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(In 1954, as a lad of 16, I joined the RAF Apprentices. 50 years on, we got together for a Golden Jubilee Reunion, and we had a service in the church at RAF Halton, where we trained. (I have become a sort of unofficial padre to them!) This is the sermon I preached, and I offer it now to any who served in the armed forces, and any others who may be interested.) It is a surprising, if sobering thought, that when we were born, the history of powered flight was just 35 years old. And consider this. When we arrived at Halton, that history was precisely 50 years old. Now, supersonic commercial flight is 'old hat', though we can fly things to Mars, even though we can't find them when they get there! We sang in our first hymn about pilgrimage - 'To be a pilgrim'. A pilgrimage is a journey with a purpose, be it nostalgic, sentimental, or religious. And, of course, we often use that word to describe the journey of life. Today, we celebrate together 50 years of that journey, a journey which has taken us as a group in many different directions. Halton was the start of these past 50 years. We came here just out of adolescence, to be formed into skilled craftsmen and disciplined people. The RAF had less success with some us than with others, it has to be said, but they tried their hardest, and part of the result is what you see here today. Some of us can't remember, and some of us can't forget January 19th 1954. Whether we remember it vividly, or don't recall anything about it, there can be little doubt that for us all, it was a day which marked a change in our lives. My recollection is that it was a bright and frosty day. My most vivid memory (after that of leaving home without my train ticket, and being chased to the station by my mum on her bike) is that of travelling from Baker Street station, and being impressed by the beauty of the Chilterns. I arrived as a complete rookie - I hadn't even been in the ATC. But I was keen on knowing how things worked. As far as the RAF was concerned, I was such a rook that though I knew that there was a difference between an NCO and a commissioned officer, I did not know how to tell the one from the other, and I had no idea who was to be saluted, and who was to be ignored. So, for the first few days I tended to the 'if it moves or barks at you, salute it' school of thought! So I had come to Halton never having worn a uniform of any kind, (apart from a Boys Brigade hat!) The guy in the bed next to me had been a sergeant in the ATC, and he knew all about it, and put me right. He was to become my best mate. His name was Mick Moy, later to be described by Wing Commander Stubbs, who disliked him, as 'shambling like a bear' on the parade ground! Stubbs, you will recall, we regarded as a bit of a Teddy Boy, with his curly locks poking out from the back of his cap, his crepe-soled shoes and drainpipe trousers! We were soon into polishing everything in sight. Bull nights became a way of life - almost, one might say, life and death events. So much depended on how glossy ones's boots were, or how neatly folded one's blankets were, or, dare I say it, how well scrubbed one's housewife was! That was all personal in a way, yet we were soon made aware of the fact that if one person fell below scratch, we all fell. All this was crystallised for us in how presentable our room was, for we all worked together on that. The lino, the polish, the bits of blanket, the bumper! It all seemed to me at the time to be exceedingly tedious. I didn't realise it then, but now I see that it was an exercise in team-building. Had there been such a thing then as the ghastly, so-called 'reality TV', I suppose any one of our rooms would have been a good subject for some kind of 'Big Brother' programme, and probably a damned sight more interesting! For all of us, then, January 19th 1954 was the start of a journey, which has led us to this moment, here and now. I suppose our average age was about 16 and a bit. We were impressionable (though we tried to hide it). But we were, whether we knew it or not, being moulded, formed, made useful, and above all, being taught skills which would prove to serve us well as our journeys through life progressed. And so it is that today we bring together today a group of elderly gents, in our mid to late sixties, who together could weave a rich tapestry of experience. Our lives, from the day we passed out in December 1956, went in all directions. We serviced aircraft, and covered ourselves in grease and oil (especially anyone who ever worked as an engine fitter on Beverleys!) Of course, if you were an Instrument Fitter, you probably did your job in your best blue! Some of us flew. Some of our number died young. Some stayed in the service all their working lives. Others left as soon as they could. But whatever we did, we did it well, because we were Halton trained. And it all started on this day, 50 years ago. So let us never cease to give thanks for what we added to our lives at this place. For here the pilgrimage of our working lives began. Going back to that hymn, the tune we sang is, in fact, the tune of an English folk song. It was picked up by the composer, Ralph Vaughan Williams in 1904, adapted, and set to Bunyan's words. The original folk song, which had more of a navy theme went like this: On board tomorrow Leaving my dear to mourn In grief and sorrow. Dry up those briny tears And leave off weeping So happy may we be At our next meeting. For those of us who ever had to leave our families to go away on a long detachment, or an unaccompanied posting, those would have been very apt sentiments. To shift the metaphor slightly, we have just called to remembrance those of our own number who, as it were, took the early flight. We, in the meantime, wait for our last call. For them, the pilgrimage has ended. For us, the journey continues, until we too take that last, long journey. 'Til then, may God go with us all. |