I Got Some In
by
Samuel Reilly
A Memory of National Service
1950 – 1952
THE ROYAL AIRFORCE
Copyright 2011 Samuel Reilly
Smashwords Edition
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Dedicated to all those National Servicemen who served their country in some form or other.
And who, at some time in their service, would be told to “get some in” (service that is) by their old heads who, according to them, had “GOT SOME IN” and get their knees brown if they were overseas!
CHAPTER ONE
THE DREADED CALL UP
I got some in when I was called up in July 1950, just a month after my 18th birthday.
This induced panic in my mother whom you will discover was very protective of my sister and me. Now, within a few short months, we would both fly the nest. My sister married, and me serving King and Country.
We had been on holiday in Ireland and came back to find my call up papers behind the door. Right away my mother started to make arrangements to send me straight back to Ireland where there was no National Service. The small matter of me having to spend at least five years there before I could come back hadn’t occurred to her; and, even then, there was no guarantee I wouldn’t be prosecuted for dodging National Service.
I turned down her offer of a one-way ticket to Ireland but this didn’t put her off. Without me knowing, she contacted our GP and told him I was far too delicate to be called up on the basis that I had had a serious illness when I was five and didn’t go to school until I was six and had been unwell ever since. Not true as far as I was concerned! I had a happy healthy childhood despite my mother’s attempts to stop me doing all the things normal, healthy children did. Needless to say, the doctor was having none of it and my father agreed with him too. Having fought in the First World War and serving well into the 1930s with the TA, the only thing that prevented him from being in the Second World War was that he was too old!
CHAPTER TWO
THE MEDICAL
Shortly after I received my papers I was invited to attend a medical at a school in the centre of Glasgow.
We were met by an array of doctors who proceeded to examine us as to our suitability for service in the forces. The children’s song, “Heads, shoulders, knees and toes; eyes and ears and mouth and nose,” summed the whole thing up very well. The fact that you were standing about in your underwear for quite some time didn’t seem to bother the doctors as much as it did us. Then came the dreaded ‘cough’ where you had to drop your trousers and cough while some stranger held a part of your anatomy that you would rather had not been grabbed! I never understood the reason for this although I think it had something to do with having a hernia.
The medical complete, we were ushered to a classroom to undertake an aptitude test. Before the test began we were spoken to by someone who explained the various tests and how long we would have to complete them. He then said that anyone who had a preference for the RAF would have to be pretty good as “they only take the ‘crème de la crème’.” So, no pressure then!
The stopwatch started and we had to fill in our personal details plus any interests, hobbies and membership of any youth groups. The lad next to me was sat staring at his form for ages after writing his name and address. Finally he turned to me and said, “How do you spell Boys Brigade?”
“Just put BB in capital letters,” I whispered to him. Next we had some spelling, maths and English tests and then it was over. We were told to wait outside for our results.
We were then taken in one by one and I was told I was Grade 1 and had been accepted for the Royal Air Force, much to my mother’s horror and surprise. It was no surprise to me as I considered myself very fit. I had played football, tennis, badminton, table tennis and was an active member of a rowing club, training three times a week and taking part in regattas every weekend during the summer. So, yes, I thought I was pretty fit! Until I got to RAF Hereford to do my basic training that is, but much more of that later!
I met up with the lad who had sat beside me at the tests.
“How did you get on?” he asked.
I told him that I had passed Grade 1. “How about you?” I asked.
“Grade 4,” he said. “What does that mean?”
I hadn’t the heart to tell him he had failed and wouldn’t be going anywhere. Perhaps he was the lucky one. Who knows?
Shortly afterwards I received my instructions to report to RAF Padgate at 06.00 hours on 31st October 1950. Yes, it was Halloween and that should have alerted me to the horrors that awaited me. Very thoughtfully they had included a Travel Warrant for me to get there, not first class of course!
