"rampage938@btinternet.com" rampage938@btinternet.com RANDY RECRUITS - Chapter 3
Chapter 3 : Arrival Day
After a few hours sleep, everyone was harshly jolted out of their slumbers at 04.00 hours by a deafening blast from an old, scratchy recording of the ancient bugle call known as Reveille. It was a rude awakening, a cruel introduction to the first day of their new lives. DC's thoughts and aching balls could not forget the events of the previous night with Jim. He was horny all through his ablutions, all through breakfast, all through the tedium of being 'processed' before being allowed to board one of a fleet of coaches waiting to take them to King's Cross sidings where their special train would be waiting for them and from where it would depart. They were not going to be allowed to have the luxury of departing from a platform in the usual way. It must have been very obvious to most of the other guys that DC was feeling his oats, because one of them shouted across the Mess, "Hey, DC, didn't you get your end away last night then? Oh dear me, what a pity!" Roars of lewd laughter greeted this banal sally at DC's expense. He made a rude gesture with one finger in the guy's direction, boarded the coach taking them to London and settled into a seat. Try as he might, DC could not disregard the constant, persistent hardness in his groin.
On arrival at the King's Cross sidings they got their first taste of doing things the military way. The coach came to rest near a very narrow raised concrete walkway normally used by railway staff. Pulled up alongside it was their train waiting for them. It was made up of a motley collection of carriages which had been withdrawn from public use due to age. The sight of them gave DC a chill as he recalled seeing a TV programme about a railway disaster at a place called Quintinshill in which a number of soldiers travelling to France during WW1 in a similar death trap were killed, some were burnt to death while others were literally mashed to a pulp.
Nothing is simple to the military mind, oh, no! Instead of the lads all piling off the coach, picking up their baggage and finding a place to sit on the train, they were told to wait where they were. The coach driver left them to it and disappeared into a shed, taking with him a huge manila envelope, which contained all their completed paperwork. A few minutes later, the coach driver came out of the shed minus the envelope, accompanied by two RAF military policemen or 'Snowdrops' as they later learned to call them. The MPs were wearing immaculate blue uniforms. Their cap badges and buttons gleamed, the white webbing sparkled, and their pistol holsters looked suitably menacing - whether or not they held weapons loaded with live ammo no one ever found out. Their boots shone with an almost unnatural lustre - DC was later to learn how that shine was achieved. If you ask any ex-Serviceman how its done, he would rather be shot at dawn than reveal that military secret! Some of the lads were getting bored and frustrated just standing around doing sweet Fanny Adams, waiting for something to happen. In the end, one brave lad declared, "Fuck this. I'm not fucking around here. Let's go back to the station and go for a beer!" He tried to open the coach door but he was not quick enough. With a speed of movement DC would not have believed if he had not witnessed it for himself, the two cops were on that coach quicker than it takes you to read this sentence.
"And where the fuck do you think you're going?" growled one of the MPs close up to the offender's face.
"We're just going for a beer, mate. Getting a bit tired of standing around here."
"Oh, no, you're not." The MP planted himself firmly in the middle of the aisle between the seats, his legs spread wide, arms akimbo. Very little of his face could be seen as it was shaded by the slashed peak of his cap and the fact that it was still pitch dark outside, save for a few paltry dim station lights.
"Sit down!" The would-be rebel did not move - a most unwise decision.
"I told you to SIT DOWN! NOW !!"
The corporal's voice grated through the hushed, confined space of the coach. The rebel's face paled, he audibly gulped and fell back into his seat. The corporal unhurriedly sent his gaze around the now silent body of men. They felt like rabbits confronted by a hungry weasel as his coldly glittering eyes fastened on each man in turn. Then he came to DC. As he stared at him, DC began to feel something with a million spidery legs and feathery feet running up and down his spine. DC's morning hard-on had vanished like the dew before the rising sun and DC cringed, wishing the seat would swallow him. The two gazed at each other for what seemed to be an eternity, but was really only a few seconds. DC knew, instantly, that he had been marked down. Somehow, the corporal had sussed DC was queer, a poof. No doubt he would bide his time, secure in the knowledge that DC would betray himself sooner or later. DC was terrified - he had heard stories about what happened to guys like him who were suspected of having sex with other men in the military. This guardian of military law would carry DC's image in his brain to the end of his days and he would get him, of that DC was certain. He was on the point of collapsing with fear when an extraordinary thing happened. The corporal came up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. DC was aware the corporal must have felt it trembling beneath his hand.
