AN EXCITING JOB? I DON'T THINK SO, Pt 1.

By Mike Stanley.Armament.


Willie Keay's account of his experiences as Orderly Corporal at No 4 S of TT (Journal 56) brought back memories. I also did a couple of stints as Orderly Corporal on East Camp at RAF St Athan; fortunately they were a sight less dramatic than Willie encountered. I did two spells at RAF St Athan; I am probably the only member of the Entry who spent all of his UK RAF service in Technical Training Command. In fact I may be the only apprentice in the history of the Apprenticeship Scheme to have done so -- must check with the Guinness Books of Records.

Read these dates, and weep:

September 1955 - July 1958: No 1 School of Technical Training, RAF Halton.

March 1961 - September 1965: No 4 School of Technical Training, RAF St Athan.

September 1967 - November 1968: No 4 School of Technical Training, RAF St Athan.

Five and half years at St Athan - exciting it wasn't, which should galvanise those of you yet to put pen to paper/finger to keyboard to recount your experiences. If I can scratch something from years of boredom then surely you can produce something worth the attention of the Journal's readership.

I was first posted to 4 S of TT from RAF Germany in March 1961 - from the sublime to the boring.

I detrained at Gileston railway station and, kitbag on shoulder, made my way up to East Camp guardroom. Naturally the transit billet was on West Camp, in fact all accommodation, other than the Boy Entrants, were on West Camp. The Duty Snoop kindly drove around the peri-track and deposited me outside the transit billet.

"There's a bus to East Camp in the morning at 0730, leaves from Station HQ," he said, before he drove away.

Next morning I caught the Western Welsh red double -decker bus bound for East Camp. Most of my fellow passengers were u/t muscle mechanics - surely they should have doubled across the airfield to the School of PT? There were also some u/t female muscle mechanics -most were Irma Press lookalikes - who stumped upstairs on the bus smoking pipes.

On East Camp I did the arrival stuff, and eventually ended up at the station armoury, which was of a similar wooden construction as the accommodation and office buildings on East Camp, and looked as if the Big Bad Wolf could have blown it away with one breath.

The personnel of the armoury consisted of a WO, a Sgt, a Cpl, three SACs and, with my arrival, two JTs. Why a small arms armoury should have such a bloated establishment was revealed by the number of Lee Enfield 0.303 MK V rifles held in the building. Racks and racks of them, along with more Bren LMGs than I had ever seen in one place There were also racks of Stens, and cabinets stuffed with 0.38 Smith and Wesson revolvers. All in all it looked as if RAF St Athan was the small arms depot of the RAF and, in a sense, it was, as most of these firearms were War Reserve weapons, ready to be distributed to the hundreds of airmen employed at 32 MU - a lodger unit at RAF St Athan - should hordes of Soviets invade South Wales. All weapons, War Reserve or in general use, had a servicing schedule and it was something like painting the Forth Bridge.

That night I moved into the barrack block for 4 S of TT personnel on West Camp, a three story buildings much like those at Halton, with one notable exception, well several notable exceptions if you consider that the centre deck, the abs deck, and the landings and stairways did not have the bull as per a Halton barrack block. No, what made the accommodation different was the vast space in the room - a twenty-bed room with less than a dozen inmates.

The two JTs, and two of the three SACs, from the armoury were single, and officially were accommodated in the billet. The married SAC, Paddy Wint, a Belfast boy, lived out in Barry. The other Ulsterman SAC, Paddy Mac, had a relationship with a married woman living in a nearby caravan park, and spent several nights away - the number of nights away depended on how well or not the relationship was progressing. The third SAC was a Taff whose Essex girlfriend was living with his family in Cardiff; consequently he spent most nights at home. The other J/T, who was on detachment when I first arrived, was also a Taff and lived in Newport. He owned a powerful motor bike and spent all of his nights at home. Thus I was the solitary armourer with a permanent occupied bed space. The other inhabitants of the room were ground radar mechs who worked at the GCA radar site a few miles away from St Athan at Llandow.

