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Officer Cadet Training Unit, RAF JurbyDancing lessons, for those who needed any, were part of the Saturday evening entertainment at the Majestic Hotel in Douglas, always known to Jurby Cadets as the Magic Stick The RAF's Officer Cadet Training Unit had been at Jurby, a remote airfield on the Isle of Man about six miles north west of Ramsey since September 1953. In the 1960s there were several methods of gaining a commission direct from civilian life but the only way for serving airmen was via the 12-week course at Jurby. My fellow cadets at Jurby, all male apart from one middle-aged lady joining the Princess Mary's Royal Air Force Nursing Service as a Matron, ranged from teenagers to fifty-year old Master Aircrew. All those who were currently serving in non-commissioned ranks were instantly re-mustered on arrival to Officer Cadet and all badges of rank, but not aircrew brevets or medical insignia, had to be removed. This, presumably, was designed to ensure that we all had equal status and no student could 'pull rank' on another. Certain professionally-qualified entrants, for example the Matron, a chef, and one or two others, were given probationary commissions on arrival. They wore the rank badges appropriate to the rank they would have when their commissions were confirmed, and were known as Student Officers. All of us wore the distinctive white epaulettes which showed that we were soon to be commissioned, subject only to passing the course.One rather worrying effect of the re-mustering to Officer Cadet meant, according to the course Directing Staff (DS), that there was no guaranteed way back for ex-airmen if we should fail the course. Whether the DS were telling us the literal truth, and whether any of us would have even wished to revert to our previous rank and trade had we failed the course, was the source of considerable discussion amongst ourselves. We could reach no consensus and instead decided that the best course of action was to try and ensure that we did not fail! The course, however, was cunningly designed so that none of us could feel at all confident of graduating, least of all the Matron who found the military training particularly irksome and totally irrelevant for the hospital work for which she was destined, and she made no secret of her opinion. I first started to worry seriously about my chances of success when the language barrier reared its ugly head again in about the third week. The Senior Education Officer, a squadron leader, told me he was 'concerned' about my speech even though the RAF was by that time a little more relaxed about regional accents than it had been in 1953 when I first went to Hornchurch. He decided that I needed private elocution tuition with him to rid me of my Northern accent. The other cadets thought it hilarious that I was having to spend time in the evenings with the 'schoolie' learning how to speak 'proper'. Listening to your own voice on a tape recorder was still a novelty in 1960. On hearing themselves for the first time people usually exclaimed, "Do I really sound like that?" My most heinous 'defect', according to the education officer, was that I invariably failed to pronounce the final 'g' on ‑ing words, an omission that no-one had previously seen fit to point out to me. During the 1980s and 1990s there were a number of television films which purported to show the sort of things that officer cadets had to learn before being commissioned. To be of much interest to the general public those films had to include footage of students' silly mistakes, especially those on the drill square, on dance floors, and in the dining room. However, I can say categorically that on my course in 1960 we were not given any dancing lessons nor were we taught how to use the various knives, forks and spoons on the dining table. We were, however, taught how to behave in Officers' Messes and that instruction was, of course, vital. Dancing lessons, for those who needed any, were part of the Saturday evening entertainment at the excellent Majestic Hotel in Douglas, always known to Jurby Cadets as the Magic Stick. In the last few weeks of the course, when we had become the senior entry, we moved from the Airmen's Mess into the Student Officers' Mess. From then on we were treated like officers. We had our food served to us by civilian staff and we had our own bar and an ante-room where tea, coffee and toast were served at the appropriate times and where we could read the daily newspapers which were provided free of charge. The Ante Room was a comfortable room furnished with arm chairs surrounding small tables and there were paintings hanging from the walls. The Mess Manager, a serving RAF warrant officer, was really excellent and offered us all manner of advice. We now had to conform to the civilian dress standards that were the norm in all real Officers' Messes at the time. After 7pm on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, the only acceptable dress was a dark lounge suit with suitable shirt and tie and highly polished back shoes. On other evenings, including the weekends, the dark lounge suit could be replaced by a sports jacket, flannels, shirt and tie. It was at this stage of the course that we were measured up for our officer's uniform. This was a source of financial worry to me; officers had to buy their own uniforms and although we were paid an initial allowance to buy the first set, thereafter we had to buy our own. A selection of approved Service tailors visited us and we opened our accounts. I chose Alkit of Cambridge Circus and remained with them for more than 20 years. The more affluent students patronised Gieves who were more expensive, but arguably of better quality. Because of their prices Gieves was always known within the RAF as 'Thieves' which was rather unkind. I ordered a service dress cap from Bates Gentlemen's Hatters because their caps were softer and much more comfortable to wear than the rather stiff uniform caps made by the other tailors. That's me just before graduation in May 1960 - and my very first Bates' Hat.  A digression here about Bates'. They had a delightful small shop in Jermyn
Street, just off Piccadilly Circus, manned by splendid elderly gentlemen who
looked as though they had been in the business since Trenchard was a young
officer (they probably had). I discovered that they had a personal index card for every single
officer they served. The card listed one's hat size and every purchase made.
More than once during my career I ordered a new Bates' hat by telephone and was
amazed to be addressed by my rank each time and congratulated on my promotion
since my previous purchase. They must have subscribed to the London Gazette and
updated their records from each supplement. Today it is doubtless all
computerised but the shop is still there and now has its own
Internet site. I
might call in one day and see if they still have my hat size on record. |