoons were work free and, to encourage us to reach required standards of dress and drill, a juicy carrot had been dangled. Gate passes might be issued the following weekend, on November 3, a little sooner than we'd expected. In theory we would then be free to leave camp in the evenings and at weekends but in practice "bull" would rule out evening adventures. Meanwhile, confined to camp as we still were, I stayed in the hut to write letters to relatives.
 
Sunday wasn't entirely a day of rest.
Dressed in best-blue, we turned out for compulsory Church Parade.
Like everything else in the Services, you "got religion" whether you wanted it or not. Church of England followers went to one chaplain, Roman Catholics to another and everyone else, including staunch atheists and devout agnostics, had to attend a third. The latter congregation was classed as "Other Denominations" and "ODs" in 40 Flight included Methodists, Welsh Baptists, Church of Scotland Presbyterians, Congregationalists, two north Londoners of the Jewish persuasion, and Willie Clark from my billet, a black Jamaican Quaker.
The padre, whose misfortune it was to minister to this heterogeneous collection, was a jovial old character, whose irreverent wisecracks would have had him defrocked in civvy-street.
The OD service was held in a sparsely-furnished rectangular hut with a flat acoustic-tile ceiling. Take away the harmonium in one corner and a few religious-style artefacts on a simple wooden table backed by an ordinary sideboard, and it would have been unrecognisable as a place of worship. We sat on folding wooden chairs that corrugated our posteriors, and endured a service designed to offend no denomination, Christian or otherwise. Later, Rhys realised that the photographer was back on camp taking small groups by request, so he rounded up Ken, Charles, Mac and I. We'd rarely set eyes on each other at Bridgnorth and, as it transpired, this would be the last time we'd all be in one place at the same time.
Despite a lazy afternoon, I was more than usually tired in the early evening. I stretched out on my bed for a brief nap while "Top Twenty" was on the Tannoy, or that was my intention.
The last I remember was the inimitable Mel Tormé singing "Mountain Greenery". I woke up still fully clothed in complete and silent darkness. It was some unknown time after lights-out, and no-one had seen fit to let me know. I didn't do much "bull" that evening, did I?
 
On Monday, we turned out for a very different "parade". Every man involved (a considerable number, not just the men of 40 Flight!) had to line up in single file, along footpaths leading to the Medical Block. It wasn't actually raining, but it was bitterly cold and, to be in instant readiness for whatever was in store for us, we'd been ordered to wear shorts and plimsolls, and be stripped to the waist. Hundreds of men stood shivering, in the icy grip of a biting end of October wind, as the line snaked at snail's pace towards its destination.
"What's the matter wiv yer?" sneered a passing corporal. "Feelin' the cold, are ya? You oughtta wear greatcoat, scarf an' beret, like me!" His mocking laughter reminded me of Sid James.
At last, teeth chattering, I reached the double doors of a wide entrance. Inside, I found myself in a spacious hall, with windows at high level. Lengthy "forms" (benches I associated with school gymnasia!) were arranged along all available wall-space. Bellowed orders ringing in our blue-with-cold ears, scores of us filed round the edges of the room till we surrounded it. I heard mutterings of the initials "FFI", said to be those of "Freedom From Infection".
"If this is what I think it is, boyo, I'd rather have freedom from inspection!" said Welshman Derek Bulford, gloomily.
"RIGHT MY LOVELIES! UP ON THEM BENCHES. FACE THE WALL! What's up? Ain't ya never been cold before? BUNCH O' BLEEDIN' PANSIES, THAT'S WOT! Now then! Drop your shorts and underpants! Bend down an' touch your toes! DON'T BEND Y'KNEES!" It couldn't have been a pretty sight! Medical orderlies strode round, peering inscrutably into the hundred or so assembled anuses, jotting down their findings on notepads.
"AH-TEN-SHUN!" yelled the NCO, as soon as they finished. "A-bout TURN! Face the room!"
A self-satisfied leer lit up his pock-marked face. We could tell he was about to utter a "joke". "Present 'WEAPONS' for inspection! PRE-EE-ZENT!" Round again plodded the medics, their examination now frontal, their quest, as before of course, for evidence of venereal disease. [Young Auty had passed out earlier, during the graphically-illustrated lecture-film we'd been treated to on the subject]!
Shorts, and modesty, restored, we were turfed out again into the freezing air. A long, cold wait later, we entered a different hut. A swift dental check over, we moved to an Inoculation Room. A hypodermic needle, feeling as if it had already been blunted on several arms, was clumsily plunged into mine. A smallpox vaccination.
"TWO STEPS FORWARD MARCH!" and a male nurse "scratched" my arm as a test for diphtheria resistance. (Having nearly died from the disease when I was seven, I imagine I may already have had a measure of that).
Two steps more and 0.5cc of something called "TABT" was injected into my arm. A corporal explained that this was the first instalment of a "Typhoid An' Bloody Tet'nus vaccine and that the final 1cc would be administered at a later date (the second dose apparently had a powerful knock-out effect, so the "later date" would be a Saturday).
"Take it easy for the rest of the day chaps ......" a doctor advised (as though talking to civilians in his own surgery!) "...... and don't do anything strenuous with that arm for a day or two."
Was he joking, or was he simply an idiot? Either way, Corporal Wallington turned up at that moment and he had different ideas! "ON PARADE IN THREES, FORTY FLIGHT!" he roared.
He took us through an entire drill routine, several times over! Sheer torture!
"Swing those arms HIGH! ...... LEFT, ROIGHT, LEFT, ROIGHT, LE-EFT! ...... What's the matt'r, Davies? Arm hurt'n', is it? Swing it HIGHER, then! Nothin' like exercise to get that stuff circulat'n'! ...... LEFT, ROIGHT, LEFT, ROIGHT, LAIFT!"
"SMARTEN IT UP THERE! You're like a bunch of f----ing PENGUINS!"
As the day wore on, proving our dear corporal wrong and the doctor right, our arms grew stiffer and stiffer, and more and more painful. But we just had to grin and bear it.
 
The hut was beginning to look spick-and-span. Corporal Gail (who had no intention of ever admitting that) now informed us that Monday evenings were "Domestic Nights".
We were to make a greater effort than ever before, to give the billet a clean-up second to none, prior to an Officer's Inspection on Tuesday morning.
Stiff aching arms ignored, we cleaned every locker, every bed-frame, the writing table and chairs, the notice-boards and ceiling-lights. Everything, visible or hidden, had to be spotless.
And the entire dreary business, with the usual dreary Gail sarcasm, had to be repeated time and again, till he was totally satisfied.
The floor, in particular, had to have an even more flawless going-over than it had been having for days and, once we'd finished, Gail wouldn't even let us walk on it.
He made us "skate" everywhere on thick felt pads!
And, naturally, boots, brasses and uniforms had to receive similar perfectionist treatment. Personal smartness and cleanliness was at least as important as billet cleanliness.

