Parachute Course Admin Unit, RAF Abingdon

Colin Butcher 1PTS A True Story, as told by Colin Butcher,

photo on left showing off his trick cycling abilities on my unicycle, just highlights how hard we had to work Click image to enlarge

This year we were staying with my wife’s sister at Abingdon, Oxfordshire when I decided on a nostalgic walk on Long Tow to the military camp which was formerly RAF Abingdon. Turning the corner to head towards Shippon where our MT Section was based I passed the Station Commander’s house when I had the ‘sang froid’ feeling of an interesting event in my life which occurred 43 years ago which will perhaps amuse you and your listeners.

In 1959 I was a young soldier in the Parachute Regiment employed as a MT driver by the Parachute Course Administration Unit which supplied the administration for personnel of all arms attending a parachute course run by No1 PTS ( Parachute Training School) at RAF Abingdon.

One Saturday morning – this was an RAF camp and we didn’t work Saturdays – I was in the washroom leisurely preparing for a stroll to town when unbeknown to me the warrant officer from No1 PTS entered the barrack-room and requested the services of the Unit Barber, a ‘Dinger Bell who was on weekend leave. The WO was ‘Jock’ Fox, it may even have been Focks or perhaps the vowel was wrong. ‘Weekend Leave’ was not part of his vocabulary and he demanded the name of the ‘Standby Barber’. In a situation such as this in those days – any ex-serviceman will confirm – was to give a name, any name and then vacate the area as quickly as possible. Pte Butcher was an excellent choice as I was only 15 paces away and therefore not party to the unanimous decision and immediately became ‘Dinger’s’ standby.

I was ordered by WO Fox to collect the kit which consisted of some basic tools and an electric clipper which would be easier than the old hand tool but could inflict more damage and at 10 times the speed. All I had to do was to cut one small boy’s hair , this didn’t seem too difficult for a young paratrooper, said ‘Jock’. I got into his landrover and we headed across the camp stopping at the front of Station Headquarters confirming my gut-feeling that I was in serious trouble. I made one final attempt to to save my life by informing WO Fox that I really , really, really had never cut anyone’s hair in my life . He smiled the smile only executioners can offer the doomed man as we climbed the stairs which meant we were going somewhere important.

‘Jock’ knocked the door beneath the gleaming name-plate emblazoned with STATION COMMANDER and we entered the office . A distant voice echoing as though in a cave informed the Station Commander ‘Sir, this is Private Butcher , he is the PCAU barber having served a hairdressing apprenticeship prior to joining the Army, Sir . ’Our conversation as we, the Station Commander and myself, proceeded downstairs to his staff car are lost in the annals of time but I’m certain I took no part in it.

As we proceeded to the Station Commander’s House in his staff-car, pennant fluttering on the bonnet and amid much saluting , he explained the reason for my predicament. His elder son was attending a Public School and today was Open Day, Graduation Day , 4th of July , Bastille Day it mattered not, as far as I was concerned it was probably the last day of my life. He, his wife and his younger son would be attending this ‘Special Day’ and this son was desperately in need of a haircut and I was the Official Barber who was to perform the special task which at that point felt like being ordered to ‘Go over the top’ in WW1.

The son requiring the haircut sported a mass of curly blonde hair and was very reluctant to have it cut an attitude with which I was quite happy to go along.. I imagined the Station Commander saying ‘Sorry Butcher I have led you on a false errand, thank you, dismiss.’ The son demanded – obviously officer material - that he be permitted to have his breakfast first. Did I agree asked his father? Did I agree? It was a reprieve if only for a short period, had this been Resistance to Interrogation I would have been so helpful the enemy would have had to shoot me to stop me talking.

The son commenced his breakfast, 'Take your time' I imagined myself saying as I followed the Station Commander into the next room. Brushing his neck with his hand he said, ‘I condemn you to be hanged by the neck until dead.’ Well not exactly he really said, ‘Do you think I need a trim?’ which was actually the same thing. No I didn’t think he needed a haircut, he’d probably never need a haircut again after I had finished. Would I mind just cleaning up around his neck? This was it, I was totally stuffed. He sat on a dining chair and my options were down to two. One. Tell him I had never cut anyone’s hair in my life and WO Fox was playing a joke on him , and two, kill him and run away. Either solution would bring about the same result anyway.

I put the cloth around his neck , plugged the clippers in ,switched on and they hummed into life. I tilted the clippers back placing the heel of the cutter against his neck keeping the sharp edge well clear of anything resembling hair and did this in a professional manner for two or three minutes. I switched the cutters off, brushed his neck and removed the cloth . He stood up, looked in the mirror and said ‘Very good, thank you very much’. Even to this day I really can’t believe I got away with it, OK I still had to give his son a real haircut but I was so relieved I would have given Lord Kitchener a short back and sides.

Yes I did cut the boys hair, very carefully I might add, and the Station Commander gave me five shillings for my trouble which didn't really compensate for the years it had taken off my life.

COLIN BUTCHER