Come Back in Ten Days": The Sentence That Changed My Life
In the spring of 1970, a single, dismissive sentence from an RAF recruiter, "Come back in ten days", shattered my childhood dream and set me on an entirely different path. Richard Hanney was my best friend. During my time living in Trapp, we got up to all sorts of mischief together We had both decided we wanted to join the military, for Richard it was the Army, and for me, the RAF.
The Dream and the Escape Plan
For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to join the RAF. I was going to be a Spitfire pilot, and when the lack of Spitfires made that dream impossible, I’d settle for being an "ordinary" fighter pilot. But as I got older, I realised I was never going to get the academic qualifications necessary. I was still determined to join the RAF; I just didn’t know what I'd do once I got in. I was sure they’d tell me.
By the age of fifteen, the dream was fuelled by desperation. I wanted out: out of school, out of Trapp, out of poverty, and out of my family. My biggest fear wasn't unemployment, it was ending up in prison if I didn't change the trajectory of my life.
An Unwelcoming Office
One day in the early spring of 1970, me and Richard skived off school and caught a bus to Swansea. We walked straight to the RAF recruitment office, a dingy, dark little place next to St Mary’s Church. I don't remember the recruiter's face, only that he never stood up from behind his desk.
Full of excitement, I told him I wanted to join up and asked what kind of job I could expect to be doing. His reply shocked and deflated me.
“Come back in ten days.”
That was it. No reason, no explanation. For years, I've wondered why he said it. Was he lazy? Had he met his quota? Did he just not like the look of a scruffy kid with unkempt hair? Or did he think we needed time to "cool off"? If it was the latter, he was dead wrong. He had no inkling of my desperation. That single, dismissive sentence from a complete stranger changed my life forever.
First Impressions of the Professionals
Disappointed but not defeated, we headed for the Army Recruitment Centre on Castle Street. The difference was staggering. The RAF office was a dim backroom; this was a bright, modern storefront with huge display windows. They were filled with images of helicopters, tanks, and soldiers in camouflage, faces blackened, looking grim and ready for action. The slogan then was "Join the Professionals," and it certainly looked like the Army was making an effort. For a boy who’d spent his childhood pretending to be a soldier in the woods, it was impressive.
The contrast between the recruiters couldn’t have been more stark. The Army Recruitment Sergeant was over six feet tall, with a perfectly pressed uniform, a red sash, a white belt, and the shiniest boots I had ever seen. He stood up, smiled, and treated us like we mattered.
The Aptitude Test
I was still sceptical about the Army but furious with the RAF man, so I listened. The first thing the Sergeant did was give us a quick, timed aptitude test. When we finished, he marked it and told us we’d both done well. I understood its purpose immediately: it was a way to make sure he wasn’t wasting his time on two complete morons, and it gave him a sense of what career path in the Army we might be suitable for.
The Masterstroke
The Sergeant had undoubtedly seen hundreds of council house kids like me walk through his door. He recognized my desperation, my need for some kind of security and a discernible future. He didn't try to sell me on adventure; he didn't speak about driving tanks, flying helicopters, or shooting guns.
He spoke about a career. He spoke about learning a trade that would be useful later in civvy street.
And then, he spoke about money.
The pay for a Junior Soldier, he said, was eleven guineas a week. To a fifteen-year-old who was used to a few shillings from a farmer, that was an almost unimaginable sum.
The Decision
I walked out of that office certain I would join the Army, buzzing with the possibilities of a new life. I had no idea that the impulsive decision made that day, born of friendship and impatience, would lead to a future I could never have imagined, and a tragedy that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
You can read part two of this story here: The Uniform I Wore to His Funeral