They decide what to do with me.
Thank you, ancientaviator and Chugalug, for your kind words. They are much appreciated .
First, a typo error in the first part of my story: the upper age limit for acceptance was of course 23yrs, not 33 as stated. It has been corrected. I must be more careful.
That night in Padgate, midway between Manchester and Liverpool, we heard and watched the air raids on both cities (the Blitz was at its height). Next day I went home like a dog with two tails. My Dad, an old regular soldier, was well pleased. "With your education, son, you'll be a Sergeant in no time". Sadly, he wouldn't live to see the day.
They'd got their man to sign on the dotted line and take the Oath. Now the RAF had to decide what to do with him. Flying schools were full up for months ahead. They gave me a choice: come in right away for ground duties as an "erk" (ACH/GD - Ground Duties - i.e. dogsbody) until your flying course comes up. Or go home and wait; we'll call you when we're ready for you. This was really a waiting list. It suited me much better. They gave me a little silvery RAFVR lapel badge (to ward off white feathers?). It would have made a fine keepsake, but the frugal RAF wanted it back when I came in, and I hadn't the sense to say i'd "lost" it.
Many boys had to take the other option, notably Dominion volunteers who'd given up their jobs in far-flung corners of the Empire to do their bit for the Mother Country - in which they'd landed penniless after paying their passage back to Britain. Needless to say, Station Warrant Officers rejoiced at this influx of temporary labour and screwed every last ounce of work out of them. But it wasn't a waste of their time, for these few months of experience taught them all the basic survival skills needed in the RAF, and in this respect they were well ahead of us "Deferred Service" people when our time came.
Which was the following May for me. I remember a long, crowded train journey from Liverpool down to Torquay. Somewhere in the Midlands we passed an airfield close to the line. Tiger Moths wre buzzing round it, obviously it was a RAF Elementary Flying School. It was exciting to think that I'd be there - or somewhere like it - before I was much older (for fortunately the RAF had chosen the "pilot" option for me).
"Per Ardua ad Astra" - Ardua first! Everybody knows what Service Reception Centres were like: they've been lampooned on film and TV often enough. We were bawled at, marched about all over the place from dawn to lights-out, kitted out (some of it fitted) and inoculated against everything known to medical science.
Nine years at the tender mercy of the Irish Christian Brothers had left me pretty well inured to hardship, but even I blinked a bit at our sleeping arrangements. Straw palliasses on the bare boards of a stripped-out Babbacombe boarding house ! What most of my intake - never been away from mummy in their lives - thought, I can't imagine. Their wails met the old sardonic RAF response: "Serves you right, shouldn't have joined if you can't take a joke !
More later. Danny.
Get some in !