I can't remember the name of the JT who was on detachment when I arrived but will call him Ken. He had appeared at the Royal Tournament at Earls Court the previous year where the RAF had put on a display depicting the history of flight. One scene was Eilmer of Malmesbury's 'flight.' Eilmer, an eleventh century monk, had jumped from the top of Malmesbury church with some form of canvas/linen 'wings' strapped to his arms and feet. Naturally the RAF didn't expect an airman - not even a plumber - to leap from a tower, instead Ken, adorned with polyester 'wings', came down a zip wire, thus avoiding the heavy landing which broke both the intrepid aviator Eilmer's legs. The worst that happened to Ken was, as he whizzed down the wire, the updraft lifted the monk's habit he was wearing above his thighs, revealing his polka dotted Y fronts. The RAF must have decided Eilmer's flight - or maybe it was Ken's Y fronts -would be a boost to recruiting and so Ken was often detached to County Agriculture Shows and such like to perform the 'flight'. When he wasn't 'on stage' Ken was attached to the Boy Entrant Armament Training hanger as a 'gofer'. I took Ken's place when he finally got posted, but fortunately the RAF didn't want me to take his place on the zip wire, which was just as well as polka dotted Y fronts just isn't me.

Once in the armament hangar I found I had hitherto unknown talents. Chf Tech Dolly Gray was on his last year of service and filled the role of admin and storeman for the hangar, although I suspect he had once been an instructor as he wore the KD greatcoat of that breed. I became his right hand - if keck-handed - man. Dolly was constructing a tool kit which was to be the mother of all tool kits, a foot locker sized wooden box into which I must have screwed a zillion retaining clips to hold all the hand tools 'acquired ' over his years of service. I reckon he could have put B and Q out of business, if they had been invented then (1961). When not engaged on Dolly's work I made shadow boards for the u/t armament mech boy entrants' hand tools. A full range of hammers; cross peen, ball peen, and the universal lump hammers MKs 1 and 2 with, of course, the mandatory all-purpose cabinet handled GS Screwdriver. I had failed 'O' level Art at school and no wonder, my hand drawn outline of the tools on the black painted board would have had Picasso in raptures, but all other artists in despair. As my art master had so perceptively written on my last report from school: "Stanley tries hard but is handicapped by a complete lack of talent."

The Armament Officer in charge of the training hangar was a member of Barry Island Sailing Club. It being March when I arrived at St Athan his boat, which was no yacht but a type of sailing dinghy -don't ask me what sort - was moored in the hangar where all the Ground Equipment and bomb trollies were parked. Before transporting the craft back into the oggin at Barry Island some restoration and painting work was required, and I was the lucky person chosen.

The hangar was freezing and I skived off as often as possible. Painting in the forepeak (?) of the half-decked vessel gave me a blinding headache, as I would plead when Flt Lt Mac?? found me thawing out in the instructors' crew room in the training hanger. As I was doing private work he could hardly charge me for failing to carry out an instruction or for disobeying an order, although the curl of his lip at my mamby- pamby ways boded ill for me in the future. He was also Officer i/c the RAF St Athan Sailing club - they only had canoes but Flt Lt Mac?? got me repairing the bashes and dents the craft bore after rough handling by the Boy Entrants. I failed to tell him that I had been thrown out of the woodwork class at school for being kack- handed and banished to the Art Class, although, as far as I know, none of the canoes I 'repaired ' ever sank.

One more unusual job came my way before leaving the armament hangar. The winter of 1961/62 was harsh. Not as bad as the following winter - more anon - but enough to warrant Flt Lt Mac?? handing me a task more worthy of my talents.

There were toilet blocks on East Camp adjacent to each of the various training hangars. The ancient lead plumbing systems of the WCs were prone to freezing overnight, causing many burst pipes when the thaw came. Step forward JT Stanley, armed with several score paraffin lamps. My task was to light each lamp and position same underneath every cistern in all the toilet blocks. Every afternoon before the hangar emptied of boy entrants and instructors I would fill around 40 lamps with paraffin then transport them to the required destinations, light them, and then turn the wick down to barely showing a low flame. After finishing this high tech and important work I would rush off for the bus to West Camp - occasionally catching it. Next morning I retrieved the lamps. Very few, if any, were still lit. Back in the hanger I then meticulously trimmed the wicks. You can imagine the comments.
"Been dipping your wick again Stan?" etc, etc .