Section 5

With breakfast and all ablutionary activities out of the way, and the unpleasanter billet duties shared out by rota, Dick and I set about delegating last minute jobs, and carrying-out our own inspection.
The stoves, as every morning, were cleared of ashes, and given the required coating of black grate polish, till they looked like brand new.
With last traces of dust and grime removed from every conceivable surface, and the floor given a final immaculate polish, we spread out our personal kit to a preordained pattern. We had, of course, long since mastered the bed-making routine (it'd had to be carried out in full every day, Officer's Inspection or not):
After stripping the bedding, the mattress was covered with a blanket, tightly tucked in all round. The sheets and three of the blankets were folded (in a standard way to a standard size) and laid one above the other in the order blanket, sheet, blanket, sheet, blanket. This pile, enclosed at top, sides and bottom by the remaining neatly-folded blanket, was placed at the head of the bed, so that the effect, seen from the foot of it, was reminiscent of a large grey-and-white striped "liquorice-allsort". A pillow was then placed on top of the pile.
Uniforms and clothing not in use, were laid out in standard fashion, in the lockers and on the bed. A clean towel was hung over the bed-end and such items as toiletries, cutlery and mug, were arranged, again to a standard pattern, on top of the small locker. Woe betide anyone who got the patterns wrong.
At last we were ready. With uniforms, belts, brasses and boots looking as they should (we hoped) we perched like tailor's dummies at the foot of our beds. Then came the command "STAND BY YOUR BEDS!" Corporal Gail stood rigid in the doorway. We leapt to our feet, hastily smoothing out the depressions where we'd been sitting, and stood to attention. The corporal performed a robot-like side-step to make way for Sergeant Dark (whose eyes roved everywhere) and Pilot-Officer George.
A Pilot-Officer had the lowest "commissioned" rank. Despite the name, few flew aircraft. And this one was no more than a boy. A nasty, spoilt little boy! New to his commission, the power that it brought had already gone to his head. His obvious aim was to make life unpleasant for anyone of lesser rank. Undersized and skinny, he only succeeded in making himself ridiculous.
He found fault everywhere, though even Corporal Gail had been pleased with our efforts.
(Both NCOs patently disliked him, but an officer had to be humoured at all times)
"One of these notices is a day out of date! Why is it still on display?", came the despotic cry.
"Your knife is not exactly parallel to your fork and spoon, airman. SEE TO IT. NOW!"
And on and on he blustered, in similar vein.
"There is NO RAZOR ON THIS LOCKER!" His voice, by then, had become almost hysterical.
Johnny Davies, "boy-entrant", with not even adolescent bum-fluff on his youthful face, hadn't seen fit to purchase a razor.
"I don't shave, sir," he ventured naïvely, his vestigial Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Don't shave, airman? DON'T SHAVE? What do you mean, you don't shave? YOU WILL SHAVE YOURSELF EACH AND EVERY MORNING in the Royal Air Force, or I will personally see to it that you spend several days IN THE GUARDHOUSE!"
[Though I'd failed the Course, I'd initially been sent to the Hornchurch Aircrew Selection Centre (as a possible step towards a commission) on the strength of my "educational qualifications".
A decided credit to his educational qualifications was Pilot-Officer George, I don't think! He was everything my working-class preconceptions expected of an officer. To quote (was it?) John Cleese, he was unquestionably "an upper-class twit"].
We got the rough edge of Corporal Gail's tongue when the officer and the sergeant moved to the next hut. However trivial the offences, they reflected on him, and our ears paid in full, as he gave vent to his frustration. It would have been easier to bear had we been on top form but, after our inoculations, most of us felt dreadful.
"I thought it was the second da-ose that was suppa-osed to knock us out!" moaned Stan Faraday. "I feel sick as a bloomin' dog!"
"Me an' all," agreed John Barlow. "Me 'ead's thumpin', an' that's without a single flippin' drink"! But it made no difference to routine. Wallie hustled us out to the square and, marching this way and that for a couple of hours, I for one felt more and more poorly. Dizzy, shivering, hot and cold by turns, my head started to spin. Unintentionally, I staggered out of line and almost fell.
Wallie missed nothing.
"Deputy Senior Man!" he bellowed. No-one could spit that out as fast and distinctly, as he could. It sounded like a single one-syllable word. "Whassamatt'rr with you, then?"
"I th-thought I was going to faint, c-corporal," I stuttered, quaking in my boots.
I could have kept going. I was at my worst at that precise moment and could only have improved. But I was learning. Any chance to "skive-off" parade was to be seized upon and made the most of, though it meant trying in vain to pull the wool over even Wallie's eyes!
But I was utterly stunned when he responded sympathetically! He must have had strict orders to deal cautiously with such eventualities. He gave me a searching look, then roared,
"MARCH Y'SELF TO YOUR BILLET THEN. Lie down till you feel bett'r!"
("March myself! Have I to bawl "LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT" at myself as I go?" I wondered, though my insolent thought certainly wasn't spoken).
I couldn't believe his reaction (nor could anyone else, for that matter) but I was happy to obey!
I flaked out on my bed till lunchtime. As the lads came in from the square, many of them looking ghastly, the day's mail arrived. I had a letter and a parcel, both from my sister. She told me my suitcase had arrived safely, passed on news of relatives, and claimed that her budgie had started to talk. That was as hard to credit as Wallie's show of sympathy! She'd been trying to coax words from her feathered friend for so long, that I'd come to believe our dog would be first to master the art!
Realising I had a parcel, several lads sidled nonchalantly to my bedside. They gazed, with mounting interest, as I unwrapped a packet of home-made fudge and a box of chocolates.
"From your girl-friend?" asked Terry Connolly.
"From my sister, actually," I countered. (I would have preferred his version, but no girl was that desperate).
Chubby Tom Foster licked his lips.
"Wa'n't it nice of 'er to send oos these sweeties?" said he.
It was nicer for that greedy shower than it was for me. They scoffed nearly all of them!
"Well it does say they're 'Terry's Chocolates'!" said their namesake, with an angelic smirk.
 
We drilled some more after lunch, but the torture ended early.
The Flight (in working-BLUE as usual) was brought to a halt on the edge of the square.
"Right ...... ! When I say 'MOVE'! I wanna see a BLUE flash ...... izzat clear-r!" Corporal Wallington's rasping baritone snarl held the merest hint of a question mark. Wary of the cardinal sin of answering back, most of us gambled on silence. It was the wrong card! The Cornish voice shot up the scale. The snarl became a mighty roar!
"IS THAT F----ING CLEAR-R?"
"Y-yes, corporal," we stammered. (There'd been no doubt about the question mark, that time)!
"RIGHT!" he repeated. The ramrod-straight figure stiffened and his nostrils flared. Pursed lips, clenched teeth, snapped out a staccato message.
"You have two minutes! Return t'your billets! Gerrinto PT kit! ...... Di-is-MISS!" The ranks broke and started to scatter. "G'back, g'back, g'back! Did I say 'MOVE'?" We froze, fooled by his deliberate use of the wrong command.
We scuttled back. Formed up in threes again.
"WAIT FOR THE WORD O' COMMAND THEN!" We waited. Like athletes on starting-blocks. Ready to "Move" but terrified of "jumping the gun". "MO...... Wait f'rit. Wait f'rit! MOVE!"
We moved, like greased lightning! Here and there a muttered obscenity of defiance, but "the word o' command" was obeyed, as though this mere mortal had the power of the gods at his disposal. Together, the sixty-six men in the Flight (some of them tough cookies indeed) could have made mincemeat of Wallie. Yet "flight" was the operative word!
Cumbersome hob-nailed boots barely touched tarmac as their agitated owners almost took wing, hastily discarding berets and webbing-belts, tunics, ties and trousers, socks, shirts and underwear. Gym vests, gym shorts and plimsolls all but flew on.
The entire Flight was ready in less time than it takes to tell, but that wasn't fast enough!
The air turned bluer than our gym shorts, with Wallington curses.
The first of many sessions in the gym followed. Wallie quickly made himself scarce, and a gaggle of Physical Training pouter-pigeons put the half-alive Flight through a lengthy series of pain-inducing exercises on wall-bars, vaulting-horses and climbing-ropes. I had no greater success on the vaulting-horse than I'd had at school but, miraculously, I shinned all the way up a rope with the greatest of ease. A feat I'd never managed in my life!
[At Perth Academy, the gym teacher (a retired 'First War' Army captain) used to delight in belabouring the backsides of slow climbers with the leather-bound end of the thick, heavy rope. But I always escaped the punishment. Much to the bastard's frustration, I couldn't climb high enough to leave him a usable length of rope]!
A long spell of "Swedish Drill" followed (the name given to such repetitive exercises, if I remember correctly, though I associated them more with Germany's fascist Youth Movement than with dispassionate Sweden). Finally, as a postscript, one of the PTIs ordered us to complete three standing jumps, "Legs and arms thrown wide apart to form an X".
With a broad self-satisfied grin, he added, "At the same time. I want you to yell, one word per jump, 'I FEEL FATIGUED', or whatever else beginning with 'F' comes to mind!"
For a split second, a certain naïve Deputy Senior Man couldn't figure out what he meant. But the men of 40 Flight soon put him right, in lusty chorus!
 
