The Combined Cadet Force (CCF)

 

---

This is a simulation of a conversation I may have with my grandson when he (and I) are both quite a bit older than today. As I write this I wonder how much of my own childhood experiences may - in a thoroughly modernised guise - become suddenly relevant again in the next 5-10 years.

---

Grandson:

 "Grandfather, when you joined the CCF at Bristol Grammar School, what made you choose the army section over the navy or air force cadets?"

Grandfather:

 "I was twelve or thirteen, about your age, and obsessed with science-fiction, spaceflight and aircraft. Naturally I thought I would join the air cadet section. My father said he thought the RAF was sloppy and ill-disciplined - he was very loyal to his old WW2 corps, the REME (the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers).

There was an open day in which all three branches did a kind of 'taster' session. The army did an assault course - so much more interesting than the other two. I joined the army cadets."

Grandson:

 "What was the most memorable experience you had while in the CCF?"

Grandfather:

"We were out at the Army's Yoxter Range, in Somerset, for live fire practice. We would be firing the Lee-Enfield Mk 4 .303 rifle as used by second world war infantry. This would be around 1964. The officers were our teachers, and the most senior was Captain Lewis who was a portly and rather irascible physics teacher. He wanted to demonstrate to us that even blanks were dangerous.

He put an aluminium sheet, a metal square about eight inches by eight inches onto the grass, loaded his rifle with a blank, dropped the muzzle of the rifle to the ground, pointing it at the centre of the plate. Then, in quiet and authoritative tones, he explained that the blank cartridge was tipped with some material which stopped the powder getting out, where the bullet would normally be. He said that although the material was quite soft, nevertheless it came out at supersonic speeds and it was extremely dangerous close-up.

As he was speaking, he was quietly pulling the trigger back and as he finished there was an insanely loud bang. He leant over and picked up the metal plate, which now had a large irregular hole blasted through the centre. We were sufficiently convinced!"

Grandson:

 "What was the biggest mistake you made while in the CCF?"

Grandfather:

 "A short time after I joined up there was the annual parade on the school field, where parents watched from the stands. We were all there, all the cadets, doing drill (which I was less than brilliant at).

At the end we were all in our ranks in the July sunshine, turned to face our parents and the many guests. The cadet sergeant-major shouted what I thought was 'slope arms' which I did, swinging the rifle to my right shoulder; unfortunately, I was the only one who heard that. Everyone else heard 'ground arms' and dropped their weapons so that the butt was next to their right boot.

I stood for a second, ashen-faced, and then miserably slid the rifle down to the ground. My father said afterwards that, in his heart of hearts, as soon as he saw that one lone cadet had got it so very wrong, he knew it would have to be me. My natural clumsiness - coming to the fore again!"

Grandson:

 "Can you tell me about the time you got lost in Snowdonia one arctic Easter?"

Grandfather:

 "Thankfully I was not in command, being an ordinary member of the squad led by a cadet corporal who thought he knew all about traversing snow-covered mountains in bitter weather.

 We were sent out on a three-day exercise to navigate cross-country near the Glyders in North Wales, camping in the snow during the nights. I think they hadn't expected the weather to be quite so bad.

Remember, in those days no GPS, no phones, no breathable gear. We were wearing combat jackets and trousers and carrying our tents and supplies on manpack-carriers on our backs; maps and compasses. We were led up precipitous ascents so icy and difficult that even our intrepid leader turned us back before we fell off. Then the blizzard hit, and we sought lower ground and waited out the storm in a farmer's barn.

Unfortunately, our leader neglected to call it in. The Mountain Rescue was called, it was a national news item, our parents were beside themselves. We meandered down to the nearest village the following day, completely unaware of all the fuss. I, at least, did not get the full force of the wrath which hit our leader!"

Grandson:

 "Was there ever an incident when you really annoyed one of the officers during your time in the CCF?"

