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

On occasions, he would even ask us, in friendly manner, to sweep the areas around our own beds.
    Hillcrest also demonstrated the use of the strange-looking implement I had noticed nestled with the brooms on the day of our arrival. It turned out to be a floor polisher and was known as a Bumper. RAF issue wax floor-polish, which was bright orange in colour, was usually dolloped onto the linoleum floor and then spread around and worked in by pushing the bumper backwards and forwards over it. “Swinging” the bumper was very hot work and took a lot of energy, especially as the polish spread out and the liquid component evaporated, leaving behind a stubborn coating of wax paste. Buffing off the wax to obtain a polished surface entailed placing a felt pad underneath the bumper head and then repeating the process, although it did get a little easier as shine started to appear. The result, after a lot of hard work, was a brilliantly gleaming billet floor.
    The billets started to fill up as more new recruits arrived that day and the next. In the meantime, I continued to explore my new surroundings with several others of the Irish contingent. We discovered the Navy Army and Air Force Institute, better known as the NAAFI (pronounced “naffy”), which operates recreational and canteen facilities on most military installations, where servicemen can relax, buy snacks, watch TV, or play games such as darts, snooker, billiards, and table tennis. There was also a separate NAAFI shop where I was able to buy some more Woodbines, having smoked all the ones I’d brought with me.
    During this time, we met most of the drill instructors, the DIs, who would be in charge of our training. In addition to Corporal Hillcrest, there were also Corporals Blandford and Kaveney who were both married and therefore lived with their wives and families in the Station Married Quarters. The squadron disciplinary sergeant went by the name of Clarke and he manned the squadron office. Sergeant Clarke seemed reluctant to take part in any of the activities connected with the obnoxious horde of teenage boys who had suddenly burst into his calmly ordered life. Most of the time, he walked around with his nose in the air, exuding a detached demeanour that seemed to say I’m-above-all-of-this-distasteful-stuff, like some Jeeves-like butler.
    Within two days of our arrival at St. Athan, we were all gathered into a large room and instructed to be seated at some tables and chairs arranged in parallel rows. Sergeant Clarke then handed out mimeographed form letters to each of us and told us that we were to address them to our parents and sign them. The letter briefly advised “Mum and Dad” that the supposed writer had arrived safely at St. Athan and was being well cared for. It also went on to say that his civilian clothing would be mailed home in the coming days. We were allowed to add a personal sentence if we wished, so I scribbled a few words about how long the journey had taken, about the fog, and what the local weather was doing. After signing my letter, I folded and placed it inside the ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ envelope that I had also been given, then licked the gummed flap and sealed it before passing it along to the end of my row of tables, from where it was collected by Sergeant Clarke.
    After breakfast the next morning, which was Wednesday, we were shepherded into the same room again and, after being seated, a plump sweaty-looking little Pilot Officer took the floor. His opening statement is forever burned in my memory, “My name is Pilot Officer Morgan-Williams,” he said, “and I’m here to tell you about the R. A. F.” He enunciated each letter separately—“Arr Ay Eff.”
    Morgan-Williams’ puffy white face was crowned by a thick oily mat of slicked-down jet-black hair and the pale upper part of his face stood out in contrast to the heavy dark shadow that covered its lower half. In fact, he looked more than a little foreign to me, an