One of the toilet blocks was reserved for females, not that there were any, other than the Irma Press lookalike muscle mechanics and a few civvy ladies in 4 S of TT headquarters on East Camp, who I'm sure had a much superior latrine set up than the primitive kharzies near the training hangers. Nevertheless, I always approached the 'female' toilet with trepidation and some apprehension when carrying out my lamp lighting duties. Remember it was winter and dark, and if some unsuspecting female was at her devotions when I came through the door rattling my paraffin lamps I shudder what might have ensued. My wick could have been well and truly trimmed, and my light put out.

I would call out on arrival. "Hello, anyone in there?" followed by "I'm not a pervert, just the laddie with the lamps." I would give a few moments, repeat my call and then give the ultimatum "I'm coming in, ready or not."
I never did find a female in situ, in fact I never found any one so desperate enough to use those freezing cold facilities. I think Flt Lt Mac?? was getting his own back for my skiving off from painting his boat.

However, at St Athan what with the educational ambience in the training hanger and a warm and comfortable billet, I managed to pass the exam and was duly promoted to Cpl Tech on 30 July 1962, a year late but better late than never. Of course six months later I had to take the tapes off and sew them on upside down to become a Cpl. I did think of having one arm with chevrons pointing up and the other arm with the chevrons pointing down but didn't have the bottle, or the cotton

Promotion didn't bring me any greater responsibility, nor a bunk to myself. I remained in my original billet, which by now had a quota of National Servicemen, ground radar fingers, who had been deferred and thought they had got away without doing their time. Unfortunately for them deferred meant postponed not cancelled. National Service finished on April 1 1960, but those who had been deferred were required to do their duty. They were not happy bunnies, although most of them were JTs and were better paid than the usual NS erk

Getting back to the staff in the Station armoury when I first arrived at 4Sof TT:

The WO was typical of the breed: smart, alert, switched on and efficient. I can't remember anything about him other than he had a daughter named Kim. I was still in lust with Kim Novak at the time, which is why the name remains in my memory. He was posted about four months after my arrival and we had a WO of a completely different character in his place - more anon.

The Sgt lived in the SNCOs' Mess, although he had a wife in Burryport. We knew him as 'Lavender', which is probably why his wife lived in Burryport and he was to be found every night propping up the bar in the Mess. The Cpl was a Brummie, well he sounded like one, but he vehemently denied the charge saying he was from Wednesbury. He must have been nearer 50 than 40 and had all the old sweats' sayings. "I was Orderly Corporal when the Dead Sea first reported sick.", and "I was in Baghdad before you were in your dad's bags." and was highly delighted to find out my birthdate proved his assertion. For reasons best known to himself he called me 'Lofty', or' Ginge', although Wee Jimmy Krankie would have been 'Lofty' to Corporal Ernie.

I was detached, with Ernie, to RAF Collaton Cross in the summer of 1961. The boy entrants spent their summer camp at what was now the deserted Rehabilitation Centre. Ernie and I manned the armoury and, in fact, it was also our accommodation. Together with the other permanent staff detached from St Athan, an assorted assemblage of cooks, MT drivers, and clerks, we would walk down to Newton Ferrers of an evening and enjoy a pint or three at The Dolphin. Walking, staggering in my case, back to Collaton Cross I was delighted to see glow-worms decorating the hedgerows; it is an abiding memory of the detachment. Another lasting event from that detachment is that, at times, I speak with a Brummie accent. All bar me on the detachment hailed from the West Midlands, and that pervasive accent has entered my memory banks and refuses to leave. I only have to hear the dulcet tones of Jasper Carrot or Lenny Henry and I come out in sympathy. Even at the 2017 reunion in Birmingham I reverted to the local argot when hearing the accent of the waitress bringing round the tea and coffee at the dinner table. She probably thought I was extracting the micturate, but it is really an unconditioned reflex action.

To be continued