Airman Training
RAF Bridgnorth camp was actually nearer to the Shropshire village of Stanmore than Bridgnorth but couldn't be called Stanmore because there was already a famous RAF station of that name in Middlesex. We could see the station’s water towers on the top of the ridge for quite a while before we arrived at the main guard room where we were ordered out. I wrote in my diary that evening:
‘When we arrived at the camp we were greeted by the raucous shouts of the corporals. I don’t think they are as bad as they sound; ours is quite decent anyway. Tomorrow will be the first of 55 days of hard work.’
After being shown to our billet, hut number 162 with 22 beds, we changed out of our best uniform, in which we'd travelled, and set about cleaning all our kit, and the billet, ready for the morrow’s inspections. We learned that we were now 13 Flight, one of four flights in C Squadron. We wore a green disc behind our beret badge to denote that we were members of C Squadron. Our own corporal assured us that 13 Flight would be the best flight in the Wing or he would know the reason why!
I was vaguely surprised that we spent a lot of time in the next eight weeks sitting in classrooms listening to lectures. I think I'd expected that we would spend most of our time doing drill, firing guns, cleaning our kit and our barrack room, and generally acting like soldiers. Our first lectures, which took up most of the first morning, were given by a Catering Officer and an Education Officer and I didn't record in my diary what either was about. I do recall that throughout my service the RAF was always very keen on general education. In the afternoon we had lectures about the history and traditions of the RAF, the badges of rank, and how to recognise the corresponding ranks in the other Services. Then followed our first formal drill lesson.
Before we could start square-bashing on the move, we had to learn how to stand to attention: heads back, looking straight to the front, stomachs in, fingers loosely clenched, with the thumb to the front not tucked in and running down the line of the seam in our trouser legs. In the early marching lessons, long before we were issued with rifles, some airmen found it difficult to start off from the halt without getting themselves into a tangle. Time and time again we practised because it took some of them a long time to get the hang of it. The drill instructors were quite patient!
‘Step off with your left foot,’ barked the Drill Instructor. ‘Take a full thirty inch pace – nothing less, nothing more. At the same time bring your right arm smartly forward to waist height and push your left arm smartly to the rear to waist height. Don’t bend your arms at the elbow – that’s what women do! If you all take a full thirty inch pace and move your arms correctly, there’ll be no collisions!’
The RAF didn't go in for swinging arms shoulder high; some of the lads who had served in the Air Training Corps or Combined Cadet Force had to remember that. Others found it well-nigh impossible to keep exactly in step with the man in front and they were always very slightly out of synchronism with the rest of the flight. Some seemed to have an irresistible compulsion to swing their left arm forward in time with their left foot, and right arm with right foot. This was known as ‘tick-tocking’ and once started, it was extremely difficult to stop it and get back into sync with the rest of the flight. It looked highly amusing and inevitably caused those immediately behind to trip up, leading to a complete collapse of discipline. Fortunately I never succumbed to tick-tocking. The Warrant Officer at Cardington had actually been correct in one respect: there was very little gratuitous swearing, just a lot of mild cursing and haranguing.
The days passed surprisingly quickly and were mostly enjoyable. We quickly settled into a routine of early rising, cleaning the billet for morning inspection, and then off to breakfast. For this we had to form up into a flight in three ranks at the front of the billet, march to the Airmen’s Mess, mug and irons clasped behind our backs in our left hand, right hand swinging smartly waist high, to front and rear. Anyone caught going to or from the Mess separate from the main marching flight was in trouble. When we had eaten, we cleaned our knife, fork and spoon by dipping them into a near boiling cauldron of water at the exit. So efficient this was that at first we thought there must be some sort of detergent in the water, but it was just plain water and nothing else. We never did know for certain whether the RAF caterers put bromide into our tea as legend would have it.
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