"It's OK, lad, I look after our own in this man's Air Force."
It was said so quietly that not even the guy in the seat next to DC could have heard it, but those words dripped into his consciousness like acid. He sucked in air, licked at his dry lips, and tried to clear his parched throat. The corporal, who had returned to the door of the coach, turned round and said, "Right, you lot. Get yourselves off this bus and form up outside in columns of three." He produced a key and unlocked the door. Those amongst them who had been air cadets or had some limited knowledge of military drill, were able to show the greenhorns what to do and what 'columns of three' meant.
Eventually, they sorted themselves out, retrieved their baggage and were herded like so many cattle on to the train. With little or no ceremony, the train set off on the long journey north to Lavington. Nothing of any note occurred during the rest of that day and when they arrived at their destination and left the train, they experienced the same thing they'd had that morning in London, only in reverse. By the time they had arrived the weather had changed for the worse and it was raining as only it can rain on the North York moors. They had to board another coach to be taken to the recruit camp and headed out on to the bleak, wintry landscape, eventually finding their way to the large RAF base that was to be their home for the next few months. If anyone really thought or expected they would enjoy a 'home from home' environment, they were about to meet with a severe disappointment.
Just about everyone has seen those movies - particularly the American ones - concerning life in 'boot camp'. You must know the sort of thing: new would-be macho recruits arrive full of testosterone, until the Drill Instructors immediately begin screaming and yelling at them. That was the kind of reception our recruits got on their arrival at RAF Lavington. The coach was not allowed to proceed through the main gates on to the sacred and hallowed ground of the base, so they had to scramble off on to the edge of a narrow, dark and drearily wet country lane. They were all thoroughly soaked through by the time everyone's baggage had been off-loaded and married up to its rightful owners. While this was going on, two sergeants had arrived, both toting the ever-present clipboards with sheets of paper attached to them and swagger sticks under their left arms. The soon to be recruits stood around like so many drowned rats while the two NCOs made a show of comparing notes and holding a private discussion about what to do with them. They seemed to be confused why so many young male civilians with baggage had landed up at the base. After a few minutes of this, one of the sergeants suddenly barked out an order.
"Form up in columns of three!" Confusion reigned supreme as the tired, wet and hungry young men tried to sort out their baggage and themselves. This drove the NCOs to despair.
"What the fucking Hell do you lot think you're doing? Just get into line, for fuck's sake." Some semblance of order was eventually achieved but they had been kept standing about in the pouring rain for another thirty minutes or so.
By now the coach had sneaked away so there was nowhere left to go but forwards. They were marched at a smart pace through the main gates, struggling to keep in step and holding on to heavy suitcases and whatever else they had brought along at the same time. One guy obviously thought of himself as a candidate for a pop group as he was encumbered by having a bass guitar strapped to his back. Silly boy! Straight up the main road through the camp they went. Just as DC thought they were going to march straight into the façade of a long, low red brick building in front of them, they were veered right towards a building with a signboard outside clearly reading AIRMEN'S MESS. "At last," thought DC, some decent food" - but no, they went straight past and were confronted by row upon row of low wooden buildings coated with decades of preservative which had turned black. It turned out that these were to be their accommodation huts. This was where they were going to be housed, where they would do all their bullshit chores, keep their uniforms well pressed and clean. It was the most depressing sight that had ever met their gaze. It looked like a film set reconstruction of a wartime Nazi concentration camp. The freezing rain was still pissing down as they were halted in front of a large tarmac covered square glistening with the amount of rain which had fallen on it. They were soon to learn this depressing vision would be central to their lives for the length of their stay at Lavington: this would be where they would learn how to march and drill. The rows of huts had been erected around three sides of the square, the fourth side also boasted a small white dais and a huge flag pole, from which hung a dripping RAF Standard.
