Terry did his technical training at 1TTS, Hobsonville.
His poem applies to many who joined the RNZAF.
We knew it all at 20 years, we were young and strong and had no fears.
We volunteered to sign the paper, the Air Force was a glorious caper.
20 years the contract said, we’d be paid with coin and clothed and fed.
We were no longer civvy slobs, cos now we all had Airforce jobs!
How we all loved our GSIs; from crack of dawn to beddie byes.
All the fun of waxing floors, scattered bedpacks to make once more.
Oh for Thursday night inspection, waiting for the snide rejection.
From those bloodhounds eagle eye, checking corners far and wide.
White gloved fingers were a must, for checking for a trace of dust.
Facing up to yobs was there, when visiting Cathedral Square.
Long haired losers loved the schemes, of the nutty PYMs.
We weren’t really hard to spot, flappy arms and short haircut.
Dawn parades in winter weather, freezing toes in boots of leather.
Shooting stuff with Bren and rifle; erstwhile mates were now our rivals.
At GSTS the first gave up; marching at Wigram filled his cup.
We knew we had made the grade, on our passing out parade.
At 1TTS we learned the basics, to be parceled up to scattered bases.
Hobsonville had different drills; t’was there we learned our practical skills.
Next to the tide and smelly harbour, where Sunderlands rested after all their labour.
After 20 years of war and strife, sent to the scrapheap to end their life.
But we were young and we were modern, now we were going to a Squadron.
Bright eyed newbies with creases straight, sent to the stores for tartan paint,
Heaps of left handed screwdrivers, buckets of propwash, the needs were diverse.
The odd remarks when we got to stores, it didn’t matter, those guys were bores.
Good long weights, you do the maths, skyhooks needed to paint the flarepath.
Most guys then were sucking fags; cleaning Canberra planes with oily rags.
Now we all had full employment, hoping for the odd deployment.
Timeless hours of work and snoozing, usually followed by a round of boozing.
Hoping for the chance to see, the giddy heights of LAC.
There was no time to be a fool, off to 2 Trade Training School.
The uniforms we pressed each night, polished the brass till we looked a sight.
The stuff we swatted all day till right, after supper when we took delight.
Off we went to the nearby NAFFI, trying to chat up our favorite WAFFIE.
Off on the bike to the nearest pub, drinking beer by glass and tub.
After that my memory fails, on the long way home by backstreet trails.
We always thought that we were wiser, than traffic cop with Breathalyzer.
Then the moment we all dread, the flashing lights of blue and red.
“Blow in the bag while I count to ten” Over the limit. Not again!
To lose a license is a fuss, now someone’ll have to go by bus!
Ohakea base to Palmie station, gipsy traveller with no known nation.
Hours of waiting for a train, off to Wellington once again.
Watching landscape flowing by, as stars and moon in evening sky.
Rise for boring introspection in steamy windows square reflection.
At last we stop in the wind and wet, is Wellington weather colder yet?
Dad is there to pick me up, heater blasting through the Hutt.
Wending homewards we soon see, the glimmering lights of Wainui.
Billowing blast of blistering heat, as I open the door, my folks to meet.
“Hello, I’m home” I keenly roar, only reply is “Shut the f’n door”!
Home is where I want to be, just a part of the family.