Arrival at RAF Cardington

The Medical Officer inspected our genitals, moving them up and down and from side to side with the pointed end of a pencil which he also used to make notes on a clip board as he went along. He was, he told us, looking for signs of unmentionable diseases

National Servicemen and regulars were strictly segregated in 1953; in fact I didn't meet any National Servicemen until after I had completed my initial  ‘square-bashing’ at Bridgnorth. But, first of all I had to report to the RAF Reception Centre at Cardington near Bedford. Seven of us travelled as an official group from the Recruiting Office in Leeds. When we arrived at Bedford railway station at about 1700 we met up with dozens more like us and we were taken on to Cardington in a fleet of RAF coaches. As soon as we arrived we were issued with 'hairy' blankets, knife, fork and spoon, and our bed numbers.

After finding the bed that matched the number we'd been given, we had some afternoon tea and then hung around until 1930 (actually they told us 7.30 pm because most of us still did not know the 24-hour clock) when we went to a gymnasium for a short medical examination. We learned later that this type of medical examination was called an FFI - free from infection. We took all our clothes off apart from underpants and stood in a line on long, low benches while the Medical Officer passed in front of us. As the MO approached each individual, a flight sergeant ordered us to drop our pants. The officer then closely inspected our genitals, moving them up and down and from side to side with the pointed end of a pencil, which he also used to make notes on a clip board as he went along. He was, he told us, looking for signs of 'unmentionable diseases'. When he'd inspected us all, he gave us a talk about Early Treatment rooms. ET rooms were, he told us, located behind the main guard room at all RAF stations and the medicinal creams we would find in the room could be used, in confidence, at any time if we thought we might have contracted a venereal disease and were too ashamed to report sick. There was a book in each ET room that had to be signed with number, rank and name, but he assured us that was merely to keep a record of what had been used so that the medical materials could be replaced. Pull the other one, we thought! We learned later that FFIs always took place on return from leave when airmen, but not officers, were deemed to be in greatest need of them. ET rooms remained a feature of RAF life for many years.

Apart from the FFI in a gymnasium, everything at Cardington seemed to take place inside long, low huts that stood on stilts and were accessed by a short flight of wooden steps. Because we had not yet had any training we couldn't be marched from place to place so we were permitted to wander in a loose gaggle. We looked at each other in surprise - this was not what we'd expected.

There were about 50 of us in our group so everything took ages. I was both relieved and delighted to find that regional accents were quite acceptable. There were many in our group from Belfast, Glasgow, Cardiff, Newcastle, Liverpool and Birmingham. I suppose that reflects where the main recruiting offices were. There appeared to be no-one from south of Birmingham - except Cardiff.

Next morning there was another medical in a different location. I can still remember the long, intimidating sign outside the hut to which we were directed. The sign indicated that this was the ‘Otorhinolaryngological Diagnostic Establishment’. Because we were moving from hut to hut without any advance knowledge of what was coming next, one of my fellow recruits asked a passing corporal what went on inside. He replied with a straight face, ‘Don’t ask. It’s better you don’t know - you’ll find out soon enough!’ It was, of course, simply a routine ENT inspection.

Once the medicals were over we went to yet another hut to take some basic aptitude tests and then it was time for dinner or, as the southerners called it, lunch. My diary records that whatever you called it, it consisted of rabbit pie for main course, then prunes and semolina pudding for afters. In the afternoon we were given information about the various trades that were on offer. A completely new trade structure, known helpfully as the New Trade Structure, had recently been introduced into the RAF, offering a choice of 21 trade groups from which we could select. I knew that I was going into Trade Group 4, wireless mechanic, because the Recruiting Officer in Leeds had already arranged that. Most of the other recruits had not at this stage been allocated a trade. It seemed odd to me that so many were willing to sign on as regular airmen without being guaranteed the trade of their choice. Some were waiting to see what was on offer but I was surprised to find that quite a large number wanted to work in Officers’ Messes as what was known as Batmen/Waiters, a euphemism for officers’ skivvies. This was, apparently, because it was generally thought that batmen had an easy time. Another group wanted to sign on as MT Drivers - because, surprise, surprise, it was generally thought that drivers had an easy life and an added advantage was the free training leading to civilian heavy goods vehicle driving licences. The majority of my fellow recruits were signing on for three years in the RAF simply to avoid being drafted for two years National Service in the Army!

I discovered during the course of that first day that few of the recruits had gained any GCEs before leaving school; I was certainly the only one with six.

‘You should be a POM,’ said one of my fellows with the air of someone who knew what he was talking about.

‘What’s a POM?’ I asked.

‘Potential Officer Material,’ he replied. ‘With all those GCEs you should be an officer. I bet you they soon make you a POM.’

Some instinct warned me not to mention that I'd already been to the Aircrew Selection Centre and been rejected.

On the third day we took the Oath of Allegiance to the Queen. This ‘ceremony’ took place in the Station Cinema, 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 for or five words at a time, and we dutifully repeated it. 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.

‘You men have volunteered to serve in the finest of the three armed forces,’ he said. ‘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.

‘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 and everyone 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.

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.

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 to last us a fortnight and 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 ‘cellular drawers’, aka underpants, to shirts with separate collars (we had previously been told to provide our own collar studs), 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. Most 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 Station Cinema, 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 0700 and finished, worn out, at 1900. 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. So what's all this political fuss in 2007 about whether or not to introduce compulsory UK Identity Cards?

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 across-Pennine train to pass. I could hear the station announcer proclaim that it was the train for Huddersfield, Wakefield and Leeds. I had a momentary ;pang of home sickness but that disappeared as on as we started moving again. The final miles from Shrewsbury were on a single line track through beautiful countryside. When we de-trained we were greeted by what seemed like dozens of corporal drill instructors shouting and bawling. That was more like what we'd been expecting. The instructors eventually sorted us out into four flights, numbered 13 to 16, before loading us onto coaches for the drive to RAF Bridgnorth.

'We're really in it now,' someone near me said softly. Apart from that silence reigned on the 30 minute ride to Bridgnorth.

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