Padgate? I hadn’t a clue where it was. Somewhere in the Midlands, I was told. My Dad came to see me off at Glasgow Central Station to catch the ten o’clock train to London, stopping at Carlisle, Crewe, etc. - you know the drill. My Dad was a man of very few words and even now I couldn’t tell you much about his time in the army. He was a Regimental Sergeant Major and didn’t I know it! That said, he was hard but fair. The only advice he offered me was: “Keep in with the man who feeds you, the man who clothes you and the man who pays you and you won’t go far wrong.”
I managed to find a seat in the busy train. In the compartment were an American airman and his wife. After we left Carlisle I opened my packed lunch, prepared of course by my mother! Along with the usual sandwiches she had packed a large red apple. When the airman’s wife saw it she said, “I haven’t seen an apple like that since I left the States.” I offered her the apple and she accepted it with thanks. The airman picked up what I had thought was a briefcase, but when he opened it, it was packed with miniature bottles of whiskey and brandy which he proceeded to force on me during the rest of the journey in return for giving his wife the apple!
By the time I got to Padgate I was rather squiffy, but all that changed and I soon sobered up when I met my reception committee!
CHAPTER THREE
PADGATE
I arrived at Padgate Station at 05.30 hours. (See how easy it is to pick up the lingo? I’d never heard of the 24-hour clock before!) I waited outside the station, joined now by about six other lads. I had noticed this most peculiar smell and couldn’t place it. The smell, coupled with a cold damp morning and the sight of huge buildings surrounded by massive tanks, gave the place an eerie, futuristic feel. I mentioned the smell, which was pretty powerful, and was told it was coming from the soap works which were the main industry in the town. Unilever - the home of Sunlight Soap and makers of various soap powders - employed a lot of people. Little did I know that when I got to RAF Stafford I would meet one of the Unilever heirs.
At about six o’clock a wagon pulled up painted Air Force blue with the RAF Roundels on it. A corporal and an airman opened and lowered the tail gate of the garrie, as the wagons were called. To this day I don’t know why. We were invited to climb aboard, or rather told to get our arses up there! I can’t say the journey was comfortable as the seats were wooden benches and you felt every bump in the road. Plus we were thrown about and had to hold on to the sides of the wagon and each other! Talk about ‘Health and Safety’!
The journey thankfully didn’t take long and, again, we were invited to get our arses off the wagon and form two ranks, “at the double,” naturally.
My first impression of Padgate was a sprawl of missen huts, a cook house and not much more. This, and others like it, was to be my home for the next eighteen months – correction - the next two years, because the Korean War had just started. Someone in their wisdom decided to add another six months on to the National Service and we would be among the first intakes to enjoy an extra six months at “His Majesty’s Pleasure.” Was I grateful? No I was not!
We were marched to our billet. Well, I say marched. Some of us did, others didn’t. Two or three marched like ducks – left, left, right, right, arms straight out in front - the bane of Drill Instructors, who described them as pregnant ducks! I was lucky I had been in the Air Training Corps and knew a little about drill and how to handle a rifle. Smart Alec, but I would soon be taken down a peg or two! We were told this was a transit camp and we would be kitted out here and then be posted elsewhere for basic training.
CHAPTER FOUR
GET YOUR KIT ON
We were (you guessed it) marched to the stores to be kitted out. This entailed waiting at a long counter behind which were various store men who would throw items of clothing at you, ignoring any attempt to tell them what size you were. To be fair, they had long experience in the job and were probably right nine times out of ten. Shoes (oh yes, shoes for best uniform), not like the Army who wore boots all the time and also boots for drill and work. They did take heed of your size for those. Not so hats. They couldn’t find a beret small enough for me and had to issue me with a forage cap, which they were trying to phase out. Why I do not know. I think caps looked far better on than berets any day; apart from the Marines and Paras who always looked smart to me. Nowadays the RAF wear the modern skipped cap. Very smart!