By Wednesday, we were a hundred percent fit again. That day there was no square-bashing. The "Regiment" boys had us to themselves. Split into teams, we took part in "manoeuvres", team A defending, team B attacking. Crawling from "cover to cover", in one-foot-deep (!) "trenches" and low, leafless undergrowth that hid nothing, we fired empty rifles at each other ("with not even the satisfaction of shouting Bang!", as one wag remarked). That took me back to boyhood games on Perth's North Inch during World War Two. Our Primary-School-age heads had been full of War then and, all those years later, I could still picture the perimeter of the vast riverside park chock-a-bloc with enormous convoys of real soldiers, bound for the European "D-day" landings (though we didn't know that at the time)
Enhanced by a child's imagination, and before adult realisation of the arrant stupidity of War, our childhood "battles" were far more realistic. The infantile goings-on at Bridgnorth were rarely repeated, and would have ill-prepared us for actual combat.
In the afternoon, a Regiment sergeant introduced us to the light-machine-gun, the "Bren".
How to use it, how to dismantle and clean it, how to re-assemble it.
His cautionary tales of things that went wrong, hands badly burned on overheated barrels, the dangers of "gas blockages" (or some such term), went in one ear and out the other.
We didn't visualise ourselves firing the damn things in anger, we weren't the Army after all!
But as it seemed very easy to inflict greater damage on oneself than on the enemy, we took due note that the Brno / Enfield gun was to be handled with healthy respect.
 
So, October 1956 finally came to an end. By then (compared to the inept misfit who started the month back in Bonnie Scotland) I had to be a somewhat changed person.
But whether or not the change was for the better, I'm hardly the one to judge.

Section 6

November arrived and, with it, the start of a Course in "R and I" ("Reliability and Initiative")
It was expected to culminate in an outdoor camp lasting several days.
Sergeant Dark, an enthusiast in all he undertook, seemed to have a particular affection for the event. With the turnover of men at Bridgnorth, he must have endured it at eight-weekly intervals but apparently he couldn't wait to get back under canvas.
I'd have taken him for a man fonder of his creature comforts.
But perhaps he was simply trying to instil enthusiasm in his luckless recruits. Camp in November or December, rumoured to be in the Welsh mountains, would be no picnic! We sat, initially, through a series of classes, at least one of which was on first-aid. I could remember some first-aid from Boy Scout days, but the method of Artificial Respiration displayed at Bridgnorth (it had a Danish-sounding name) was more complex than the one I'd learned in my teens. (I'm not sure if mouth-to-mouth resuscitation had been seriously thought of yet).
Demonstrating bandaging techniques for serious wounds, the Instructor produced an object which, though yellow, strongly resembled the women's bulky non-insertional sanitary towels then in general use. Repressed sniggers emanated from several parts of the room, but the corporal was ready for them!
"No-o! You dirty sods! It's not a jam-rag!" was his indelicate comment. "We call this lovely object a 'shell-dressing'!"
On the whole (an appropriate choice of phrase at that point, I suppose?) the Course was excellent, but there was too much of it at once, to take in any of it properly.
 
Later in the "R and I" Course, the Flight was divided into teams of eight, each led by a Senior Man or Deputy. This meant that I had a team under my "command".
Hel-l-lp! Nothing could be more alien to my character. But I had no choice but to obey orders.
My mission was to locate and reach the highest attainable point on camp, in order to produce a "birds'-eye" survey of the entire area. Luckily, given my introverted nature, my team had no potential trouble-makers, no over-the-top "mickey-takers". They were fully co-operative.
"D'yi think wiv tae ge' on toapa wan o' thaim hangars?" a Glaswegian asked anxiously. "Tha' wid gi'e me the heebie-wullies, so it wid!"
I considered that a risky and, therefore, unlikely solution, but didn't dismiss the idea completely. All the same, it seemed reasonable to head uphill towards the higher contours, looking for a building or other man-made object that would raise us to avian altitudes.
No point, given my tiny voice, trying to emulate a Drill corporal's commands. Diffidently (aping "Dad's Army's" Sergeant Wilson?) I requested my team to form up in twos and started them off in the likeliest direction. We'd reached a reasonable level of competence by then so, after half a dozen tentative "Left, Rights", I left them to march unaided, which they did perfectly well.
But perfection wasn't enough! A senior NCO halted us with an ear-splitting roar.
"Have I gone deaf, Deputy? I CAN'T HEAR YOU! These men can't keep in step by themselves!" Pointless to argue that they were doing just that but I felt that logic would be too much for a Flight-Sergeant to understand!
I complied, at the loudest noise-level I could muster, but that was still too subdued for him.
"Speak up, man! You won't frighten 'em! They're not a bunch o' bleedin' Brownies!"
Perhaps not, but any female, young or old, frightened me. All women still do!
A "bunch o' bleedin' Brownies" would've probably scared me shitless!
The building we came to, at the top of a rise, was the Station cinema. At one side, left of the front entrance, a steel fire-escape led down from an access gallery. I decided to climb it and then try to reach the flat roof of what was probably the projection-room (and which supported the "Astra" sign).
I felt sure that up there we'd be treated to the appropriate view. I was almost at the top step, with my team at my heels, when an agonised wail issued from a side window.
"GET OFF MY CINEMA!"
I'd feared the climb might be interrupted but would have expected something more like,
"GET TO F---K OUTTA THERE, YOU LOT!" But the protest was so unlikely, that my team fell about laughing. That the manager's voice was uncannily similar to that of "Bluebottle" (of Radio's "Goon Show" fame) didn't help matters.
Not surprisingly, he wasn't amused, and threatened to report us. He must have been a civilian employee or I, as "leader", would have been on an immediate "charge".
But as he considered our apparently unheard-of attempt to climb on his cinema to be trespassing, it obviously wasn't the location we were after.
We retreated, but not without some blatantly Churchillian gestures from members of my team.
Making my way down again, I spotted what I took to be the real target. A huge tree occupied a commanding position, and had timber platforms, connected by ladders, built at various levels into its branches. It was surrounded by grass, a scarce commodity on camp (much of it out-of-bounds) but I decided to risk walking across it.
Up the tree I went, followed by some of the others.
From the giddy heights of the topmost platform, the view of the camp (and of the lovely Shropshire countryside) was superb, and I began to sketch a plan. I had no need to delegate that task. Even as a failed student architect, I could manage it better than most recruits.
The platforms were small so, when I finished, I climbed down to let others climb up.
Suddenly, I was horrified to see an officer striding purposefully towards us.
(Were we out-of-bounds? Had the cinema manager reported us after all)?
"Who's in charge of these men?" demanded the Squadron-Leader, with some severity, I fancied. Nothing for it but to plead guilty!
I stepped forward, stood to attention and saluted, all as required by the book.
"5034165. AC2 Gordon, Sir."
He returned the salute, gave a friendly smile and said,
"Is this an easy tree to climb, Deputy?"
"Y-yes sir,"
"Hmm. Never been up there before. Must see what it's like."
He shinned up the ladders, with a surprised and relieved Deputy in close pursuit.
Showing great interest in my sketch survey, he chatted enthusiastically about the countryside round about. He identified several landmarks before he left and, by suggesting distances, greatly improved my drawing.
"Here! That booger were 'uman!" exclaimed Stan Faraday later. "'Ow the 'ell did 'e get to be an officer?"
 
