The trials of compulsory national service

Sixty-four years ago I was called up, to do my two years National Service, something which would do many young men of today a lot of good too. I was drafted into the RAF, because that was where men were required at that particular time – as a mere conscript I had no say in the matter at all, you just hoped you weren’t put into something awful! I was one of the lucky ones, the RAF was reckoned to be a bit easier on blokes than the army, except at square-bashing, which was hard going whichever service you ended up in – eight weeks of hell it was called, though I hate to admit I really quite enjoyed it once I got used to the language and the discipline, especially as I was as fit, if not fitter by the time I finished my eight weeks, than I had ever been, before or since!

Square-bashing can come as a bit of a culture-shock to an innocent eighteen-year-old, used to lying in bed until noon on a Sunday and wearing whatever clothes I liked, plus the convenience of having Mum do all my laundry for me until then.

Here’s how it began . . .

It all started out quite easily, with a train trip from Bristol to Padgate where I was to be inducted and kitted out. I and several other blokes from the train were met by an RAF corporal, who checked our names to make certain we had all arrived and then put us on an RAF bus which took us to the camp. As we entered the gates of Padgate, we were subjected to our first bit of military humour, from the corporal who had met us. There were two aircraft permanently parked just outside the gates, a Gloster Meteor and a Spitfire; the corporal stood up, pointed to them and said, “Take a really good look at those planes – you’re in the RAF now, but you can be certain they will be the last aircraft you’ll see in the next two years!” He grinned wolfishly at his joke, which I’d bet he’d already made a hundred times before, then he sat down again and we drove to our billet.

We had a great time in the five days we were at Padgate, apart from occasional call-outs to pick up kit, get inoculated and see a team of doctors, we were left pretty much to our own devices. We weren’t allowed to leave the camp of course, but we played cards, went to the station cinema, spent time in the NAAFI (Navy, Army and Air Force Institute), a sort of shop and café for military personnel, and life was quite good.

At the end of that first five days we were put on another bus, this time to our first permanent station, which was to be RAF Wilmslow in Cheshire, one of the Air Force’s initial training stations. There were two corporals sitting quietly in the front seat, next to the driver and we took no notice of them, nor did they of us. We all took it they were just two personnel, returning to camp from leave, or a day out or something.

After about half an hour, the bus arrived at its destination, was checked in through the gate, and sent on to one of the many rows of billets standing all around us. It stopped outside one particular row and there was a moment of silence as we wondered what we were supposed to do next – go to the NAAFI, look for the cinema? We just didn’t know, but we were soon made very well aware!

The two quiet corporals at the front of the bus suddenly leapt up and went completely mad, or so it seemed to us! They turned on us screaming and shouting, something about getting “off the f*$^ing bus NOW and get lined up in threes outside you ‘orrible buckets of dog poo.” Or words to that effect!

We all stumbled off the vehicle, some near to tears at the sudden onslaught we had suffered, grabbed our kit bags from the boot of the bus and formed ourselves up into what we thought wasn’t at all a bad set of three rows. We were left in no doubt of the mistake we had made thinking that, but I don’t want to go into any more bad language here. Suffice to say, it was language we heard plenty of for the next eight weeks, and loudly!

Our lovely civilian lives had just come to a shattering end!

Do you think national service should be compulsory?