history

96^th Entry History

We assembled at RAF Halton on 14/15th September 1960, the 20th anniversary of the Battle of Britain, a bewildered group, most of whom were away from home on their own for the first time in their lives. Probably no different from any other entry at this time. The first 2 days were spent in civvies, attending to paperwork, being attested (signing on the dotted line), getting used to living and bedding down in a huge room with 15 other boys in 3-Wing or Maitland as it was more properly known, our home for the next year. We were also introduced to Sweeney Todd the demon barber, thankfully Malcolm Prior was a dab hand at providing 'just regulation' haircuts.

Our chaperon and mentor, was an extremely polite Corporal D.I. who was very helpful at first, but this seemed to change once we had been issued with denims to cover our civvies, pending issue of our hairy blue uniforms. The sight of such awkward lads masquerading as troops invoked a monster that was to test our will in the weeks and months to come. We also found out that there were higher ranks than Corporal; some that shouted louder than him and some that didn’t need to shout at all to promote discipline. The latter tended to be officers, they had people to shout for them.

We learned to line up in threes, in order of height, to march, turn left and right and to stop, all in a cohesive body --- eventually.

We were introduced to bull-nights, at first every night and then later once a week, but the inspections came day upon day, week upon week. Inspections of boy and uniform, of room and ablutions, inside and outside the 3-storey building that was our home, inspections at all hours day and night.

After several weeks we were issued with guns, big heavy .303's (the short magazine Lee-Enfield to be precise). We liked our guns and bestowed spit and polish upon them, as we did our boots, webbing and brasses and anything else that didn't move - moving things usually had to be saluted. Everything gleamed except fingers and thumbs, which were grubby and sore from the continuous bulling.

In the fullness of time we were allowed off camp for a weekend, but had to remain in uniform, until the right to wear 'mufti' was earned (navy blue blazer and grey flannels, white shirt and approved tie and black shoes). The first year passed slowly but we became more confident in ourselves and very skilled at marching and rifle drill. We also became skilled in the art of sloping off camp past the snoops, in illegal civvies to partake of an equally illegal pint of ale in the pubs of Wendover, whose landlords were very understanding of apprentice ways, such that they provided parking for cars and motorbikes i.a.w the 1-mile rule.

3-Wing also sent us back to school. Every day morning and afternoon we marched back and forth twixt barrack block and schools to be taught the subjects necessary for our further education, punctuated only by half days doing PT, more drill, or sport, until we thought we would never see a workshop or an aeroplane. When we did it was to file and saw and drill and rivet and bend and solder and similar such things in 'Basic Shops', but hardly ever to smell, feel or clamber over an aeroplane.

The return to camp after our first summer leave saw us moving from Maitland to Henderson wing. We exchanged our yellow cap band for the red one of 1- wing. We had gone from being senior entry in the junior wing to 'rooks' in the senior wing. A bit of a set back to our new found confidence having to mix it with these older more RAF-wise entries.

Schools finished soon and we put more time into workshops, learning about aeroplanes and what made them work, then eventually on to airfields where the final phases of our training came together. Here were real aeroplanes, engines that ran, control systems that responded to our inputs, aircraft that taxied under our nervous marshalling, but sadly never flew. On occasion real aeroplanes came and went. We got to fly in Chipmunks and Ansons, even a Wessex and for some the Slingsby Sedberg glider with its open cockpit was a regular event. One day a Vulcan landed on the grass never to take off again.

Along the way we got into some scrapes, but there were many high days and even some holidays.

Of the high days there was route lining in London, trips to Earl's Court, Stretham Ice Rink and Abingdon for an adventure/team building weekend (this was also a scrape), the many trips out with the various clubs of the Halton society, the car-hill climbs near the pimple, the Entry outings to Great Yarmouth (who remembers pushing the bus and why) and Southend, graduation dinner at High Wycombe (was it an hotel or one of the messes at Strike command), to name but a few. Who put the purple crystals in the fountains in Trafalgar Square (see the window page). Frank Baldry was in a pop group that performed in 1-Wing tank (Naafi) - what was it called?

The scrapes included jankers (more bulling) for any minor misdemeanor (remember the white or was it yellow armband to signify you weren't allowed off camp), being caught with a car or motor bike inside the 1-mile exclusion zone, spending a night in the cells as a result of going a bit 'wild' during the Abingdon weekend and having to be bailed out by the good Flt Lt who extracted most of our wages to pay the fine for weeks afterwards. Someone in 'C' Flt must remember the details (think river and boats, girls boarding school, park benches and trees, police station).

Forfeiting precious weekends to pay penance for minor events that are long forgotten and being subjected to endless drill sessions, inspections, changing in and out of best blue, hairy blue, PT kit, denims and boots at the whim of a masochistic drill instructor as a result. The only consolation was that if we were there so were the DIs. To be fair some of them were good old boys - Barney Meehan would always buy you a half if you stumbled into his local, which was most pubs in Wendover.

Memory being what it is the scrapes seem to have faded faster than the good times, except for the road runs in denims and boots over the ridge to that cafe by the golf course, where you could have a cup of tea and a smoke before trogging back through the woods - I still suffer from creaking ankles as a result.

Who remembers skiving on sports afternoons by doing cross-country and going for a smoke in the 'dust bowl' - the ornamental pond/skating rink in the woods on the way to airfields (read the Halton House book) - but being caught out by the lack of a 'back of the hand' stamp by the PTI's and being made to go round again. so much for an early tea.

Hands up those who had a spare set of 'eating irons' and a plastic mug in their side pack, so they could fall out straight to meals instead of belting into the block for their real ones. Who had his pot mug accidentally dropped on room inspection because it was supposedly 'filthy'.

The climax of our time at Halton came just before graduation, when we were privileged as senior entry to provide Guard of Honour and escort for the Queen's Colour, the only colour party paraded by non-commissioned ranks and to act as ushers at the Dedication of the new St. Georges church; where our own Entry window was dedicated on 7th Nov 2004 and remains unique in having the plain 1963 church window incorporated into our church window which now adds to the blaze of colour that is the current church window.

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