Will Clark, our Jamaican Quaker, was as black as the ace of spades but, to my knowledge, he met with no colour prejudice at Bridgnorth. He was "just one of the lads".
But one particular prejudice he did meet up with was that of Drill Instructors towards cheerfulness. For Will was forever smiling.
When you spoke to him, no matter how unamusing your words, his face lit up with the broadest of gleaming-toothed grins. He wasn't stupid, or retarded. It was simply his reaction, happy, friendly, or maybe just nervous, to any conversation directed at him.
But, unfortunately, it was also his involuntary reaction, when spoken to by an NCO.
To a corporal or sergeant, a smile was insubordination. Will's wide grin was downright mutiny!
One day, as Dick Cain was marching Hut 295's occupants to the Mess, a passing corporal decided on a snap inspection (it was a regular occurrence) and, with a bellowed order, he brought the ranks to a halt. He examined a uniform here, a toe-cap or a hat-badge there and at last, his eagle eye focussed on a devastating, unspeakably-major imperfection in Will's turnout.
"You're HALF-NAKED, airman! A button on that pocket is UNFASTENED! Do it up NOW!"
Will's sunny smile beamed out like a lighthouse beacon.
The corporal recoiled as though butted in the stomach!
"What the bloody 'ell you grinnin' at?"
The smile only widened. The NCO stormed over, thrust purpling features close to Will's face and yelled, "Wipe the stupid f----ing grin off your face!"
Poor Will could no more help it than breathe. His shoulders heaved, his eyes watered, deep, stifled chuckles (like those later made famous by Frank Bruno) welled unbidden from his throat.
The chuckles were unbelievably infectious. Soon everyone, except the corporal of course, was grinning as broadly as Will. The NCO couldn't understand, and what he didn't understand, made him livid. To save face, he rounded on the rest of us.
"Think it's funny do ya? Right! Twice round the p'rade ground, you undisciplined bastards. AT THE DOUBLE!"
We never held it against Will. The run was worth it, to laugh at the expense of one of "THEM".
 
On the first Saturday in November, I was thrilled to get a letter from my father. He didn't often put pen to paper (for anyone), but had now come up with eight pages of his difficult to decipher scrawl. He wrote sympathetically about my experiences to date, and made jokey remarks about my cross-country run. In his opinion, contrary to my sister's, her budgie, though chirruping noisily and non-stop (as usual) wasn't producing anything resembling the spoken word.
But at the time of writing, our Cairn Terrier was noisily advising Halloween trick-or-treaters ("guisers", we still called them in non-Americanised Scotland) to try their luck elsewhere.
Dad was originally from Foyers, on the shores of Loch Ness. He claimed to be the first non still-born child born there (in the final years of the nineteenth century), when the village came into being to house workers from the newly-established aluminium-factory (its machinery powered by hydro-electricity generated by the nearby Falls of Foyers).
He'd left the area more than 30 years before, but still hung on to his interest in Highland League football, passing on news of the League's "giant-killing" progress in the fourth round of the Scottish Cup. (Inverness Caledonian had beaten Cowdenbeath 5-3 and Forres Mechanics had won 3-nil against Albion Rovers).
I didn't share his sporting enthusiasms of course (though in my teens we had attended a few St. Johnstone games together at Muirton Park) but it was wonderful to read anything he had written. It was simply a rare contact with Dad! Although we didn't have much to say to each other at home (neither of us was a talker), away from it I was fast realising how fond of him I was. Like my mother, he too hoped I'd be home for the "48".
The idea was becoming more and more attractive to their son.
 
That morning, those who could swim were taken to nearby RAF Cosford to try for Swimming Proficiency Certificates. Always scared of water, I hadn't, at that time, learned to swim, so with the other non-swimmers I was forced to march, singing as we went believe it or not, over most of the route of my cross-country run.
Very much fitter by then, I suffered no ill effects.
The near six-mile slog behind us, a further milestone was reached. Issued with permanent passes, we were no longer "confined to camp". We could leave it, domestic chores permitting, between 4.45 and 10 every weeknight except Monday ("Domestic Night"), between noon and midnight on Saturdays, and from 7.30am to midnight on Sundays.
No-one turned down the chance of freedom that Saturday afternoon and I made my escape as one of a group of three that headed for the town that gave our camp its name.
Tony Desborough had been one of the Hornchurch crowd, but our paths hadn't crossed till Basic Training. A quiet, fair-haired lad, straight from school, it was his intention, as I recall, to train as an Art teacher. And Tom Foster, also ex-Hornchurch, as chubby as Tony was slim, had a wheezy chuckle, and a tendency to wobble all over when he did laugh.
It was grand to be away from camp, but we were very self-conscious in the dress uniform that was compulsory outside it. Girls there are who are attracted to men in uniform, but we were convinced that even the most enthusiastic of them would draw the line at best-blue jackets and those ridiculous flat hats. Like us, they'd rather be anywhere other than near them! Bridgnorth town has a delightfully dramatic setting by the River Severn, its two main levels connected by an ancient cliff-railway. It was a market day, so we had a leisurely stroll among the stalls. Open-air markets (common in England), were rare in Scotland (in those pre-Pakistani immigrant days), so this was something of a novelty for me (a picturesque novelty, when the stalls are grouped around a half-timbered seventeenth-century Town Hall, built on arches in the main street, with motor traffic passing underneath, as it did then).
And later in our wanderings, we marvelled at the precariously-balanced Castle ruin, "knocked about a bit" by Oliver Cromwell's dickhea.... sorry "Roundheads", and making Pisa's famous Tower look almost vertical by comparison.
I won't pretend we didn't enjoy gazing (however wistfully) at the young female population, but neither of us had the nerve (especially wearing best-blue!) to do more than just look.
Terry Connolly, on the other hand, was fond of boasting that he was a womaniser of experience. Sure enough, there he was in town, chatting up an attractive blonde.
He deserted her briefly to come over for a word, though not to introduce her!
"You didn't waste much time", declared Tony.
"Not likely!" said Terry with a grin. "What do you think of her then? Not bad, eh?"
"All right for a night," said Tony, trying to match Terry's breezy self-confidence.
"Aye lad, a fortnight! What do you say, Bob?"
At a loss (as ever) for a quick retort, I fell back on an expression I'd heard Terry himself use
"I wouldn't climb over her to get to you!"
"Exactly mate!" sniggered Terry.
"Bit on't yoong side, i'n't she?" grumbled Tom, jealousy behind the self-righteous accusation.
"Big enough, so old enough!" sneered Terry lecherously, forming twin 'cups' with his hands.
Tom, Tony and I completed our visit to town by contenting ourselves with a delicious, civilised meal in an "old-world" restaurant, and by spending a couple of hours at the "Majestic" Cinema, where James Stewart was Alfred Hitchcock's "The Man Who Knew Too Much".
 
