FORTY YEARS

Is it really that long ago? Forty years? As a young 17 year-old teenager, Forty was a really old person, like my Mum and Dad who were both in their Forties. Bloody hell, I’m older now that they were then. What must have gone through their mind when those papers arrived.
“It’ll do you good lad” said Dad
“No- don’t go Ian, stay and become a Teacher – you’re good at writing stuff”
Mum was adamant, she didn’t want me to go.
Dad did drop me off at Portchester Station. Mum couldn’t face it, she stayed at home.
I remember her crying all the time when we were in Singapore and my older brother had stayed in the UK .
She was emotional then, so Christ knows what she was like when I left.
Then, I was her favourite, despite the denials!
That journey, for the first time I was on my way to London , via Portsmouth Station. Watching loads of Matelots getting off the train, I was getting on. Maybe I should have joined the Senior Service, but no – my fascination with aircraft was coming to fruition. I had loved aeroplanes since a kid, and did the proverbial Airfix models (Yes and burnt them with lighted matches too) had hung from the ceiling in the bedroom. Maybe I was an early glue-sniffer. Who knows?

Up to ‘The Smoke’ and on the nasty Underground, and out to Marylebone Station.
“Wendover, Wendover – where the hell is that?? What bloody train have I got to get”

Wendover. That’s what it said on my wrinkled Travel warrant – I had read it a thousand times on the way up to London .

Then, I spied them – a group of lads about my age, loitering around – smoking (them were the days!) and chatting. I casually pulled out my packet of 10 (hidden from my parents) and lit one up.
I was grown up, smoking a fag in broad daylight – nobody cared or said anything. I was one of them.
“Alright Lads?” I enquired
“Fik off” came the reply. Bloody hell, a ‘Jock’,
I was out.

         “You guys off to the Air Force then?” was the retort
         “Wits it to you shitey?” bellowing smoke in my face.
God, what a great start to a long day.
         “OK, only asking – but I’m joining the RAF today, and wondered if…”
         “Yes we are too”, said another.
         “Mind if I join you?” I pleaded
         “Fik off” said the Jock
         “Where you from kid?” said a Ginger bloke
         “Fareham, near Portsmouth ”
         “F*ckin’ Pompey eh?” said Ginger..
That name was to stick with me for the next few years.
         “OK Pompey, get in with us”

I was in, again!.
We boarded the train like a bunch of rabble. The money Dad had given me had been spent in the Station bar – Inde Coopes all round.
“F*ckin English shite beer” screamed the Jock
“Fik off” we all said in unison.

So there we were, getting off the train at this strange place – ‘WENDOVER’, said the sign.
There they were, in grey (it’s Blue Serge – we were told later) waiting for us.
         “Watch them shout at us” said Ginger
         “OK lads, all on the bus outside” said the smiling corporal, not much bigger than me – but his shoes were like mirrors, and his peak cap split and down over his face.
         “Come-on, lets have you!” was his ‘war cry’ (Remember him lads – Jock Young!!)
(No, it wasn’t Delia who first said it years later – it was Jock Young)
We got on the bus, and waited, and waited
         “Another train due in 35 minutes”
I was getting hot under the collar,
         “Let’s fikin’ go” cried our Scottish mate
So we went.
It was a bus ride to hell, I think it was the same bus as took me to school out in Singapore in the early 60’s, I swear I was in the same seat!
         “Shite, look at that” gasped Ginger
The sign said – “Royal Air Force Halton, No 1 School of Technical Training”
We swung into the camp, straight up a hill and then onto the Parade Ground. This was the ‘Mad Acre’ Dad had told me about (he was ex-Navy, but went through basic training like all our lot)
         “Ok Gents just line up and answer your names” said the tiny Corporal
Then a roll-call. Alphabetical of course, I answered when hearing my name.
         “Here” I answered
There were a few missing, so we all swanned off and lit up our fags.
         “NOT ON MY FIKIN’ PARADE GROUND’ came a voice booming with a Northern Irish accent.
         “Shit” we thought
         “You want a tab, get off my space – I am Sergeant Meehan, your Father, Your Mother and Your God for the next few weeks.”
         “Wanker” came over from the back...
         “You’ll be doing plenty of that - boys” was the answer from the red-faced Irishman.
We were then walked to a large red-bricked building, in amongst other red-bricked buildings. They all looked the same.
         “OK Gents, this is your new home – York Flight”
The rush for the front door was quite frightening, talk about sheep through a gate.
         “Your rooms have been freshly cleaned for you lads, and your Mum will be here to tuck you in tonight” said the lean Sergeant.
         “You have been allocated rooms by your chosen trades, but some of you will be integrated with others, so just look at the list and find your room” retorted the small Corporal.
I waltzed into the ground floor room, eventually finding an empty bed. Throwing my suitcase (yes a suitcase lads) onto the bed, I then tried it for comfort – not bad, soft and springy, and I mean springy – noisy springy too.
Looking around, we were all very young (some of us were just over 15 – school leaving age then) but I was 17, one of the older ones.
         “Hello” I said to one lad.
         “Got any Fags?” said this Southern Irish accent
         “Down to my last two” I replied
         “Good, only want one of them” was the answer.
I handed it over in intrepedation.
         “Loight please”
         “OK” as I took the matches out of my pocket.
I noticed how yellow was his two right-hand fingers.
         “How long have you been smoking? I asked
         “All me Fekkin loif” was the smiled replay.
And I thought I was tough after smoking for 3 months. Well you learn something new every day.

