NATIONAL SERVICE was for “healthy” males aged 17 to 21 years old who were expected to serve for 18 months under the National Service Act 1948. This was extended later to two years.

In February of 1948, I received my papers and underwent a medical. I passed what seemed like a simple test for what I imagined to be such a serious responsibility.

Then I tore open a finger thus delaying my call-up to August. My mam said she had never seen me move so fast before I took a train to Padgate, Warrington where I became a raw RAF recruit.

I joined 8 Flight made up mainly of Midlanders. Although it was “peacetime” there was a chance that you would end up in a real war. Many were sent to Egypt, Malaysia or Korea — with some being killed for their troubles.

Off the parade ground, we lived in billets from where we were woken by a (very) early morning “Wakey! Wakey!” Eighteen of us lived cheek-by-jowl with the coke-fired stove, shined up as everything is according to the armed forces creed, “If it moves, salute it and if it doesn’t, paint it white.”

We were inspected for un-creased uniforms, buttons and brasses brushed a burnished gold, and boots classically treated with spit and polish.

Our short-back-and-sides haircuts allowed the “Am I hurting you” treatment from the inspecting Flight Sergeant inevitably accompanied by the hairiest of old service jokes: “I could be — I’m standing on your hair.”

We were supervised from dawn to dusk by a squad of non-commissioned officers, strict disciplinarians, with the constant shout of “Airman!” heard across the parade ground alerting you to something wrong. The constant drilling eventually got us to a standard that we never thought we could reach.

Off-duty time was spent mostly in the NAFFI — the age-old canteens fitted with table tennis, snooker and darts where we would drink some of the four shillings and 10 pence a day wages. One night a Scotsman, Jimmy Deuchar, produced a trumpet on which he superbly played a couple of pop songs. Jimmy turned out to be one of the finest (modern) jazz trumpeters and arrangers. Working with Britain’s best bands, his work took him to Germany and the US.

Quickly, a remarkable sense of comradeship developed between complete strangers away from home. With the resilience of young men of 18, nothing was taken seriously for too long.

That it “made a man of me” I doubt. I know it took me a step further along the road to drinking and smoking. It is hard to see what National Service achieves in terms of fostering self-discipline. We were told what to do and did it. I enjoyed it, but being 18 years old, the odds are that I would.

The eight weeks came to an end with a passing-out parade where with a band we marched in step before the senior officers, our parents and friends.

Life in Wales, February 1949

I arrived at RAF Llandwrog in February 1949 by train to Caernarfon on a night as black as pitch with the rain sheeting down. The bus took me three miles to the gates of an uninviting land of my fathers.

Daylight revealed a large airfield close to five miles of sandy beaches with Dinas Dinlle westwards and Caernarfon to the east. There were living quarters, a cookhouse, a canteen and a NAFFI club. Eight RAF police were housed in a Nissen hut next door to the gatehouse, from which we checked the movements in and out of airmen and goods.

The police contingent included two dog handlers with Alsatians. One of the dogs was a savage beast whose handler, a cockney lad, just about managed to keep it from devouring an airman or two. We guarded the airfield gates in eight-hour shifts with 24 hours off. The tedium of the shifts was leavened by riding with an officer on a station truck in order to transfix rabbits with our headlights and shoot them.

I was posted with Corporal John Moore, an art school graduate from Blackpool, a heavily built soft-spoken gentle giant who the moment he gained the rank of an RAF policeman became a tyrant.

John enjoyed himself on Saturday patrol in Caernarfon catching airmen in an act contrary to the rules, sneaking up behind them and bawling down their ears. This is what happens when an acting corporal gets power.

But I just couldn’t do it. I never charged a single person. I was tempted, and I admit to having accepted bribes, like five Woodbine cigarettes offered by an airman eager to get away on leave.

A foul winter was followed by an early spring and a glorious summer. Walking the sunny sandy shores under clear blue skies with some good mates and attentive girls with all the innocence of a 19-year-old. It was enough of an idyll for me to sign up for 12 years more service.

I was still then on standby then for the Far East when my father Sid fell ill and died from a tumour in his brain. With the help of our family doctor, I was given a compassionate discharge to help at home with my widowed mother and brother Les, aged three.

My father died in Walton Hospital in Liverpool. I saw him just before he died and can’t remember what I felt as he sadly lay there. My mother mentioned that he felt he missed out on being a granddad to our children. He worked hard all his life. That, and a few pints, is what I remember of him. He owed the world nowt.

At 19 years old I had to see to all the arrangements for his funeral in Hawarden cemetery which was 10 miles away. This kept me busy and Auntie Kate came to stay with us.

I wonder what would have happened to me and how life would turn out if I had entered 12 years of service life? It is certain I would have turned out a vastly different person.

Manifesto Press is proud to bring extracts from this valuable text to Morning Star readers, part three of which will be in next Saturday’s paper, along with a special discounted offer in advance of the book’s publication. Remember 30 per cent of the cover price goes direct to the Morning Star.