Still in bed on Sunday morning, I made some casual remark that identified me as Scottish. It was the old story. Foul-mouthed Tony Derricott hadn't realised till then that I was from north of the Border.
"Bast'd bloody square-faced tartan tits!" he howled inventively. "You're from f----ing Scotland?"
He spat out the name of my proud homeland as if it was some untamed place, the abode of barbaric people. Was I about to meet racial prejudice?
In the act of pulling on his shirt, he was otherwise naked. Though as vigorously heterosexual a bloke as could be imagined, he sprinted across the billet, leapt onto my bed and stood astride me, as I huddled uneasily under the bedclothes.
"I never shagged a Scot before!" he bawled then, seeing apprehension written all over my rapidly-whitening face, he dissolved into helpless laughter.
His tongue-in-cheek announcement (and my all-too-apparent discomfiture), caused general hilarity. They had no respect for Deputy Senior Men, that lot!

Section 7

By Guy Fawkes Day, when I wrote an 8-page reply to my father, I was fully converted to the idea of going home for the "48". I now knew it began at lunchtime on Friday, November 23.
I had a railway timetable in my locker and it told me that a train left Wolverhampton (14 miles from camp) at 2.32pm on Friday, reaching Perth at 23 minutes past midnight.
That would do for the homeward trip.
But the return journey was a problem. Regulations insisted I be back at the camp gates before midnight on Sunday and the only train to allow me that left Perth at 9.50 on Saturday night!
I would have less than twenty-two hours in Perth (many of them during the night!) and for most of Sunday, I'd be back at Bridgnorth, alone in a deserted camp!
But if I could arrange an extension beyond Sunday midnight, there was a train from Perth at 8.24pm on Sunday, due in Wolverhampton at 4.50am on Monday. I'd have to look into that.
We'd been blessed till then with fine weather for the time of year. One or two nights had been frosty, but the coke stoves were marvellous for counteracting even sub-zero temperatures.
That day had been very fine and, to judge by frequent explosions (and a ruddy glow in the sky), not even Domestic Night was preventing some people from enjoying the 5th of November.
 
Tuesday, billet inspection day, was with us once again. Pilot Officer George arrived with Sergeant Dark and Corporal Wallington. And this time it was my turn to be in trouble!
The young officer peered into my standard issue, white clay-ware pint mug and his malevolent eye fastened on a detail I hadn't even been aware of. A tiny flaw lay under the mug's glaze (and therefore outwith my control). To say it was like an exceptionally-short, fine brown eyelash, would be to grossly overstate the case.
He swung round and stared in stunned disbelief, as he realised I was wearing a white armband. He pointed a quivering finger at my locker-top.
"Disgraceful!" he shrieked. "This mug is in a shocking condition! Disgustingly unhygienic!" his voice rising in pitch and volume as he got into his stride.
"Is this the sort of example for a Deputy to set. Is it? IS IT? I will NOT allow anyone, in any of my billets, to keep equipment IN THIS CONDITION!"
As the NCOs attempted, in vain I may say, to make out the offending flaw, he made good his promise by snatching the mug from Wallie's hand, and smashing it into a hundred pieces on the nearest concrete stove-base.
"Sar'nt Dark! SEE TO IT THAT THIS MAN HAS NO LEAVE-PASS FOR THE WEEKEND."
He stormed off, and Sergeant Dark placed a hand on Wallie's arm.
"See to it, corporal," he murmured, and I could swear he winked.
"Disgusting," growled Wallie imitating an upper-class voice, and something vaguely resembling a smile quivered at a corner of his mouth.
We'd seen the signs before. Wallie detested Pilot Officer George. On the parade-ground, his tendency was to treat the commissioned buffoon with undisguised contempt.
I heard no more from either NCO about loss of leave pass. But I did go thirsty for a day or two, till I was able to replace the mug.
 
Later in the week, making nonsense of the time spent on tests at Cardington, we were subjected to a further series of Trades Interviews and Aptitude Tests. The Cardington results were totally ignored! On the day of the tests, I was suffering, as I only occasionally did in those days, from a severe "aural" migraine (eye disturbance, nausea, crippling headache, the lot).
I kept quiet about it, but it was a headache that, for better or for worse, would influence the rest of my RAF career. I didn't acquit myself well.
I fared particularly badly in the several tests involving headphones! Though I'd scored 100% in them at Hornchurch, I made a complete hash of things at Bridgnorth!
In the end, I was given "N.I." grading. The "I" was the top classification, entitling me to the pick of Trades, but the "N" meant they had to be in the non-engineering category!
Yet at Cardington, I'd been recommended solely for engineering Trades!
My old adversary "Failure" had reared his repulsive head and grinning face once more!
So much for the RAF system, and farewell forever to Instrument Fitter!
I was advised to list five favourite non-engineering Trades but, as a concession to my indignant protestations, was permitted to include Radar Fitter from the engineering category.
Having fancied Radar from the start, I placed it at the top of my list. Though a difficult thirty-three week course at RAFs Locking or Yatesbury, it would surely be an interesting career, if ever it came my way.
I listed Photographer in second place (my father and his before him had both dabbled in photography before I was born). I stuck in three more Trades to make up the number but, truth to tell, not one of the "N" Trades appealed to me. Once again, the outlook was disheartening.
Final decisions were not expected until a further two weeks had elapsed.
 
The men in my hut lined up one morning for an official billet photograph. Eight men stood at the back of the group, six were on chairs in front of them and the four smallest men sat cross-legged on the ground. (I was allowed a seat in the central row, because of my arm-band)!
Sergeant Dark, as senior NCO, was on a chair in the middle, with a shield bearing the inscription "BRIDGNORTH - RAF - HUT 295" placed at his feet.
Jim Auty, one of the lads on the ground, was immediately in front of Tony Derricott. As the photographer pressed the bulb to release the shutter, Tony nudged the back of Auty's flat cap with his elbow, pushing it slightly forward.
Young Jim's descendants (if any) will have to be satisfied with seeing only the tip of his nose beneath the peak of the tilted cap. His mouth and chin eloquently express his annoyance!
 
