Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (17 page)

I took the little metal charging clip of ammunition and slotted it into a special recess at the rear end of the breech and then pressed down on the top round with my thumb to push all of the rounds into the magazine. Having done that, I slammed the bolt home to cock the rifle, applied the safety catch and then waited.

We lay there forever, or so it seemed, until the order came, “Target at your front, range 500, ten rounds—in your own time. Fire!”

I set the sight for 500 feet. The distance was only 25 yards, but 500 feet was the smallest possible distance to set the sights. I pushed the safety catch off and started squeezing the trigger. The first pressure was an easy pull, but the inside of the second joint of my trigger finger felt the stronger resistance of the second pressure. My target was a human-shaped cardboard cut-out depicting a fierce-looking soldier running towards me with a bayonet fixed to his rifle. Several oblong target areas were nested on his chest and my job was to aim for the innermost rectangle and try to hit it. I continued squeezing the trigger until suddenly the action released and the weapon fired with a loud bang that left a ringing sound to my right ear. A puff of smoke blew briefly across my face and my nose instinctively puckered at the sharp smell of burnt cordite. Everyone had warned me to expect a kick from the rifle, but I felt hardly anything. I let go of the trigger and reached forward with my right hand to push the bolt up and then pulled it back towards me, causing the still smoking shell to eject from the breech. Then I closed it and took aim once more. The target was too far away to see where the first round landed, so I just hoped for the best, aimed and fired again. This time the noise and the smoke weren’t any surprise and my ear was still ringing from the first time, so it didn’t matter any more. I continued firing until the last round had gone, cleared the rifle ten times, fired the action and then laid the weapon down with the breech open to await further orders.

When it was certain that everyone had fired off all their rounds and cleared their weapons, the red flag at the target area was lowered. We were then told to go and inspect our targets. Mine had four holes in an area off to the left of the inner oblong and one hole several inches away from the others.

“Good grouping, Carlin, but try and keep the same aiming point so that you get all five together,” said the sergeant, who had suddenly materialized beside me.

Apparently getting a good grouping was more important than hitting the centre of the target area. I nodded affirmatively and then went outside of the range enclosure to wait around with those who had fired and those still waiting their turn. Time for a woody-Woodbine!

Eventually, everyone fired off their ten rounds and came outside to wait for our DIs, who had turned up to march us back but then had gone inside the range. The DIs knew that ammunition signed-out for target practice could not be returned to the armoury, once the seal on the ammo box had been broken and therefore it all needed to be fired off at the range. Since there was still quite a lot of ammunition left over, they wanted to take advantage of the opportunity and were now having a great time showing off with their fancy shooting, or so they would have us believe. I clearly remember Corporal Blandford standing and firing one of the .22’s from the hip. This wasn’t really a good example for us, but just another example of the old adage: don’t do as I do, do as I say!

That was both the first and last time we fired .22 calibre rifles. At our next GCT session, a few days later, we were taken to the range again. This time it was the real thing—.303 calibre. We followed the same procedure—getting down, loading, aiming and squeezing the trigger. This time, however, when the trigger released the firing pin there was such an almighty bang that it hurt my right ear, but I barely noticed that because it felt as though I’d just been kicked in the shoulder by a mean, angry mule. That was bad enough, but I had to fire off nine more shots and be rewarded with nine more similar mule-kicks. The second shot hurt an already aching shoulder and each successive shot only increased the agony. By the time I was squeezing off the third shot all thoughts of grouping them had disappeared; I only wanted to get it over with so that the torture would end. Later, when I went to look at the target my poor aim was very obvious, because the bullet holes were all over the place. In fact, I’m not sure that more than five rounds landed on the target. Rifle practice lost a lot of its allure that day and just became something else unpleasant that we had to do. Most of us felt the same way and all nursed bruised shoulders and painful ringing ears for days afterwards. And this wasn’t helped by repeated visits to the range at regular intervals for the next few weeks, until we were deemed proficient with the Lee Enfield .303 calibre rifle.

