Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat (44 page)

The passing-out parade went very much along the same lines as the 26th Entry’s ceremony, the most boring part of it being the Reviewing Officer’s inspection of the graduates. Of course, several non-graduates also passed out, but in a completely different sense. Were they really fainting, or just skiving so that they could stretch their legs? We’ll never know.

Later, after the parade, it gave me an uplifting feeling to see the 27th Entry residents of our billet change out of their Boy Entrant uniforms for the last time and into their Leading Aircraftsman service uniforms. The black crepe hatbands and cloth LAC badges didn’t appear as colourful as the chequered hatband and wheel-badge discs, but from my point of view, they had greater intrinsic value. I was sorry to see our 27th Entry graduates leave. On the whole, that particular Entry had been a relatively gentle bunch of people, especially those with whom I had shared a billet and although they had frequently asserted their senior-entryhood, it was rarely done in a mean-spirited manner. Those of us who were forced to remain behind shook hands and congratulated our friends as we said our goodbyes to Mick, Titch Eyles, Dave Ward, “Taff” Williams and our Leading Boy—Gerry German. We were sad to see them go, but pleased and relieved that the over-played LPs of Bill Haley (together with his Comets) and the Platters, also went with them. I was fated to have a brief surprise encounter with Mick a few months later, but I never set eyes on any of the others from that day forward.

That evening, after the last stragglers of the former 27th Entry had left the 28th camp for good and the permanent staff had left it for the day, the 28th Entry held a parade to celebrate their brand new Senior Entry status. This was a raucous procession that wound its way around the entire camp, appearing to grow larger every few feet, like a human snowball rolling downhill.

When the 27th Entry became Senior Entry, I accepted it in a fatalistic kind of way, and I’m sure my fellow Entry members did likewise. We were just new to the Wings then, so being a kicked-around junior Entry seemed to be something that we just had to accept. But when the 28th became Senior Entry, I felt a sense of intense irritation with them. After all, we’d been through all of this already with the 26th and 27th Entries and didn’t really feel like dealing with all the after lights-out raids, or the cocky king-of-the-castle attitudes that the 28th assumed from the moment the graduating Entry had marched off the parade ground. In a soul-searching moment, I would also have to admit to feelings of envy. We were now so close to being Senior Entry ourselves, that the sight of these other “upstarts” celebrating while we still had to wait for another three months grated harshly on the nerves.

Meanwhile, the 28th wasted no time in flexing the muscles of their new seniority. They soon set about subjugating the junior Entry by holding mock trials, before which many of the 30th Entry were hauled to defend themselves against mostly dreamed-up charges. The 30th were probably terrified, as we had been before them, but nobody was physically harmed, although many were “sentenced” to involuntary cold baths and similar humiliations.

The 29th were immune from these activities, probably because many in the 28th couldn’t really afford to get on our bad side. Already, several of them had been relegated to our Entry because of their poor phase-test results and although these individuals were still considered to be members of the 28th by their former entry-mates and enjoyed the same privileges, they were conscious that such protection would evaporate with the passing out of the 28th. Others, as yet not relegated, knew they could still suffer that fate if they didn’t pass their final trade testing, so not one of them wanted to burn any bridges. It was a different story after lights-out, however, when absolutely no one was immune under the cover of darkness. The 28th carried out a massive raid on that first night, drunk on the elation of their new status as Senior Entry. Everyone was subjected to the indignity of being unceremoniously tipped out of bed, including yours truly. This time, instead of being scared, I was irritated at having to put up with this night after night as the 28th indulged their collective ego, for what seemed to be a much longer time than it had been with the previous two entries. The only thing keeping my spirits up was the thought that this would be the last time my Entry would have to suffer it.

