Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat Read Online Free Page B
Author: Brian Carlin
us—they actually paid us! I couldn’t believe it, but we were all instructed to line up and then as our names were called out individually we would step forward, sign on a sheet of paper against our names and an officer then handed us some cash. It wasn’t much by today’s standards, 21 shillings I think, but it was a small fortune to me. The fact that I was able to buy biscuits and pop from the Sandes Home next door was the height of luxury to me. I told myself that this couldn’t be such a bad life, where they give you money just for showing up.
The Intelligence Test was easy. I loved that kind of test and had lots of previous practice, having passed my 11-plus exam a few years before. The next two tests were a little harder, but not really difficult: just basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, a few fractions, a little algebra and a few written problems thrown in. The written questions were the kind of arithmetical problems that involve farmers who always want to divide their land up in weird ways so that they can spoil some of their sons and be cruel to the others. The English test was mainly comprehension, although I believe we had to write a short essay on “Why I want to run away from home and join the RAF.” No, just kidding, that wasn’t what it was about, although it might have been a good topic, suitable for psychoanalysis. Charlie Cunningham, who was one of the other boys there that day, shared memories of this event with me many years later. He mentioned that a person in RAF uniform stood at the front of the room facing us as we sat at some tables. This person held a list of words in his hand and, as he called out the words, we were expected to write them down on our exam answer papers to test our spelling ability. “Hippopotamus” is the only word that Charlie has managed to hold in his memory down through the corridors of time and personally I don’t recall the spelling test at all.
Between tests, we went to the Sandes Home next door for lunch—fried egg, beans, sausage and chips, just what a growing lad wanted. The food server was a tall, balding man who was physically handicapped because one of his legs was shorter than the other. A special boot with a very thick sole, which he wore on the foot of his shortest leg, compensated for the difference in length between the two. Although it no doubt helped with his mobility, it looked ugly and caused him to walk with a pronounced heavy limp. In the typically cruel fashion of youngsters, we called him Clubfoot amongst ourselves—after a villainous character that haunted many of us through the weekly cliff-hanger episodes of a Dick Tracy serial which had made the rounds of Northern Ireland cinemas just a few years earlier.
Later that night, we were accommodated in an upstairs dormitory in the Sandes Home. It was primarily a Christian mission to military people; a place where financially stretched soldiers, sailors or airmen could get a meal and a bed for the night at a reasonable price, if they were willing to behave like good Christians whilst they were there. I learned later that a Miss Elise Sandes wanted to do her bit to save the common soldier’s soul, so she founded the Sandes Soldiers’ Homes to offer them food, lodging and salvation. I wonder what thoughts might have passed through the genteel lady’s mind if she could have seen one of her dormitories packed with around 100 or so loudly boisterous young teenage boys.
Not one of us could settle that night, because we were so excited about being away from home and out in the big wide world. It must have sounded like a riot from downstairs, because it wasn’t long before Clubfoot paid a visit to us and read the riot act about all the noise we were making. After his departure from the dorm, silence ensued for maybe all of ten minutes and then the noise level was back to full volume again. Clubfoot made several visits that night, getting angrier each time, but eventually we
The Intelligence Test was easy. I loved that kind of test and had lots of previous practice, having passed my 11-plus exam a few years before. The next two tests were a little harder, but not really difficult: just basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, a few fractions, a little algebra and a few written problems thrown in. The written questions were the kind of arithmetical problems that involve farmers who always want to divide their land up in weird ways so that they can spoil some of their sons and be cruel to the others. The English test was mainly comprehension, although I believe we had to write a short essay on “Why I want to run away from home and join the RAF.” No, just kidding, that wasn’t what it was about, although it might have been a good topic, suitable for psychoanalysis. Charlie Cunningham, who was one of the other boys there that day, shared memories of this event with me many years later. He mentioned that a person in RAF uniform stood at the front of the room facing us as we sat at some tables. This person held a list of words in his hand and, as he called out the words, we were expected to write them down on our exam answer papers to test our spelling ability. “Hippopotamus” is the only word that Charlie has managed to hold in his memory down through the corridors of time and personally I don’t recall the spelling test at all.
Between tests, we went to the Sandes Home next door for lunch—fried egg, beans, sausage and chips, just what a growing lad wanted. The food server was a tall, balding man who was physically handicapped because one of his legs was shorter than the other. A special boot with a very thick sole, which he wore on the foot of his shortest leg, compensated for the difference in length between the two. Although it no doubt helped with his mobility, it looked ugly and caused him to walk with a pronounced heavy limp. In the typically cruel fashion of youngsters, we called him Clubfoot amongst ourselves—after a villainous character that haunted many of us through the weekly cliff-hanger episodes of a Dick Tracy serial which had made the rounds of Northern Ireland cinemas just a few years earlier.
Later that night, we were accommodated in an upstairs dormitory in the Sandes Home. It was primarily a Christian mission to military people; a place where financially stretched soldiers, sailors or airmen could get a meal and a bed for the night at a reasonable price, if they were willing to behave like good Christians whilst they were there. I learned later that a Miss Elise Sandes wanted to do her bit to save the common soldier’s soul, so she founded the Sandes Soldiers’ Homes to offer them food, lodging and salvation. I wonder what thoughts might have passed through the genteel lady’s mind if she could have seen one of her dormitories packed with around 100 or so loudly boisterous young teenage boys.
Not one of us could settle that night, because we were so excited about being away from home and out in the big wide world. It must have sounded like a riot from downstairs, because it wasn’t long before Clubfoot paid a visit to us and read the riot act about all the noise we were making. After his departure from the dorm, silence ensued for maybe all of ten minutes and then the noise level was back to full volume again. Clubfoot made several visits that night, getting angrier each time, but eventually we
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