The delights of square-bashing, PT and GCT, continued endlessly. Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, we slogged it out, mostly on the parade-ground, and ever so slowly we improved. Rifles were added, to vary the marching monotony, and "the word of command" now included "Slope" .... !", "Order .... !" and "Present Arms!" We learned to fix and unfix bayonets, standing still or on the march, without dropping the obscene object as it was transferred from webbing-belt to rifle and back again, and we then moved on to the intricacies of "funeral drill".
Basic Training "psychology" was having the desired effect. The plan had been to brainwash each man until all recollection of, or desire for, life in the world outside had been erased, and he was a mindless, obedient nonentity. Then, in turn, to implant the belief that he wished for no more out of life than to be a blue-clad robot, moving and thinking entirely by numbers, in precisely the same manner as all the other robots.
Only then, well on the road to that end, had those precious gate-passes been issued.
We had now reached the advanced phase of "putting some swank into it" (as Corporal Gail was fond of bellowing on his rare parade-ground appearances), convinced that we really wanted to be smarter and more efficient than the robots of other Flights, and looking forward to "Passing-Out Parade", not because it marked the completion of recruit training, but because it would give us the opportunity to demonstrate that we were the finest collection of robots on camp.
 
On Friday the ninth of November, as part of R and I preparation, we were subjected to a "route march". I can't recall the mileage involved, but we pounded tarmac for a long time. We wore working-blue, boots and greatcoats, carried shouldered .303 rifles and lugged around various extras, such as backpacks, blankets and groundsheets.
 
The days and weeks dragged slowly by but, in the ever-hectic round of bull, parade-ground drill, Ground Combat Training and the rest, I had failed to make arrangements for the necessary overnight extension to my 48-hour leave-pass.
With only a day to go, I was at last successful in establishing the formal procedure. I hastily made the required application to the Flight Commander.
I wrote a brief note to my folks to say I might be home, but cautioned them not to wait up.
At lunchtime on November 23 a jubilant horde stormed out of the camp gates. I still had nothing in writing to say I had an extension, but threw caution to the winds and left with the rest, making my way to Wolverhampton Railway Station in one of several RAF 'buses.
British Railways completed the Wolverhampton to Crewe leg of the journey on time, but the London to Perth train I boarded at Crewe was running exceedingly late and did nothing to make up time on the way north. I arrived in Perth three hours late!
By the time I walked the mile and a half to my home in the Muirton area, it was nearly 4am, and my parents had decided I wasn't coming! (A taxi? On my pay? Don't be daft)!
I spent most of a quiet weekend relating and updating my Hornchurch, Cardington and Bridgnorth experiences, though even my stories and language had to be suitably censored for parental and sibling ears. But, truth to tell, it wasn't as happy a homecoming as it might have been. My mother, long crippled with rheumatoid arthritis, was suffering from a "flare-up" of the disease, and her pain and depression inevitably transmitted itself to the rest of us.
I strolled the "weel-kent" mile into town on Saturday afternoon. Perth is a compact little city, but it came as no surprise, to a long-time loner, when he failed to meet a soul he knew.
It was good to have a brief spell outside in civilian clothes, but all too soon it was time to hurry to the railway station.
A nail-biting journey lay ahead. I had risked staying over till Sunday evening. I settled as comfortably as I could (hunched in a corner of a corridor compartment), with a long sleepless night ahead of me. And this time the London-bound train was late. It arrived at Crewe half an hour behind time, just as the Birmingham "connection" was pulling out from the adjoining bay ten yards away! It need only have waited two or three minutes to transfer passengers.
But I had to wait one and a half hours for the next train. Given official backing, I would have had to be back on camp not a minute later than 8am on Monday. But I didn't have official backing.
Unpleasant visions of guardhouse detention cells filled my head!
With just ten minutes to spare, I at last reached the camp gates. I sighed with heartfelt relief when I saw no NCOs on duty there! Due on parade only 25 minutes later, I had to race the five hundred yards to my billet, throw off my best-blue, wash (with no time for a shave, God help me), scramble into clean underclothes and my not-too-well-pressed working-blue, and hastily shine up my brasses and boots, missing any possibility of breakfast, of course.
Had it all been worth it, I asked myself?
 
The three-day camp was due to take place in the week following the "48" but, as by then the weather in north Wales had changed to torrential rain and fog, no-one, not even "Sar'nt Dark", was looking forward to it. But an ill-wind had already blown, that did us all a power of good!
A scarcity of petrol (rationing brought about by the Egyptian President Colonel Nasser's recent seizure of the Suez Canal) meant that no transport could be laid on to take us to the campsite.
But, though we escaped the discomfort of sleeping under canvas in November, many of the planned events took place at Bridgnorth, where the weather was a little better. We felled small trees, sawed them into various lengths, used them to build bridges, net-covered climbing structures and aerial walkways. We assembled a DIY assault-course, so that a pack of leering NCOs could gain sadistic pleasure from watching us making complete arseholes of ourselves. (You know the sort of thing? You've seen it, time and again, at the cinema).
In point of fact though, whereas Auty and Lomax got into the usual scrapes, I came out of it better than I'd anticipated. I was a whole lot fitter than I'd been a month earlier.
A "compass-march" was hastily arranged. Too hastily as it transpired. The original exercise (planned for Wales) would no doubt have been properly prepared, but the Bridgnorth event was thrown together, very much in last-minute haste.
The men were split into groups again, each group issued with an instruction sheet of compass-directions and distances.
(Mercifully, I wasn't in charge of a group this time. Different people were tested in that role, and the Senior Man of a nearby billet led the group I was part of).
"O.K. Study your instructions carefully and follow them to the letter. You'll have to make sense of a difficult route ......" (The sergeant-in-charge never spoke a truer word, though he didn't know it at the time). "...... We're sending the groups out at ten-minute intervals. Move smartish round the course, and I don't want any clever buggers just following the group in front!"
There was little chance of cheating. The rise and fall of the ground and the density of undergrowth and tree growth, meant that each group disappeared as soon as it moved off.
The route meandered inside and outside the camp's boundaries and, having successfully negotiated a couple of direction changes, we came to a complex junction of several paths. There was a narrow track at precisely the reading indicated on the instruction sheet so, like the groups in front and behind, we blithely set off along it, and were soon hopelessly lost!
Only later was it discovered that an unfortunate typing error had been perpetrated, and overlooked. The intended route from the junction was by an entirely different path but, coincidentally, the next two or three typed instructions closely matched the conditions on the wrong path, and no-one realised there was an error till they had covered quite a distance.
We'd been informed, in advance, that the entire route was no more than three miles long. Because of the typing error, most groups covered between five and seven miles!
My team, at last aware of a mistake, used the compass and a recognisable distant landmark to get back by the shortest possible route. Wearing full uniform (and boots) and carrying heavy back-packs, though not laden with rifles this time, we crossed fields and streams, traversed hill-slopes and gullies, climbed over barbed-wire fences and hawthorn hedges. Instead of a compass-march, it became a hazardous obstacle-course.
But those in Authority couldn't complain. It was their own admitted mistake.
There was speculation, just the same, that the error might have been deliberate.
It was, after all, an "Initiative" Course.

