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An old friend, Ben Davies, telephoned me this morning. At first, to my shame, I had difficulty in placing him, as we last met more than fifty years ago. As we reminisced the mists of time rolled back and I suddenly 'pictured' his young face as a Boy Entrant Telegraphist, of the Second Entry, R.A.F. Compton Bassett. I was moved to write this poem, which is dedicated to all my old comrades and the R.A.F.B.E Association. There I was, fiddling on the internet, A little tweak here, a little peek there. Quite suddenly I stumbled across it. And past memories soared up into the air!
I remembered then, fifty five years ago, When I was young, at the top of my form. How I joined the R.A.F., as a boy of sixteen, And other memories then began to dawn.
For I had stumbled across a web site, That was set up to cater for me, And many other young adolescents, Whose lives would be linked, inextricably! You see, we had joined as entrant boys, And we had not the slightest idea, Of the sudden shock, we were about to undergo, But, quite soon, it became very clear!
Stand to attention! Keep your mouth shut! March at the regulation pace! Pick up that litter! Do as you're told! And keep that smile of your face!
Keep your thumbs along the seam, Don't stand there, like a sack. What on earth made you join up? Be quiet! Don't answer back! Scrape those brasses! Polish that glass ! Slide, on pads, across the floor! Square those blankets and those sheets! Oil those hinges around the hut door!
Get to work and 'bone-up' those boots.
Give
the toe-caps a lustrous shine!
The
back of a toothbrush, polish, spittle and ink. The more enterprising used a spot of urine!
Keep
up the 'bull', you'll not sleep tonight!
There's
an inspection, first thing in the morning.
If
the officer's gloves find one speck of dust, You're on a charge, without further warning!
They
called a charge a 'fizzer', a 252,
It
was serious, certainly no lark!
I
remember the punishment they gave to me. Sieving dustbins, by torchlight, after dark!
Oh! yes, Inspections caused quite a frenzy, We were rushing about, all on the 'go'. Our hut wasn't there to be lived in, It had been put there merely for show!
Everything
so strict, no liaisons allowed.
Looking
back, I really do wonder,
Just
how we adapted to this very hard life, And Sgt. Bell's voice, which sounded like thunder!
Earphones
were the order of the day.
Dots
and dashes made our ears ring!
Condensers,
resistors, circuits and valves. Fault finding became the 'in thing'!
And
what other memories do I recall,
That
have lain dormant, so deep in my mind?
Sgt
Bell's pace-stick, thwacking someone's legs, An action, I thought then, so unkind!
I
was not at all pugilistically inclined,
But
a typed list on the notice-board appeared.
We
had to fight each other, of about the same weight And after that I was then, 'volunteered'!
Mike
Thomas fought at light heavyweight,
Whilst
my weight was registered as light,
But
we had to submit to a training regime, That kept us awake half of the night!
We
trained, we skipped, did press ups and all,
We
practised weaving, defence and attack,
And
then we had to run, for mile after mile, Way out to the 'White Horse' and back!
A
lot of this, you know, by dawn's early light.
Frozen
by every breath we had to take.
Then
to the cook-house, for a mug of sweet tea. Before the rest of the 'Boys' were awake!
Later
on, when I'd got to 'know the ropes',
Sgt
Bell said, "Test out your punch, just in case."
"Pretend
you're in the ring, at your very next fight, And punch me right in the face!"
Well
I was never one to disobey orders,
And
I gave him a good 'un, to make him think!
Do
you know, he just shrugged his shoulders, And didn't give as much as a blink!
Now,
I've used just a touch of poetic license.
He
threw up a hand and caused me to slip.
But
my left lead still hit the target. As evidenced by the blood blister on his lip!
And
Flt. Sgt McDonald, now what can I say?
Sardonic,
humorous and benign.
Describing
his many words of wisdom, As pearls, being cast before swine!
'Midst
it all though, there was a friendship,
A
deep and true camaraderie.
As
we took a great pride in all that we did. By doing it, so faultlessly!
We
swung our arms, in sweet accord,
We
marched as if we were one.
Many
eyes were raised when we were on parade. Our performance could not be outdone!
Addressing
an officer to the front!
Inclining
direction on the march!
Double
time, change step; we performed with ease ! And caused many an eyebrow to arch!
In
a sense I was very privileged,
Because
I marched along at the side.
And
these lads showed such precision, That I experienced a real sense of pride!
On
the day of the passing out parade,
I
carried a glittering sword.
And
I witnessed a superb marching display, As not one action was untoward.
Thus
our time, as boys, came to a glorious end,
And
we all went our separate ways,
But
the memories, and the very hard times that we shared, Will be with me to the end of my days!
To
those who helped shape our very young lives,
Flt
Sgt McDonald and Sergeant Bell,
And
others I'm afraid whose names I, sadly, forget, Yours was a job that was done very well!
Later
on, at a commissioning parade,
I,
once again, carried the sword,
But,
in my mind's eye, I was a Boy Entrant again, And it is them I now, vociferously, applaud!
For,
whatever we did and wherever we went,
We
maintained an essential precision and pride.
You
can still tell a Boy Entrant, by the swing in his step,
And
the exemplary length of his stride! by I. Waswun Author: Trevor Durbidge Copyright © 2003 [TJD]. All rights reserved. Revised: October 30, 2007 . I would welcome any comments from 'the boys' as to how I can improve this page. If anyone has any other photographs that would be appropriate to include, or indeed other experiences to record, then please let me know. |