I had to have a chit issued giving me permission to wear the forage cap, much to the annoyance of many NCOs and officials. In hindsight I was left wide open to be picked on because of my outdated headwear. After we were issued with our kit - “Airmen for the use of” - and a kit bag to store it in, we had to stencil our number on every item of clothing and also stamp our number on our ‘irons,’ i.e. knife, fork, spoon, along with a mug for tea (not purple, that’s another story) which you had to guard with your life. Wages were 13/6 a week, which is 67½ pence in today’s money and lost items of kit were expensive, plus you were likely to be put on a charge if kit went missing.
So now I was officially for the next two years 3130146 Aircraftsman Second Class Reilly S. and the adventure continues. After we were kitted out, we were issued with our bedding. Three biscuits (bits of mattress put together to form a single bed), blankets (two), sheets (two), airmen for the use of.
CHAPTER FIVE
MY FIRST RAF MEAL
After being kitted out, we were treated to our first RAF dinner – sausage, beans and mashed potatoes, followed by semolina pudding (ugh, pass the sick bag!). Holding my very new plate I was given two sausages, beans and then the lad made an attempt to deposit mashed potatoes on my plate. After three tries he finally slammed the utensil down and smashed the plate in two; and then glared at me as if it were my fault! Sausages were to play a further part in my RAF life but you will have to wait until we get to RAF Stafford to hear more.
CHAPTER SIX
WHO’S THAT GHOST?
My first night sleeping in a billet with forty-two other people was a new experience and turned out to be quite scary. Apparently some Airman had hanged himself in the very billet we were in. Whether this was true or just an attempt to scare us witless, it actually worked. Especially for one chap, a young Scots lad from Aberdeen. A fine featured, fair haired boy.
It must have been about three o’clock in the morning. The billet was in darkness. Lights out at 21.30 hours. There was a full moon shining in the window straight on to his bed space giving him a spectral glow! I awoke to the sound of him wailing like a banshee.
“There he is,” he wailed, “the lad who hanged himself. He’s coming in the windae.” He was pointing straight at the window behind me, or ‘windae’ as he called it with his Aberdonian twang. I am not easily frightened, but I surely was that morning. Turned out the poor lad was having a nightmare and it took a lot of convincing to assure him it was nothing more than that. We stayed a few more days at Padgate and then we were paraded and given our training postings. 31131046 Reilly S. to Hereford, home to the RAF Regiment (now home to the S.A.S), who would be in charge of our weapons training and unarmed combat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAF HEREFORD: LET THE TORTURE BEGIN
We were back to the old mantra. Everything done “at the double”: run to lectures, run to meals, P.E., drill and even run to get a haircut. After a week of this however, we settled down to a more civilised march. We were introduced to a lovely man, Corporal Jones by name. As you would guess, Welsh by nature and beast by choice!
His first task was to go around the billets asking us our names and where we came from. Then he picked on the smallest lad in the Flight (‘F’ Flight as it happens).
“Do you like me, Sammy?” he asked in a rather reasonable voice.
“Yes, Corporal,” came the reply.
“You rotten stinking liar!” he screamed. “You don’t even know me. I don’t like you and by the time I’m finished with you lot, none of you will like me.” He was not wrong. Then he spoke to me. “I see by your number you were in the ATC.”
“I was,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “You will get certain favours, starting with you taking charge of my webbing and blancoing, and polishing it every night for eight weeks.” Then he dropped a bigger bombshell. “Because of the Korean War, your training has been extended from eight weeks to sixteen weeks.” Oh joy! Sixteen weeks with him and the other monsters. I did his webbing for a few nights and then another lad came up with a brilliant idea. There were two fire buckets at the top of the billet. So, seeing me trying to cope with my own kit and that of Corporal Jones, he took the corporal’s kit off me, dropped it in a fire bucket and hung it up to dry. I must say it didn’t half look bad and I only had to blanco and brasso a few times to keep it up to scratch. In fact, at the end of our “square bashing,” Corporal Jones congratulated me on a job well done. Little did he know!
CHAPTER EIGHT
SEX SHOCK!