Next, we moved on to the Bren gun, which was a lot more fun to fire. The internal action absorbed all of the energy from the exploding cordite charge in the round that gave the .303 its kick and used it to automatically reload the next round and re-cock the action. I suppose that’s why it was called a machine gun. It could fire single shots or bursts and we were required to try both. The safety catch had three positions, “A” for automatic fire, “S” for safe and “R” for “rounds” or single shots. For this reason, it was referred to as the ASR lever. The sights were offset to the left side, instead of being directly over the centre-line of the weapon as they are on a rifle. This was because a carrying handle was mounted atop the barrel, creating a visual obstruction between the foresight and back-sight, if they had been mounted directly above the barrel. When aiming over a long distance the offset wasn’t a problem, because the sights were slightly angled to compensate for the difference, but this didn’t work for the short length over which we were shooting at the range, so our targets had an additional faint “ghost” image target to the left of the aiming point. The idea was that although we would aim for the bull’s eye, the shots would actually land on the ghost target, hopefully in the offset bull’s eye.

The drill for getting down on the ground was the same as before, except that this time I was holding the slightly curved Bren gun magazine that I clipped onto the top of the breech, after first checking that the ASR lever was in the S for safe position. The gun had a set of bipod legs at the front end, so it was just a matter of picking up the butt and nestling it into my shoulder, right hand on the pistol grip and the other hand across my chest gripping the top of the stock to steady the weapon.

“Target at your front, in short and long bursts fire, in your own time, fire!”

I eased the ASR lever to “A” for automatic and manually cocked the gun to fire the first round, then let loose with my first short burst. Firing the Bren was like driving a Rolls Royce on a smooth highway after having suffered the equivalent of a ride across rugged terrain in a Landrover when comparing it with the Lee Enfield .303 rifle. There was no nasty recoil. The only indication that deadly rounds of ammunition were spewing from the weapon was the sight of sand kicking up in tiny spurts, as bullets slammed into the sandbank behind the target. This was accompanied by the “blat-blat-blat” sound of the gun, as its recoil action drove the automatic firing mechanism. Fire, release, fire, release—that got two short bursts off, then—one, two, three, release for a long burst of five rounds. I did this several times whilst resisting the temptation to hold the trigger for longer, fully aware that the eagle eyes and ears of the range master would know immediately if any burst endured longer than it was supposed to. His vigilance wasn’t in vain. Despite the strong emphasis on safety that had been drilled into us, someone further along from my position started firing his Bren before lifting the butt off the ground and up to his shoulder. The front of the weapon was angled upwards because of the bipod legs and suddenly bullets started pinging off the top of the high wall behind the targets. Several chunks of masonry flew off the top of the wall before the sergeant was able to cover the distance from where he stood to where the shooter lay and give him a solid kick on the soles of his feet. The surprised boy looked around and was immediately yanked unceremoniously to his feet and expelled from the firing area. Another sergeant went to the gun, applied the ASR to safe and removed the magazine. With order restored, I continued short and long bursts and then a few single shots with the ASR lever in the “R” position until the magazine ran out of ammunition. Then I put the lever to “S” for safe, manually cocked the action a few times, fired the action and then lowered the butt to the ground as I raised my hand to indicate that I’d finished. A few others were still firing, but eventually the blatting sound was replaced by comparative quiet. We were ordered to get to our feet and when the red flag at the target area was lowered, we trooped out in single file to retrieve our targets so that we could discuss the grouping of the holes with the sergeant. Yes, firing the Bren was an altogether more pleasant experience than firing the rifle.

Our training with the RAF Regiment, however, wasn’t all shooting and crawling around in the dirt. In fact the next part of it was named Ground Defence Training, or GDT, and mainly involved teaching us what we needed to do in the aftermath of a nuclear attack. To us, this wasn’t as interesting as shooting and handling weapons and required that we sit in a classroom, instead of being out on the range. They showed us films taken during nuclear tests so that we could see the awesome power of The Bomb for ourselves. As I watched buildings and vehicles blowing away on the screen, I wondered if anyone would survive such an attack. But the training was geared more towards going into an area that had had already been attacked.