Grandfather:

 "I was in the signals section. Bristol Grammar School CCF was part of a nationwide short-wave radio net of army cadet forces (call-sign 18 Bravo), and after school I would fire up our (ex-tank) transceiver and talk to fellow cadets in schools hundreds of miles away.

One such conversation went on too long after school and the teacher ordered me to stop the conversation while the other guy (at Marlborough College near Swindon) was still transmitting. This was quite a breach of radio protocol, so I kind of ignored him.

He got really angry and basically pulled the plug and sent me home. It was the beginning of the end: I left the CCF soon after."

The 'Lost' Art of Teenage Romance

 

---

A simulation of a conversation I will perhaps be having in less than a decade: via ChatGPT.

---

A Grandfather, A Granddaughter, and the Lost Art of Teenage Romance

"Grandfather, since Bristol Grammar School was all boys when you attended, how did you even meet girls back then? Did you have to be very bold, or were there events where boys and girls could mix?"

A sharp question from my granddaughter, thirteen years old, newly curious about the past—not history in the dry textbook sense, but history as lived by someone she knows.

"We were very keen to meet girls," I tell her, "but there were none!"

I explain how, at fourteen, I attended a summer school fair with a group of friends, all of us determined to chat up some girls. "I knew immediately we’d have no luck as a group—packs of boys weren’t exactly irresistible. So I wandered off by myself, spotted a girl I thought was cute, and struck up a conversation. Rosalind—see, I remember her name!—must have thought I met at least her minimal requirements because we spent the afternoon walking together. My friends saw us, and they were so envious!"

"That sounds really sweet, Grandfather! And also very brave—you just walked up to her and started talking? I’d be so nervous! What did you say to start the conversation, and how did you know she was interested in talking to you too?"

"Sadly, it's all lost in the mists of time," I admit. "I had no experience at all in these matters—no films, no books or magazines on the subject, no internet or mobile phones. I think I was just a bit self-confident and under the illusion I had charm! Rosalind must have thought I was at least passable. But it didn’t last."

"Since you and your friends were all figuring things out without movies, books, or the internet to guide you, did you ever give each other advice about dating, or was it more of an every-man-for-himself situation?"

"We never talked seriously about it. I think boys didn't then—maybe they do today? Instead, we had a jokey ‘star system’ to boast about how far we’d gotten with a girlfriend. ‘One star’ was holding hands, ‘two stars’ was a kiss, and so on. It was all very innocent, and I never believed a word of it. We were all totally naïve and inexperienced."

"That’s really funny, Grandfather! I can imagine a group of boys trying to one-up each other, even if no one really knew what they were doing. Since you were all so inexperienced, did you ever have any really awkward or embarrassing moments when trying to impress a girl?"

"Always! We didn’t know the language of romantic interactions at all. We didn’t know how to behave at discos, how to talk to a girl-stranger. In the end, I think what worked was just to go with your instincts—don’t overthink it!—and be very attentive to the messages the girl was sending you, if any! You could usually tell, after dancing with a girl you’d just asked, whether there was any sparkle there. Then you’d offer to buy her a drink—probably a soft drink at that age!"

"That makes a lot of sense, Grandfather! It sounds like instincts and paying attention were more important than having a perfect plan. Was there ever a time when you completely misread a girl’s signals and ended up in an embarrassing situation?"

"Yes, but I have an acute sensitivity to embarrassment and would back off with apologies pretty rapidly. I was usually rather cautious in my interactions, and that tended to save me from stupidity. Not everyone was so circumspect, so don’t take me as typical!"

"Did you ever see one of your friends make a complete fool of himself while trying to impress a girl?"

"There are always buffoons around, complete show-offs. The girls laugh behind their hands and giggle with their friends. My friends were not people like that, thankfully!"

"Looking back now," my granddaughter asks, sensing we’re nearing the end, "do you think teenage romance in the 1960s was sweeter and more exciting because it was all so new and unstructured, or do you think young people today have it easier with all the ways they can meet and talk to each other?"

