25 years ago: the next step

I heard from my friend in NZ, Tony, that he enjoyed hearing about my first day in the RAF, so I thought I would revisit my time in the RAF every now and again to inform you, dear readers, of what we did after we took the Queen's shilling.

I left you at the end of my first day at RAF Swinderby, known as something like No! School of Recruit Training. It was situated on the Lincolnshire wolds, somewhere between Newark and Lincoln, and it is now an antiques centre. Quite apt as much of the base 25 years ago was antique. Antique beds, antique bedding, antique barrack blocks and so on and on.

First two weeks involved lots of drill, marching up and down, turning, about turns and all that, PT, theory, which was called GSK or General Service Knowlege. I seem to remember our staff giving us the answers to the exam the night before, which seemed to be cheating to me. And lots and lots of messing aroun in camouflage, learning how to use a rifle, how to treat injured people, what to do when under fire or when attacked by gas or nuclear weapons. It was full on, and then in the evenings you cleaned your kit, cleaned the block.

As your time went by going through basic training, at the end of each week each flight did a test, and if you passed you got something to show everyone else that you were progressing: at the end of the 2nd week you go to take the yellow backing from behind your beret badge: to do this you had to pass the drill check: this was a set series of marching which you did without input from your drill staff, who looked on.

At the end of the 3rd week, I think, we were given our proper ID cards, and those of us over 18 could go into the Newcomers bar to drink. But we needed permission to go in, and I can't remember going in to drink more than a handful of occasions.

At the end of the 4th week week each three flight intake did a two day faux-military exercise. This took place at RAF North Luffenham in nearby Leicestershire, and involved putting into practice the training you had done in the previous three weeks: you were bombed, shot at, and ran around like the monkeys we were, and had to put everything we had into it. One of the scenrios was called the Thor Run, which, from what I remember, invlved a lot of running, in a squad,carrying all your kit. There was other stuff as well, including 'stand-to' at silly o'clock to repel an attack or two.

Once you passed this MFT (Military Field Training) once you got back to base, you were allowed to wear the blue uniform, rather than the camouflages we had worn up to that point. From that point onwards, it was all practicing for the passing out parade. More marching up and down, this time in shoes rather than boots, which made less noise. And then at the end of the 5th week, you got to wear your best blues, your number 1 uniforms, which you would wear on the passing out parade, when you parents and friends would look down at us all as we showed off how we had changed. Changed and would never be the same again.

We had learned advanced swearing for a start, and we all swore all the time, as swearing seemed to be the best way of coping with all the shouting and marching.

seven weeks after arriving, we all got lined up ready for the parade, there was a band which we used to take the beat of our marching from. We marched onto the parade ground, our family and friends were sitting looking at us, unable to tell us apart, but we all looked smart, we marched in time, and looked like proper airman. For many of us, this would be the only time, but for now, we marched tall and erect. And proud of what we had become. We were on top of the world.

At the end of the parade, we met our families, had lunch with them. And then it all changed.

Basic training was just the first part; breaking us down from being civilians, making us think like servicemen and women, getting us to think and react in a set way. Now we had to become something useful. The RAF had t teach us to do something. For me, it was to be an armourer. So after spending six weeks together, we all boarded different buses, or drove in our cars to bases around the country to learn a trade. I went to RAF Cosford in the West Midlands, driving my Skoda Estelle loaded with all my kit, driving into the unknown, but on top of the world as I had achieved something.

Of course, we were now bottom of the pile, a new curse, one which all the courses ahead of us would look down upon and mock. But in a week or two, a new course would start and we would no longer be the FNGs. But for now, we had arrived in our own ways at Cosford, been given a bunk in what looked like houses, and a quantum leap on from Swinderby. It had central heating, double glazing, unlimited hot water, and we did not have to march. Well, we walked around in a squad, but not the swinging arms to the extent we did during basic training.

Instead, we were taught maths, basic engineering, engineering science, and all the different aspects of my new trade: explosives, ejection seats, support equipment, loading aircraft and bomb disposal. Once we had passed all the exams and the practical tests, we would be allowed to leave training and join the mythical 'Real Air Force.' Something I never did find.