Free On My Way to Samarkand: Memoirs of a Travelling Writer by Garry Douglas Kilworth

(which, unlike the rest of the clothes, remained the property of the Queen)
rain cape
battledress
webbing belt
webbing backpack and straps
ceramic mug
irons (knife, fork and spoon)
socks
shirts
detached collars, collar studs
vests
aertex shreddies (underpants)
peaked cap for formal occasions
beret for informal
Best Blue (Sunday uniform) made not of worsted like the battledress but of gabardine
brass button slider
housewife (sewing kit)
kit bag
towels
woollen gloves
shoe brushes
    We sank under the weight of all these items. Our civilian clothes were taken away from us. While we were in ITS we would not be allowed to wear anything but uniform. In fact for the next quarter of a year we were strictly confined to camp: it was the longest three months of my life.
    On the far side of the parade square from where we lived there was a huge building called the Fulton Block. Initially, we were kept away from this place, I suspect, in order to prevent older boys corrupting our innocence. The Fulton Block housed four entries at any one time. When our entry was in ITS the 26th Entry was the Senior Entry in the block, feared simply for its seniority and the fact that the boys in it were seventeen years of age or more, and thus bigger and tougher than fifteen year olds. There were also four wings to the building, each wing occupied by different trades. Rivalry was therefore between entries, between wings and between trades. Everywhere you looked you could find someone not of your kind and therefore a rival. Fights were not particularly common, but nor were they rare.
    Our peaked caps, as I have said, was part of our Best Blue uniform and the best part of our peaked caps was the hatband. The 29th Entry teleg’s band was chequered yellow and red. We were called, or rather we called ourselves, ‘The Blood-and-Custard Boys’. I love that nickname. It smacks of something similar to an American Western gang, like ‘The James’ Boys’, or ‘The Dalton Gang’. At a recent reunion of the 29th on our 55th anniversary, I read a poem I had written entitled ‘The Blood-and-Custard Boys’, and noted the beaming faces and heard the cheers of men who were now in their seventies when I used the phrase. Identity is an important aspect of military life and one’s loyalty is pinned to that identity. In the army the regiment demands a soldier’s loyalty. With us it was entry, trade, squadron, then wing, in that order. Who were we? We were 29th telegs, No. 1 Squadron, No. 1 Wing.
    Over the first two weeks, rising at 6.30 a.m. to the sound of Chris Barber’s ‘When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob-bob-bobbing Along . . .’ over the billet tannoy and going to bed at 10 p.m., we spent all our time cleaning kit, learning to march, polishing the billet floor (a place so sacrosanct no man was allowed to touch it with his foot), being shouted at by adult NCOs and Boy Entrant NCOs for everything and nothing, having kit inspections, learning to fold blankets in the correct manner, laying out our PT kit in the correct manner and presenting the rest of our kit in the correct manner. There was the RAF way and there was the wrong way. We did indeed wonder if Hell had come for a long visit and was probably going to be outstaying its welcome.
    That linoleum on the billet floor.
    It was indeed holy ground.
    Floor pads were made out of strips a foot wide, torn from our issue blankets and folded into two squares. (Short blankets meant cold feet at night, but everyone did it without a murmur.) These pads would be worn like slippers and boys simply skated with a gliding motion, not only to prevent scratching the surface of the hallowed lino, but also to polish it further to that glorious sheen required by the Inspection Gods. This did not mean that it would not require polishing again. Every Friday night, the evening before the weekly major inspection, boys would throw globs of yellow polish from a huge can on the main floor and on their bedspaces, and work that polish