The nurse went through the usual routine, businesslike as ever, but I thought I detected a blush on his face and a certain unease in his manner. A hush fell over the room. When it came to ‘drop your drawers’, you could have heard a pin drop.

The boy said and did nothing, but hung his head and kept his knees together.

The nurse looked up. ‘I said drop your drawers, Airman Poynter.’

‘Do … do I have to?’

This got a big laugh.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the nurse. ‘Orders is orders.’

This too got a good reaction. It was turning into a farce.

‘I don’t … like to …’

‘Why not? Is something wrong?’

‘No,’ said Poynter, glancing over each angular shoulder. ‘But really … in front of all these … men.’

This got the biggest laugh of all. I couldn’t work out if he was playing to the gallery or not. But his head was still hanging, and I thought I could detect moisture on his eyelashes.

‘Come on, Poynter,’ said the nurse, in a gruff voice, ‘we’ve seen it all before.’

Eventually the poor boy did as he was told, and of course by now he had made things much worse for himself. Everyone was crowding the front of the stage, trying to get a good look. Out it popped, and the commentary began.

‘Cor, what a beauty!’

‘Pass the magnifying glass, I can’t see it!’

‘Don’t get many of them to the pound.’

‘Ooh, Daddy, what’s that?’

And so on. The nurse, who had turned several shades darker in the face, dispatched it as quickly as possible, and said ‘Next’ with a great deal of relief in his voice. Poynter strutted across the stage with his nose in the air, trying to regain some shred of dignity, which is not easy in a pair of RAF-issue drawers, cellular, green. He got dressed, but nobody went to talk to him. He stood in the centre of an invisible cordon, as if the men were afraid of catching ‘it’. Queerness. Just by talking to one. Or perhaps, like me, they didn’t want to give themselves away. For whatever reason, Poynter was alone.

When everyone had been poked and prodded and squeezed, we were sat in rows as the CO took to the stage. He was an old chap, looked like he’d been in the RAF since the First World War, big moustache and everything, row of medals on his chest, red face, white hair.

He gave a speech that he had obviously given a thousand times before, to each new intake. The script had not changed since the twenties.

‘On the seafront at Blackpool you are likely to be approached by a number of undesirable characters, some of whom will offer you the services of prostitutes, or women of the night.’ This got a big cheer, and the old fellow beamed, cleared his throat and carried on. ‘Others will be persons of a class to which I hope none of you will ever have the misfortune to belong, the unfortunates who can be identified by their collar-length hair and bright shirts and … erm … neckerchiefs.’ This prompted a lot of whispering, and sideways glances at Poynter, who had developed an absorbing interest in his boot caps.