Our first introduction to our training came in the form of a film entitled, “An introduction to V.D. (Venereal Disease)”. In my teens I was interested in girls, but as sport took up a lot of my time I was never in what people would call today a serious relationship. We went out in a mixed crowd and enjoyed each other’s company, but sex was off the menu. After watching this horror film, sex was definitely off the menu! Added to this of course was the fact that, without our knowledge, we had bromide added to our tea, thereby limiting any amount of libido we had in the first place.
Every day was now taken up with drill, marching and rifle drill and, like our first days at RAF Padgate, we had our share of pregnant ducks, not so much marching as waddling. This used to drive the drill instructors mad and leave them red in the face with rage. Of course, anybody who thought it was funny and laughed or tittered would be sent around the square several times with their rifle over their head. The laughing soon stopped after a few sessions of this!
CHAPTER NINE
JOHN WAYNE, STEP FORWARD
My nemesis was a corporal from Yorkshire who took a great delight in calling me “Reely,” despite being told a few times it was Reilly. You soon caught on to when you were being wound up and, if you were smart, you ignored it.
However I had to laugh one morning on parade. The corporal stood there with his drill stick tapping away and calling, “You there, John Wayne,” to which everybody, including me, didn’t respond. He repeated himself, moving down the ranks until his face was level with mine. “You’re John Wayne,” he said. Flattered though I was to be likened to a famous cowboy, I couldn’t see the resemblance myself, John Wayne being 6’ 2” plus, and me only 5’ 8” and weighing in at a massive 8 stone 7 pounds. However, the connection soon became clear. I had been chewing gum before I went on parade and still had it in my mouth, chewing away unawares, hence “John Wayne”, I suppose after the habit of cowboys chewing tobacco in the western films. Surprisingly, the corporal didn’t take the matter further and I didn’t fall foul of him again until a few weeks later.
Every day on parade the Flight Sergeant would come behind the recruits and when his hand fell on your shoulder you were told to get a haircut. This despite the fact that we all had short back and sides from day one. No one escaped and when it happened to me I couldn’t believe what happened next. I went to the barber who, without asking why I was there, went through the motions of cutting my hair. No sooner had I got outside along with three or four other recruits, we were told to get a haircut again despite the fact that we had just had one that we didn’t really need in the first place! This happened to me twice. The third time I caught on to the game. If you were last getting back to the barber you had to have another haircut. The others before you were let off. This time I made sure I wasn’t last and the ordeal was over.
CHAPTER TEN
PAY UP OR ELSE!
It was amazing the ways in which the RAF had of separating you from your money. Apart from the haircut scam, they had a system in place called “Barrack Room Damages,” whereby any damage, in their opinion, done to fittings and fixtures had to be paid for.
In all the time we were stationed at RAF Hereford I cannot recall any damage being done apart from a spare locker, but more of that later. However, we were docked 1/6 (7 ½ pence) per week for every week we were there for a chipped lampshade which was already chipped when we got there! A nice little earner, as Arthur Daley would have said! No amount of protesting was listened to and no attempt was made to replace the lamp shade during our stay there.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KILL OR BE KILLED
The daily grind of drill, unarmed combat training, P.E. and lectures continued as it would every day for the next sixteen weeks. Every day we were marched to a large hanger type building where we did our weapons and unarmed combat training. All around the walls were paintings of Korean soldiers six feet tall with very grim expressions on their faces and captions underneath stating: “Kill or be killed”; “It’s him or you”; “Hesitate with your bayonet and you’re dead.”
Seeing those images every day for such a long time stayed with me for quite a while. This coupled with the training on how to kill using no weapons had a lasting effect.
I was married six years after National Service and, one day, my new wife ran out of the kitchen and, in fun, jumped on to my back. Without thinking, I sent her flying forward over my shoulder and she landed on her back on the floor. I couldn’t convince her that, even after six years, old habits die hard. Then again, I would gladly have killed a Korean soldier given the chance after all the brainwashing we had because that’s what it was - and it worked. Ask my wife!