We learned that a nuclear explosion resulted in a blinding flash that travelled outwards from the site of the explosion at the speed of light, blinding anyone whose eyes were unprotected. A wave of radiation followed close behind and after that, the physically destructive blast wave. If we survived all of those, we would then be faced with radioactive fallout as dust and debris that had been irradiated by the explosion returned to earth. To guard against all of this, we were taught how to use an instrument called a survey meter, which was something like a Geiger counter that measured the radiation level in units known as Roentgens, except that it didn’t make a clicking noise like those featured in films in the Astra. We were also shown how to use small personal radiation measurement devices called dosimeters that were designed to indicate the amount of accumulated radiation a person had been exposed to whilst wearing it. The dosimeter was shaped something like a fountain pen and could be clipped to the wearer’s clothing. We were shown how to peer through it to see if a specially charged quartz fibre indicated that we were still safe, or if it had moved into the get-to-hell-out-of-there zone.

Part of our Ground Defence Training involved learning about how to use a gas mask. To provide us with practical experience, we were taken to a smoke filled tunnel-like structure and instructed to don a gas mask and walk through the tunnel. As my friend Butterworth and I waited our turn, we noticed that the first people through the tunnel emerged coughing and spluttering, even though they had been wearing the gas masks. We watched this for a while, noting that an air of chaos and confusion seemed to accompany the whole exercise. Exchanging knowing looks, but without saying a word, we each donned our gas masks and edged slowly away from the tunnel entrance and gradually covered the short distance to its exit where small groups of boys were coming out enveloped in clouds of smoke. Surreptitiously, we joined one of these groups and stumbled along with them to an area of clear air, then removed our gas masks with the others, coughing and spluttering just as they were. Nobody seemed to notice in the confusion, so we got away with not having to suffer the smoke. It’s interesting to reflect that both of us were willing to smoke a Woodbine, but took the risk of being punished to avoid going through the smoke filled tunnel.

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The third pillar of our training in the Initial Training Squadron was Physical Training, which we usually just called PT.

There seemed to be a graduated plan for developing our physical flexibility and strength, and for the first few weeks we would be taken to PT on alternate days. The first sessions usually consisted of group callisthenics under the supervision of a physical training instructor. As with the RAF Regiment, PTIs were another separate breed with their own unique working uniform that consisted of a V-necked white wool sweater, long navy blue trousers and athletic shoes.

The PTIs demanded discipline, but less harshly than the DIs. Mostly, PT was a welcome relief from drill and education since it was less rigorous than drill and we didn’t have to stand still for long periods. As time passed and we became stronger and fitter, we moved on to more physically demanding challenges like vaulting and somersaulting over a vaulting horse. It was safe because the instructor always positioned himself on the other side, grabbing us as we came over and it was just a matter of making contact with the rough coconut fibre mat on the landing side of the horse. We experienced quite a bit more gym equipment than the vaulting horse: walking on our hands along a set of parallel bars, doing chin-ups on a bar in the corner of the gym and tossing medicine balls around to each other.

Eventually, the frequency of our PT sessions became a daily activity and during much of the time we were subjected to Circuit Training. The “circuit” consisted of a number of stations, each dedicated to a specific exercise. In small groups of two or three boys, we had to spend five minutes at each station in rotation, performing the required activity. For example, at one station we were obliged to step up and down on a bench repeatedly for five minutes, until the PTI blew his whistle as a signal for us to rotate to the next station. The next station just might have been the one equipped with a number of sand-filled metal ammunition boxes. The required activity here was to bend over at the waist, grab a box by its two handles and then continually raise and lower it to the chest until the whistle blew to signal the next rotation.