Section 8

A day came at last, when we were given the chance to try our luck with loaded rifles.
I should think, though, that the standard of marksmanship demanded by the Royal Air Force fell a long way short of the Army requirement. Our skills were tested on only a 25-yard range!
(A clear case of "Don't shoot till you see the whites of their eyes!")
A GCT corporal issued .22 rifles. I hadn't fired even a fairground rifle before, and my results were abysmal. I clipped the card with one shot, missed it completely with the other four!
"You couldn't 'it a barn door 'old'n the bloody 'andle!" scoffed the Instructor predictably.
Then .303 rifles were released from the racks they were chained to. After the sharp crack of the "point two-two", we were ill-prepared for the deafening report of a "three-o-three".
"Blimey!" said John Barlow, ears ringing after his first attempt. "I nearly shit meself then!"
But, despite the noise, and the extra weight and hefty kick-back, I did quite well. I failed to achieve "Marksman" status, but only because a single bullet was a mere hairsbreadth outside the appropriate target circle.
("Marksman" would have entitled me to display a crossed-rifles badge on my sleeve, but I had to be content with "Marksman 1st Class" (on that occasion). That merited no badge)
We then fired the light-machine gun, single "rounds" followed by short rapid bursts.
("Short" bursts weren't stimulating enough for young Lomax, of course. He used more ammunition than an American film star in a war movie!).
Mounted on a bipod, the Bren was easy to fire accurately. I managed "Marksman" this time but, because less skill was required, a Bren Marksman was given no badge.
I shouldn't wish to use a gun in anger, but I confess to having enjoyed target practice. Despite the .22 result, I felt I had it in me to be a reasonable shot.
As a precautionary measure, immediately before call-up, I had a dental check-up followed by a course of treatment. It was a waste of time. At the compulsory "Dental Parade" on vaccination day, I was told I needed an extraction! The news filled me with dismay. My dentist at home was excellent, he would probably have tried to save the tooth, but in my teens, I'd had really brutal treatment from a newly-qualified man, and for many months after, pieces of broken root and slivers of jawbone worked their way out of my gums. I rather expected RAF dentists to be like him, more at home in a Nazi concentration camp (or at best an abattoir)!
While I was losing the tooth, on November 30, the rest of D-Squadron was slogging it out on a full-day, fifteen-mile "route-march" yet (although the extraction confounded my fears by being totally pain-free), I regretted not being with them. The feelings of isolation that had marked my Bridgnorth arrival, had long given way to an enthusiasm for the kind of "companionship in adversity" that would be at a peak on such a march. I was now physically up to it and, not least, would have enjoyed the fine scenery in a fifteen-mile stretch of countryside (with perhaps a sprinkling of Shropshire villages, and a glimpse of one or two "country wenches" thrown in)
The weather was bright but icy cold and, with no exercise to warm me, I spent the rest of the day crouched alone over a billet stove, writing letters.
 
It was December now, and the endless round of training continued unabated. In the later stages of square-bashing, berets were discarded on the parade-ground, in favour of the hated peaked caps (usually called "twat-hats" because you looked a right "twat" wearing one)
As a result of the change, the ceremonial ritual of Funeral Drill gained an added hazard. The movement triggered by the odd command "REST ON YOUR ARMS REVERSED!" was completed by a tilting forward of the head (a symbolic prayer for the dead I suppose). We were accustomed to berets remaining firmly in place, but twat hats shot off in all directions! The NCOs lived for these moments.
"DO THAT AGAIN, SON, AND IT'LL BE YOUR BLOODY FUNERAL!" But as time wore on and we did improve, Corporal Wallington mellowed. We occasionally came under the jurisdiction of other corporals, but most of us preferred Wallie. Under the prevailing system, it was his job to be unpleasant, but his bark was worse than his bite. His methods gained respect, and got better results than many another corporal, who aroused only hostility.
As the end of Basic Training approached parades grew ever larger, as Flight combined with Flight, Squadron with Squadron. Sergeant Dark puffed and pedalled around on the parade outskirts, with a shrill rebuke here, a jovial word of encouragement there, and rival corporals vied with each other to produce the greatest volume of vocal noise.
Rehearsals began for the Passing-Out Parade, and officers began to take over (from the Non-Commissioned men) the business of shouting commands. Compared to the Drill Instructors, who did it constantly, most of the officers had (relatively) puny voices and, with the huge numbers now on parade, only a few men in the front ranks could actually hear them.
That made co-ordinated marching difficult, till we got used to straining our ears all the time, and watching the leg movements around us out of the corners of our eyes.
And when a marching band joined in, the officers commands became more inaudible than ever!
But we always heard Pilot Officer George. After all, he practised his hysterical scream every time he spoke to anyone of lower rank!
Once, when 40 Flight was doing its stuff with Corporal Wallington in charge, the Pilot-Officer strode arrogantly onto the parade-ground. Wallie didn't notice him, or pretended not to, so the officer wasn't greeted with the Regulation salute. It was the excuse he'd waited for, and he went to town! He berated the corporal at the top of his voice for the state of his threadbare uniform, told him he should have disposed of it years before, and ordered him to leave the parade-ground there and then, not to return till he was wearing a new uniform!
The scene was ludicrous. Wallie was at least 6'2", the officer a skinny 5'7". A little man, in every sense, protected by his commission and taking full advantage of it! Even those who most disliked Wallie agreed that, even if the officer had good grounds for objecting to the uniform, he should have made his point in private, not in front of the assembled Flight!
 
Usually we only saw Corporal Wallington when he was on duty. Bachelor Gail had his quarters at the end of our billet, but Wallie, I think, lived in "Married Quarters". On one occasion, however, towards the end of our Bridgnorth sojourn, he joined a few of us in the billet, and told us tales (some of them "tall" tales indeed) of his own training days.
"You lot have it dead easy! Take that tin o' 'Duraglit' ther-re. Out it goes on Inspection Day, just the way you bo-ought it. In my day we had to take a razor-blade, scrape the enamel off the outside and then polish up the bare metal with the contents!"
"An' you think you're 'ard done by 'cause you had to whitewash the dec'rative stones outside the billet door! When I was at Basic Trainin', we had to paint the grass green in winter!"
The final sentence was a joke, of course (or I think it was) but humour, however clumsy, was a quality he'd been hiding up his sleeve. Terry Connolly had the temerity to recall the parade-ground incident.
"What? Georgie Porgy?" was Wallie's startling reply. Wonder of wonders, his face relaxed into a broad grin.
"You get them!" he said. "Straight out o' school. Give them a bit o' coloured ribbon on their shoulder, and they think they're God Almoighty. You just 'ave to put up with them in this game."
He spat all that out in a husky growl. Clearing his throat, he stood up. As he strode to the door, he turned and roared, almost in parody of his normal delivery,
"An' if I catch any o' you lot talkin' like that 'bout off'cers, I'll 'ave you on a charge, quicker'n you can say Pilot Off'cer George. Izzat clear-r?"
 
Decisions on our future were slower to filter through than had been promised.
Typically, the results arrived in the wrong order. I was advised of my "posting" on December 7, but given no definite news of Trade. I was to report on Wednesday, January 2 to RAF Yatesbury, so more than likely I was headed for a career in Radar, or perhaps Wireless. But I wouldn't be told which till I got there!
Either Trade was acceptable, though. I'd been given an "Engineering" Trade after all!
It seemed likely, in any case, that I'd be home in Perth for Christmas and New Year.
 
December 8 was the Saturday chosen for the second "TABT" jab. The few who suffered no ill-effects from the first, now had their turn of discomfort.
But for the majority, the effects were not at all severe.
 
The final Domestic Night took place on December 10, and the inspection that followed next day was notable for the absence of "Georgie Porgy". A different Pilot Officer (a pleasant and reasonable young man) did the honours this time. We knew the ropes by then, obedient robots that we'd been conditioned into, and there was no serious complaint (from him or us)!
But best of all, it was an indication that the end of square-bashing was at last on the horizon.
 