CHAPTER TWELVE
CARRY ON TEACHING
The lectures continued and one day after a session of drill and P.E. I fell asleep during a lecture on tank warfare. What that had to do with the RAF I don’t know, but then again we were told over and over again by the instructors, “You lot are going to Korea,” which did little to cheer us all up. Hence the reason for the longer training.
The room was very hot and stuffy. One minute I was watching tanks and infantry, the next I was being prodded awake by an officer’s swagger stick.
“Since you were asleep young man, perhaps you would like to change places and carry on where I have left off.” At last, an officer with a sense of humour! I felt myself warming to him. Of course I couldn’t carry on where he had left off, not having a clue about any of it. Apparently I only came to his attention in the dark because I began snoring. To his credit he let me off. Even he was bored with the whole thing!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GAS MASKS ON, GAS MASKS OFF
Just to relive the monotony of drill, lectures, etc, we had the delight of the Gas Chamber. This was a device to give you an idea of what to expect during a gas attack. You paraded in full kit complete with cape and gas mask. The idea was that you entered the chamber with your gas mask on. Crystals were then broken and the gas released. The order would then come: “Gas masks off,” and you had to inhale the gas to give you the impression of a gas attack. My friend, who had a somewhat scientific nature, came up with a “cunning plan” (long before Baldrick) and worked out that with forty-two airmen, if we could be the last two in there wouldn’t be a lot of gas left.
Talk about the best laid plans, etc.; we were told to put our masks on and no talking. However, we were so busy hatching our cunning plan we didn’t realise that we were being observed. We should have known better. We were always being observed. We got the dreaded tap on the shoulder and invited to jump forty places to the front of the queue and therefore be first in (thanks mate!). We entered the gas chamber and were then told: “Gas masks off.” It wasn’t too bad at first and then – wham - the full effects on the eyes were felt. People tried to put their masks back on, but we were made to keep them off for what seemed like ages, although it probably wasn’t. We were then told to put our masks back on and then we had to go outside and run one hundred yards in full kit with our gas masks still on and then take them off. The minute the air hit us we were as sick as dogs, much to the amusement of the NCOs and officers. We were not amused!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THESE BOOTS WERE MADE FOR MARCHING
The other little treat the officers had in store for us, apart from the assault course which came in our final week, was to march us in full kit to Gredon Hill, a mountain about five miles from camp. Gredon Hill was also the name of the base, RAF Gredon Hill. The Welsh called them mountains, but being very Scottish, I wasn’t impressed! I would have said “Brecon Hills” but, hey, what do I know! All I do know is that by now I was beginning to realise just how unfit I was after thinking I was super fit, having taken part in all the sporting activities back home. But back to Gredon Hill.
Halfway up the hill (or halfway down) there was a pub set back off the road. We were halted outside, dismissed and told to: “Go and have a drink, lads. Enjoy yourselves.” Surely these were not the same bullying corporals who had made our lives a misery all this time? Everybody piled into the pub and ordered a drink, paid for it and before anyone could even take a sip, we were told to get outside “at the double” and marched straight back to camp. We should have known leopards don’t change their spots, or corporals their stripes! The next time they tried it, nobody moved. Their little game was up for the time being.
To be honest though, their behaviour was nothing compared to the corporal in the next billet. Lucas by name and mad by nature, hence the name “Mad Lucas.”
I happened to meet a lad that went to the same youth club in Glasgow and he asked me to call round for a chat. When I got there they were all busy cleaning and polishing and cleaning windows (as you do). I managed to talk to him for a few minutes but it was nearly time for lights out. I was about to leave the billet when the corporal appeared and ordered everyone to line up, march around the billet and say goodnight to the fire buckets. I tried to leave, but I was told, “You’re going nowhere until you say goodnight.” Needless to say I didn’t go back to see the lad again as I had no desire to cut the grass with nail scissors, which he had his lot doing or painting stones white. You know the old saying, if it moves, salute it, if it doesn’t, paint it. Very true in service times.