"Good question! If we'd been at a mixed school, my social life would have been completely different—I can't even imagine it. I read a lot about the terrible state of boy-girl relationships these days, but maybe most of the time I imagine it still works. A little empathy, consideration, and common sense go a long, long way. I wish you luck with the boys you meet, and I hope you choose well."

She smiles. "Thank you, Grandfather. That’s really good advice. And I think it’s really cool hearing about how things were for you—it makes me realize that even though times change, people don’t really change that much."

Maybe next time, she’ll ask about my first date. But for now, I’m happy she just asked at all.

Francis Youell (1909-1963) - a Memoir

Francis and Margaret ('Mag') Youell on their wedding day in 1936. She was 25, he was 27.

Francis Youell is my deceased father-in-law: I never had a chance to meet him. I met Clare in 1977 by which point her father had been dead fourteen years (I met his wife, Mag; we got on). Based on family memories, and given depth by ChatGPT's knowledge of the zeitgeist of early twentieth century Liverpool working-class culture, here is a short memoir of Francis Youell.

---

Francis Youell was born on August 5th, 1909, in Liverpool, a city that hummed with the grit and energy of the docks, the printing presses, and the steady rhythm of working-class life. He grew up in a Roman Catholic family, a faith that infused the patterns of his childhood with community rituals, moral purpose, and a strong sense of belonging.

Leaving school at fourteen, Francis was apprenticed as a printer—a skilled trade that demanded precision, discipline, and the ability to take pride in meticulous craftsmanship. For him, this was not merely a job but an identity. The printing trade, after all, was a cornerstone of communication and progress, and Francis's dedication to his craft saw him remain loyal to the same Liverpool printing firm throughout his working life, save for the years when war drew him away.

Though he could have remained in a reserved occupation during the Second World War, Francis, with characteristic boldness, chose to enlist in the Royal Navy in 1942. This decision—made despite his wife Mag’s objections—spoke to a restless sense of duty and adventure. Serving aboard a motor launch in the Channel, Francis endured enemy fire in a theatre of war often overlooked in the grander narratives. Yet, for men like him, these small, dangerous vessels were the unsung backbone of the war effort, patrolling waters and safeguarding supply routes.

Returning to civilian life, Francis resumed his work as a printer, his cheerful and sociable nature a constant in his home and community. A man of natural warmth, he exuded a charm that drew others to him, whether playing with his children or cracking jokes among friends. His extraversion and zest for life were balanced by a deep love for his wife, Margaret—“Mag.” By all accounts, he adored her, though her demeanour was more reserved, perhaps even austere at times. Their partnership, however, thrived in the give-and-take of their contrasting personalities: his lightness of spirit complemented her steady practicality.

Their home was one of ambition and discipline. Francis and Mag raised seven children, instilling in them the value of education and hard work. Six of the children attended grammar schools—no small feat in mid-20th century Liverpool—and all went on to carve out successful professional lives. This, perhaps, was Francis’s most enduring legacy: the opportunities he and Mag laboured to provide for their children, lifting them beyond the constraints of their own working-class upbringing.

Francis’s life, however, was not without shadows. His health, undermined by heart attacks in his later years, imposed periods of convalescence that must have weighed heavily on such an active man. His death in early 1963, at the age of 53, was a devastating blow to his family. Though he passed too soon, the values he embodied—kindness, dedication, and an irrepressible joy in living—endured in the lives of his children.

To imagine Francis Youell is to picture a man who whistled as he worked, cherished a quiet pint at the local club, and saw each day as an opportunity to contribute, to connect, and to care for his family. Liverpool’s working-class men of his era shared a common spirit: they were builders of futures, both their own and others', often labouring without applause. Yet Francis stands out as one who carried that burden with a light heart and a generous smile, leaving behind a family and a legacy to be proud of.

---