We were due to leave Bridgnorth for ever on Tuesday, December 18, so the lads voted to celebrate in town on Saturday 15. The idea was to have a meal, then to take it from there.
But we'd left it late for bookings so close to Christmas, and had to combine with two other billets, whose men had been quicker off the mark.
The menu was seasonally-slanted and for seven shillings and sixpence (37½p in today's terminology) we each had vegetable soup, roast chicken with all the trimmings, and Christmas Pudding. An expensive meal (half a dozen years later, a 3-course Chinese lunch in pricey Edinburgh cost just over half that) but a true delight after weeks of RAF cooking.
Most of the lads adjourned to the bar after the meal. My sole experience of alcohol away from home, was a half pint of beer, when I passed the exams marking the half-way stage of my College course. I thought it tasted disgusting and was glad I hadn't ordered a pint!
And my parents believed I'd had my first, and only, "intoxicating" drink, on the Hogmanay following my twenty-first birthday. I was allowed a thimbleful of Walnut Brown Sherry, and that was like some revolting medicine (the kind "not to be taken internally")!
So what should I do now? In my ignorance, I expected English attitudes to be similar to those in Scotland, where it was looked upon as a mark of manhood to get drunk as often as possible (and where non-drinkers were considered effeminate). I felt pressured into having something stronger than a soft drink. 'Should I be a real Scot and have a whisky?' I wondered.
Perhaps the taste was inherent in my Highland genes but, to my surprise, I liked the stuff a lot!
I limited my intake to two "nips" taken neat, and had an enjoyably relaxed evening.
In common with my mother, Les Ferris had strong views on alcohol. He didn't exactly preach against it, but somehow gave the impression he did. Strong disapproval was evident. But he decided to be sociable, grace the company with his presence, and drink only orangeade.
It was the classic temptation, and Terry Connolly couldn't resist it! With Les's attention distracted, Terry slipped something stronger into his orange, and Les sipped it slowly till it all disappeared.
The pickles he was encouraged to eat disguised the drink's flavour (and added to his thirst) and he made short work of several more "laced" drinks. His conversation expanded, and so did his grin.
In the end, Bible-thumping Les had to be supported all the way to the billet (singing "The Blaydon Races" most of the way, to let everyone know he was a "Geordie").
Roger Coventry and Tony Desborough hurried ahead, and obligingly made up his bed, with a sheet folded back half way down so that it looked like top and bottom sheets.
Les succeeded "with a little help from his friends" in removing most of his uniform but, alcohol-induced drowsiness winning, he insisted on trying to climb between the sheets.
He was in no state to cope with the "apple-pie" bed, and passed out on top of it.
For the rest of an unconscious night, he lay in underpants, vest and socks. His helpful "friends" replaced his boots on his feet, and wedged his peaked cap on his head!
He definitely looked a "right twat".
 
All through Basic Training we'd been encouraged to "DIG THOSE HEELS IN!" and had perfected the straight-legged, knee-jarring method of achieving maximum noise. (Hitler's storm troopers rarely did it better). But, as "Passing-Out Day" approached, complete nonsense was made of all the training, by making us discard our boots, and wear shoes instead.
Their rubber soles were soundless!
In spite of the set-back (the lack of sound temporarily upset the rhythm) we reckoned we now moved as a highly-skilled unit and were supremely confident.
"Just look at them bloody sprogs," chuckled Barry Franklin, as we passed some new recruits, clumsily tripping over each other's heels.
It was all too easy to forget that it was no time at all since we'd looked exactly the same. And old Barry, slow-thinking countryman, had been one of the last to reach our present standard.
 
There had never been a dull moment at Bridgnorth. We were on the hop every minute of each exhausting day, and I suddenly realised that, despite my earlier fears, I hadn't had time to give more than a passing thought to my awkwardness in company. On the contrary, it could even be said that I'd enjoyed myself! I certainly couldn't claim to have been an outsider, the lads treated me as badly as anyone else. And there was always plenty of good humour, however coarse, to offset the hardship and unpleasantness. If there had been occasional eye-openers among the types of people I'd met, my knowledge of the human species had been undeniably widened.
And now Basic Training was coming to an end.
Curiously enough, the hour or three of the long-awaited Passing-Out Parade was a disappointment, an anti-climax. After so much preparation, so many rehearsals, it was too much like doing the same boring things all over again. Like over-trained athletes, we were past our peak, on the downward slide to staleness. Some of the "swank" had gone from our performance, as we marched under the eagle-eyes of the assembled "top brass".
And the irony is, I can't even remember whether or not we achieved the "Top Flight" accolade! It was all so trivial and unimportant, that it hasn't stuck in my memory.
(Or maybe I blotted out an unacceptable memory, who knows)!
But the officers were happy and so, on the whole, were the NCOs. A motherly reproof from Sergeant Dark, a sharp growl or two from Corporal Wallington, a final slice of smarmy sarcasm from Corporal Gail, and it was all over at last!
 
We raced exultantly to lunch and, as we emerged from Bridgnorth Mess for positively the last time, a strange ritual took place. I've no idea who set it in motion. It may even have been a well-publicised Passing-Out Tradition. But as each recruit passed the brick wall to the left of the Mess entrance (and despite furious roars from NCOs), he hurled his personal pint mug against it with all his might, smashing it to smithereens (the mug not the brick wall)!
Back at the hut, Corporal Gail popped out of his cubby-hole for a last appearance, as we finished packing.
"Hey! You lot! You're not gonna leave the billet lookin' like this, are ya?"
It had never looked better, I thought, but that's exactly what he meant!
"You don't want the next lot to move in and find a nice clean floor, do ya? There won't be nuffin' for the idle bastards to do, will there? COME ON! Get some ash outta the stove! Scatter it all over the place! 'Op abaht on it, till it's all good an' scrunched in! NO! Bulford! Throw it up in the air OR YOU'LL NEVER GET DUST ON ALL THEM LEDGES!"
His puzzling grin on our first Bridgnorth day was at last explained!
That parting chore suitably attended to, we grabbed our kit, shouted last farewells or, in most cases, boarded the 'buses that would convey us to homeward-bound trains.
The final goodbyes were as casual as those at the start of the "48" weekend yet, having been "posted" to camps all over the country, few of us from Hut 295 (or indeed Rhys, Mac, Ken and Charles from Elm Park Station!) would ever see each other again.
The close camaraderie of the past eight weeks counted for nothing now. The single desire uniting us all, was to get away from Bridgnorth, square-bashing, PT corporals, Drill Instructors, GCT corporals, and malicious young officers, as quickly as it was possible to do so.
Any thought of losing good friends, for the rest of our lives, was put firmly aside.
Regrets (if any) would come later."


Following Trade Training at RAF Yatesbury (as an Air Wireless Mechanic) and, after "tropical kitting-out" at RAF Innsworth, I spent the remaining (roughly) 17 months of my National Service at RAF Luqa, Malta, eventually reaching Senior Aircraftman rank.
Given a posting like that, I immediately set about conquering my fear of water and soon became a competent swimmer, meeting a great bunch of lads as a result.
I never conquered my fear of women (who does!) but did eventually get married. My wife and I have a son and a daughter (currently aged 36 and 34 respectively) but they still haven't gotten round to reading my book!
The day after one of many hectic "demob Parties" I attended in Malta, I at last gained a Marksman Badge (despite the problems of firing a .303 when heavily hungover)!

Copyright © 2006 by Robert M. Gordon.
 
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