That evening I discovered that there were guys form all over the country; there were Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Geordies, Yorkies, East Anglians , Londoners, Cornish, kids from all over. All of us were so young and so far from home.

The first evening I spent walking around the camp with a lad called Paul, he was from Boston in Lincolnshire . We chatted away until finding our way back to the block.
Now this was strange. Guys walking down the aisle (soon to be called The Centre Deck) with towels around their waists, all chatting away as if they’d known each other for years. Some of them outside on this glorious evening smoking, chatting and gesticulating (later to go blind!).

The first night was very strange, we had been left alone. There were creeping noises, snoring noises, farting noises too. Even guys in bed SMOKING. The small ember of their fag, lighting up their bed space in a moment of inhalation.

It was morning. And early. Years of Colonial Schools in Singapore and Paper Rounds stood me in good stead for early rising. Some found it hard to get up. Some couldn’t get up BECAUSE they were hard….me? my organic alarm clock (the bladder) always did it for me.
I crept down the aisle (Centre Deck) with my towel slung around my slim waist.
         “Morning Shitey”…it was the Jock. “How’s it goin’?”
         “Okay I suppose” and we both stood at the porcelain urinals relieving ourselves.
         “Ahhhh, better than sex sometimes” said the Jock “A lang Pish that is”
         “Wouldn’t know mate” I replied “Only do short pisses!”
         “C**T” was the reply, and he smiled and walked off.
Washing amongst others was a new experience for me. Used to the queue for the family bathroom, waiting for the water to get hot – but there it was INSTANT HOT WATER, (not used to this methinks)
After a ‘Lick and a Promise’ I made my way back to the bed space, dressed and made my way over to breakfast at the mess. Others followed, as I followed others.
Our first meeting with the other Apprentices were met by jeers and rousing choruses of ‘Rookies!
         “Fik off” said our Jock
There was screams of laughter form the others
         “He won’t last long “said one ‘erk (He didn’t)

The final countdown began as we were ushered up some stairs above the Mess. There were tables and chairs neatly lined up around the room. Reams of paper stood on the tables and you couldn’t help noticing a large Union Jack and RAF Insignia in the corner. They had laid it on really thick for us, various gasps were heard after pictures of Aircraft and guys in uniform were all round the room...

Each one of us stood in line at various tables, answering our names, and eventually been given a sheet of paper with our details. We were asked to sign on the dotted line, and then a huge ‘crump’ as the officer behind the desk stamped my paper.

“You are Q8014051 Craft Apprentice Hovey I.D, you will remember and ALWAYS remember your number, especially your last three 051”

“I am not a number, I am a free man” I quoted from the TV series ‘The Prisoner” with howls of laughter echoes echoing around the room.
         “Smartarse eh, the whole world LOVES a smartarse Hovey” said the Zob
We stood together and swore allegiance to Her Majesty, The Queen and other stuff (Can’t remember exactly)
We walked down the stairs, chatting and laughing. Then it started
         “Right you ugly shower – HAIRCUTS NOW!!, then DENTIST” Barney Meehan screamed, pointing down the road
         “At the double, you’re min e now , you hairy bunch of weemin’ – short back and sides for all of you”
It was downhill from then on……………