Boy Entrant; The Recollections of a Royal Air Force Brat by Brian Carlin

trumpets at a full arms length in front of them with the mouthpiece pointing vertically up and the flared end pointing down towards the ground. Then, at the end of the third and longest drum roll, they brought the trumpets to their lips, in perfect unison and started playing. The sudden blast of noise startled me since I was so close, but it wasn’t unpleasant. I didn’t recognize the tune and in truth, not everyone seemed to be playing perfect notes, but what they may have lacked in musical skill they certainly made up for in enthusiasm.
    The band turned right and then proceeded down the road that we had been following up to this point, marching past the boiler house and towards a complex of billets that I could see in the distance. By this time, the column of marchers was passing in front of us. They were all carrying bundles of khaki coloured clothing of some kind under their left arms, but exactly what these bundles were, I couldn’t tell. As our small group stood there gaping, one of the marchers yelled in our direction, “Hey you sprogs, go back home while you still have a chance!”
    Immediately, a boy entrant with a stripe on his upper arm, who was marching alongside the column, loudly ordered the commenter to be quiet or he’d be put on a charge, whatever that was. We continued to watch as the last of the parade passed in front of us before it too turned right to follow the band down the road that took them away from us. Meanwhile, the sound of the drums and trumpets became ever fainter as they marched off into the distance, until finally it finally ceased altogether.
    What we’d just witnessed was the 2 Wing Drum and Trumpet Band leading Numbers 3 and 4 Boy Entrant Squadrons from Workshops for the midday meal break. And later, I learned that the instruments were indeed valveless trumpets. One other thing I had noticed was that most of the marchers wore berets, not the big hats that we had seen at Cosford.
    As we continued our walk in the relative quiet that now surrounded us, I reflected on the comment that the marcher had flung at us. I’d never heard the word “sprog” in my life before that day, although its meaning was fairly clear from the context and I soon learned that it was RAF slang for a new recruit, sometimes also known as a rookie. But with regard to the comment, as far as I was concerned the marcher was wasting his breath because I hadn’t the slightest intention of taking his warning to heart. For me, the journey here had been a long one, in more ways than one, so I certainly wasn’t going to give it up now.
    When I arrived back at the billet, many of my travelling companions were still lounging around reading, playing cards, or just chatting. Corporal Hillcrest came through the rear door on his way to his bunk. This time, he was in uniform, wearing a sharply creased battledress blouse and trousers and heavy boots that were studded with hobnails on the soles and steel tips at the heels. An immaculate blue/grey webbing belt with its gleaming brasses was clipped snugly around his waist. The loose material of the beret he wore on his head was pulled sharply down over his right ear. Some of the lads called out “Hi, Corp” in a familiar manner. He acknowledged the greeting in a friendly way, and stopped to chat with them and answer their questions. During this exchange, we learned that we were in the Initial Training Squadron, or would be when we took the oath of allegiance. Usually, the squadron was known just by its initials, ITS. Hillcrest was one of several drill instructors attached to ITS.
    Long before coming to St. Athan, I’d heard scary stories about drill instructors, but this chap didn’t seem the slightest bit fear-inducing. In fact he would come into the billet and chat with us most evenings. Usually, during these visits, he would pick up a broom and use it to sweep the main area of the floor, whilst chatting and patiently answering our unending questions about life in the RAF.