* * *

Bill, one of the 29th Entry boys in my billet had formed a friendship with Ben, another boy in the billet who had been relegated to our Entry from the 28th Entry. When the 28th became the Senior Entry, Ben assumed their “privileges” according to the unwritten boy entrant code, even though he was now a member of the 29th Entry in the eyes of the authorities. As an extension of their friendship, Ben apparently felt that he could share his new-found 28th Entry privileges with Bill in such things as endowing him with the right to sit with Ben in the Senior Entry seats at the Astra. Although gratingly irritating to his fellow-entry members, Bill’s acceptance of these privileges was fairly innocuous. But Ben’s sharing of Senior Entry privileges with Bill went just a little too far when it came to playing Senior Entry pranks on people of other Entries, especially when the targets were members of Bill’s own 29th Entry. It was in this context that they both plotted an ill-considered prank against my friend Richard Butterworth, who probably appeared to be an easy target because of his small stature.

It happened during the time when Air Ministry workmen were replacing the aging asbestos-based thermal insulation with new glass fibre insulation on the pipes that distributed hot water throughout the camp. Many of us, who were curious enough to examine this new type of insulation, picked some of it up from the ground where it had fallen, only to quickly discover that it was very nasty stuff. When handled, the hair-thin glass fibres unfailingly pierced the unprotected skin of our hands and then broke off at the surface, leaving behind small lengths of fibre embedded under the skin that caused maddening itching and irritation for several days afterwards. No amount of hand-washing would remove the fibres and so they remained until nature somehow dealt with the problem in its own way.

On learning that the glass fibre was imbued with these rather unpleasant characteristics, Bill and Ben came up with the idea of using it to play a prank on Richard. But with the short-sightedness typical of youth, they didn’t think it through very well, with the result that the prank turned out to be anything but funny.

With a supply of glass fibre stashed and ready to be used, the pranksters waited for an opportunity to implement their plan, which came one evening when Rich and I went to see a film at the Astra. With the coast clear and probably with no witnesses around, they put a generous sprinkling of glass fibre in between the sheets of Richard’s bed.

When Rich and I came back to the billet after the film had finished, we still had an hour or so to go before bed-check, so we got our uniforms ready for the next morning’s working parade inspection and then lay around on top of our beds reading or chatting. We noticed knowing glances between Bill and Ben, but failed to connect them to anything in particular. It’s possible that we checked for an “apple pie” bed, which was a harmless and popular prank that was sometimes played on people who were out of the billet for a lengthy period in the evening. It involved remaking the victim’s bed in such a way that it appeared deceptively normal, when in fact the bottom sheet had been folded back up over itself and the top sheet folded downwards towards the foot of the bed. The blankets were then pulled back over the sheets in normal fashion and the tail end of the bottom sheet (which was now at the top of the bed) turned down to make it appear to be the top sheet. When the unsuspecting victim tried to get into bed, he found that he could only get his feet halfway down under the sheets before encountering the fold. Usually, this was just about the time for lights-out, so he had the annoying task of having to strip off his blankets and sheets to remake the bed.

But, if indeed we checked, it seemed that we found no evidence of an apple-pie and so the glass fibre lay undiscovered, waiting to do its nasty work later. The Orderly Corporal came into the billet and made his routine bed-check a few minutes before lights-out. Then, at 10 o’clock, the Tannoy announced “Lights out!” and with that, Leading Boy Tunstall, Gerry German’s replacement, came into the billet and ordered everyone into bed before turning off the lights. As usual, we listened to the “
Last Post and Evening Hymn
” as it played over the broadcast system. There was always a little chatter that tapered off as we dropped off to sleep.

But sleep didn’t come easily for poor Richard. In fact it didn’t come at all. Multiple sharp brittle glass fibres began to pierce his skin and then break off to leave small irritating pieces of glass embedded in his flesh. He tossed and turned, but the more he moved around the worse the problem became, until most of his body seemed to be on fire. There were stifled snickers from the surrounding darkness as the anonymous perpetrators relished the sounds of his discomfort. Hearing them didn’t make his suffering any easier. After about an hour of this torture, he got out of bed and went to take a bath. By now, he realized the cause of the unbearable itchiness and his immediate preoccupation was to find some relief. Half an hour later he came back to the billet sobbing audibly and uttering a few choice obscenities aimed at his unknown tormentors. Obviously, bathing hadn’t helped, which wasn’t very surprising since the fibres were too deeply embedded in his skin to be washed off.

