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On the third day we took the Oath of Allegiance to the Queen. This ‘ceremony’ took place in the Station Cinema known, like all RAF cinemas, as the Astra. The cinema was full so there must have been several hundred of us in there. As I remember it, an officer on the stage shouted out the solemn oath split into sound bytes of no more than four or five words at a time and we dutifully repeated them. I idly wondered whether anyone who, for any reason, had merely mouthed the words or pretended to declaim them could be legally enlisted. That thought did not last long because immediately afterwards we individually signed our enlistment papers and were issued with our service number – 4134035 in my case. There was no going back now that we had signed on.
The officer then formally welcomed us into the Royal Air Force with a short speech which went something like this:
"You men have volunteered to serve in the finest of the three armed forces. You have made a wise choice. Wear your uniforms with pride and remember always to refer to the Service as either the Royal Air Force or the R A F, and never – ever – the Raf! Now, how many of you have signed on for just three years?"
Almost everyone put their hands up. His expression, as he cast his eyes around the auditorium, seemed to indicate that he realised those men had merely signed on for the minimum possible term to avoid being conscripted as National Servicemen.
"How many have signed on for four years?" A dozen or so, including me, put their hands up. We were the ones who had been offered or promised technical trades of our choice in exchange for an extra year of commitment.
"How many for five years?" Two or three hands went up.
"Anyone signed on for longer than five years?"
A lone figure put his hand up while everyone else gasped out loud and looked at him with a mixture of awe and incredulity when he admitted that he’d signed on for 12 years. When you’re still a teenager, committing yourself to anything for 12 years seemed both unnecessary and foolhardy. The surprise was so great that I don't think anyone discovered what trade he had been promised.
Shortly afterwards the officer handed over to a Warrant Officer, who seemed nice as pie and ever so friendly. The only thing I can remember of his speech was his assertion that swearing and other forms of foul language were not encouraged in the RAF either in public or in private. In the following weeks I wondered if I had heard him right.
We were then hustled off to the Station Barber’s shop, whether or not we thought we needed a trim, and that evening we were confined to barracks. The following morning we were paid £3 each and told that it was to last us a fortnight. Then it was off to the stores for the issue of uniform and accoutrements. There was a great mass of kit handed out: clothing, from the infamous 'drawers cellular', aka underpants, to shirts with separate collars (we had been told to bring our own collar studs with us from home), vests, PT kit, black ties, blue knitted woolly gloves, boots, a mass of webbing and a kit bag to stow it all in. The cumbersome greatcoat had to be buttoned then neatly folded and carried in our arms. Many of us needed our uniform jackets and trousers tailoring to fit properly and we had to leave them overnight with the tailor. That evening we all started learning the various techniques for bulling the toecaps and heels of our boots.
The following day we collected our uniforms from the Tailor’s Shop and then we were left alone to try it all on and admire ourselves in the full length mirrors at the end of our billet. Still confined to camp, most of us went to the Astra in the evening where we sat through Abbot and Costello in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’! The RAF certainly knew how to entertain their new recruits.
On our first Sunday in the RAF, eight of us from our billet had our first experience of Cookhouse Fatigues. We started at 0700hrs and finished, worn out, at 1900hrs. That evening I wrote in my diary, "I’ll not dwell on the facts as they were not very pleasant. I went to the NAAFI in the evening to have a good meal because I didn’t feel like any of the Mess food!"
On Monday we were issued with our RAF Identity Cards, RAF Form 1250, and were warned that if we ever lost them we would get 14 days ‘jankers’ if we reported the loss, or two years imprisonment if we did not report the loss. For the next 47 years, home or overseas, I never went anywhere without my 1250 – and I never did lose or misplace it although a new one was issued from time to time. I still have my final 1250, although I should not, and still carry it about with me.
Tuesday was the day when we left Cardington, in my case never to return, and moved to the recruit training centre at Bridgnorth in Shropshire. We travelled by special train from Bedford. The five hour train journey followed a very roundabout route, via Stockport, Stalybridge and Shrewsbury. Just outside Stalybridge station we had to wait for a cross-
"We're really in it now," someone near me said softly. Apart from that an eerie silence reigned in the coach on the 30 minute ride to Bridgnorth.
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