"Right you lot," barked the first sergeant. DC decided he must be the senior one as he seemed to be doing all the ordering about. "Listen for your last three, respond by shouting out 'Sergeant', coming smartly - yes, I said 'smartly' - to attention and I will tell you which hut you're going to be in. Get over there quick, find a bed, dump your bags and be back here in fifteen - yes, I said 'fifteen' - minutes. Clear?" A murmured "Yes, sergeant" rippled through the assembled youths.
"I said, is that clear? "
"Yes, sergeant!" came the reply, loud and clear, as if bellowed by a single voice.
"Better. Right, let us begin."
The sergeant began by barking out their last three numbers, barely waiting for the response before snapping out the number of the hut and passing on to the next man. DC's last three came up, he duly shouted out his response in his best air cadet parade voice and received a look from the NCO which clearly indicated his interest in this guy.
"You, 187 Cunningham, you are to go to Hut 14. Understand?"
"Yes, sergeant!" DC picked up his baggage and obediently trotted off, not knowing where in Hell fucking Hut No. 14 was. His guardian angel must have been watching over him as DC quickly found it and he crashed in through the door, only to be brought up short by a bellowed "YOU! Stop right where you are! What's your last three?" DC said afterwards when chatting with some of the other inhabitants of Hut No. 14, "If I'd been a car, my fucking tyres would have screeched and smoked at the way I came to a halt." A burly corporal stood there, with yet another clipboard in his hand - how the military love their clipboards!
"187, corporal!" Again, his air cadet experience was coming to his rescue.
"If you're 187 Cunningham you take the bed on the left, just inside the door. You have been designated by higher authority to be Senior Man, and you will report direct to me. I'm your beloved NCO in charge of this Hut and everyone who occupies space in it. My name is Corporal Trafford and you will address me as that at all times! Not, 'Yes, corp' or 'Please corp'. Corp is not an official rank in the RAF and don't you forget it. Clear?"
"Yes, Corporal Trafford!"
"Right then, fuck off quick and get back to the sergeant outside."
DC quickly found his bed, dumped his baggage and went back outside. The rest of the occupants of Hut No. 14 were all lined up, ready to go. The sergeant brought them to attention and then they set off at the double, back the way they had come until they arrived outside the Airmen's Mess. After a half-cold, semi-congealed meal of pig's liver and onions accompanied by lumpy cold mashed potato, which they wolfed down to stave off the pangs of hunger, an officer came into the Mess accompanied by the two sergeants. In a most civilised voice and with an apparently friendly manner, the officer began to address them.
"Everything alright, men?" A couple of brave souls started to get up to say something about the lukewarm mess they'd had to eat, but they quickly sat down again when the two sergeants glared at them. The officer continued as if he had not noticed the silent spat between the NCOs and the two men.
"Fine. I just want to give you an idea of what is going to happen for the rest of today and tomorrow morning. You will now be taken by Sergeant Adams and Sergeant MacLeish down to the main office in Station Headquarters to complete the documentation processing. After that, you will be taken to get a haircut and then be allowed to return to your barracks to unpack your belongings, make up your beds and retire for the night. Reveille tomorrow is at 05.30 hours and you will be on parade outside the barrack huts at 06.45 hours to be marched back here for breakfast. Good luck!" With that, the officer turned on his heel, returned the NCOs salutes, and marched out.
What followed was a pure nightmare. To begin with, they all had to line up at the far end of the dining hall in alphabetical order of their surnames. Needless to say, there were Mac's and Mc's, St John's, Featherstonehaugh's, and other unlikely names which caught everybody out. The terrible twins Adams and MacLeish had a field day, yelling and shouting and barking orders until their throats must have been red raw. All this was to achieve the simplest of tasks: sorting the recruits out into two Flights: 'A' Flight under the tender care of Sergeant Leo Adams and 'B' Flight under the brutalising heel of Sergeant Edward MacLeish. DC, of course, found himself in 'B' Flight.
Next: Chapter 4 : Untitled