At first, Richard tried to get dressed, but the clothing only seemed to make the irritation worse, so he gave up on that idea. Instead, he donned a pair of P.E. shorts and then wrapped his groundsheet around the upper part of his body, before setting off on the long trek to Station Sick Quarters at the other side of the camp, where he hoped the medics would be able to do something to ease his suffering.

Richard didn’t return to the billet and his bed of horrors again that night, nor did he show up for workshops next morning. In fact, we found out later that he’d been admitted to the nearby RAF Hospital.

The doctors and nurses treated the inflamed areas of Richard’s body with soothing creams and ointments and at the same time questioned him as to how he had come to be in that condition in the first place. Without giving anyone away—not that he knew who the culprits were anyway—he told the medics that someone had put the glass fibre into his bed as a joke. The medical staff didn’t seem to think it was very much of a joke and took a much more serious view of the incident. First thing next morning, the telephone in our Flight Commander’s office rang shrilly. When Flight Lieutenant Grafton picked it up, the Hospital Medical Staff briefed him on Butterworth’s situation and the very uncomfortable night that he had spent.

On returning to the billet at lunchtime, after my midday meal, I expected to find Richard waiting there, but he was still missing. This left me continuing to wonder what had happened to him, but my thoughts on the subject were soon disturbed by the sound of several heavy, purposeful footsteps entering the billet. This intrusion seemed to portend something unpleasant, but before my consciousness could register anything else, the first of the intruders, Corporal Longfellow, barked the order, “Stand by your beds!”

Everyone in the billet leapt to his feet, most of us hastily donning our tunics and fumbling with the buttons and belt so as not to be “improperly dressed”. Sergeant Savoury followed behind Corporal Longfellow into an atmosphere that had suddenly been transformed from relaxed to electrified, as both NCOs clumped up the centre of the billet floor. But there was more to come. The light streaming through the open front doorway was eclipsed by another figure, but there was no need to guess the identity of the new arrival because we all recognized the slightly rotund silhouette of our Flight Commander, Flight Lieutenant Grafton.

As the officer entered at a relaxed pace, Corporal Longfellow yelled out, “Billet, att-en-SHUN!”

Immediately, we all came to attention as Grafton walked casually to the centre of the room and paused for a moment, seemingly gathering his thoughts. Then he began, “Last night, Boy Entrant Butterworth was admitted to the hospital.” He paused for effect and then continued, “Butterworth was suffering from a painful skin condition brought on by a stupid prank played on him by one or more of his fellow boy entrants.” Another pause and then, “To his credit, Butterworth was either unable or unwilling to name the instigator of this deed, but I know as certain as I’m standing here that it was someone in this billet.” He paused again and then spoke in a slightly lower but somehow more menacing tone, “This may have seemed to be a huge joke to whomever was responsible, but let me assure you that it was a very serious prank to play on an unsuspecting individual.” Grafton allowed his words to sink in for a few moments before continuing, “Now, I want the person or persons responsible to prove that they are men, by owning up here and now.” He glared around at all of us, and even though we were standing at attention with our eyes looking straight ahead, I could still feel the intensity of his laser-like gaze as it raked around the room.

Almost immediately, Ben took a step forward. Bill hung back for a few seconds, but then he also took one pace forward. Both now stood prominently in the centre of the floor waiting, as we all did, for the wrath that would surely descend on them. Inwardly, I felt both relief and surprise. Relief, because we were no longer all suspect and surprise because I had never suspected either of these two individuals, especially Bill who was, after all, a member of our own Entry.

Grafton walked across to where they stood, going first to one and then the other, each time standing directly in front of the person at a very close distance to silently glare directly at them. Both were bright red.

Finally, he stepped back. “Do you realize that you put a poor fellow in hospital and caused him a great deal of suffering?” The question was directed at both.