An Officer and a Gentlewoman (30 page)

As the sun rose on that final day we stood along three sides of an open square in the centre of the village, the whole of CC071 grinning with relief. Piles of empty ammunition cases littered the rooms and stairwells of the buildings behind us, and the Gurkhas
we had shot earlier were picking themselves up and coming to life again. Above the dawn sky, warming orange sunlight appeared through cracks in the cloud, casting a glowing hue over the gathered assembly. We stood smartly, lined up in rank and file, because in front of us stood the General, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He was a short, jolly man, who, despite rank importance, we felt relaxed around. He lowered his head and looked soulfully at the ground, summing up his thoughts for our final address. Smiles of elation beamed across each cadet’s face as we absorbed the fact that it was all finally over. We had finished. Sandhurst was over. Two weeks of term remained, but they were a mere formality now. The exams were done. We had reached the end.

I don’t remember what the General said to us that morning. I was too giddy with excitement. He undoubtedly expressed his congratulations and spoke sage words to guide us through our officer careers; handing out nuggets of General’s wisdom in the sort of profound speech that Generals are paid for. Whatever it was he said, he was completely eclipsed by what followed.

After he had finished speaking we took out our new berets that we had been moulding for weeks in the privacy of our rooms and officially put them on our heads for the first time. Beaming at each other like real, grown-up officers, not pretend cadets any more. Hands were clapped and shaken, backs slapped and mock salutes given, before chuckling and tittering in high spirits as we made our way towards a large empty hangar where breakfast was being served. Merv, Wheeler and I giggled with elated excitement, floating high on the satisfying drug of accomplishment as we drifted through the hangar entrance. Looking around inside, I noticed there were a number of
fresh-clothed
civilians expectantly milling around. They were wearing the usual black North Face puffer jackets and walking boots that non-military people adopt as suitable attire to blend in when working around people in uniform. Near the entrance a man was fussing around with a clipboard in his hands, directing us
further into the hangar and towards the hotplates where a film crew were hovering.

I looked along the line of hotplates, hungrily eyeing up the food on offer. My first decent cooked meal for ten days. I was salivating at the thought of bacon and sausages. As I followed the buffet line of food, I realized that the normal Army chefs had also been replaced by North Face-wearing civilians. I couldn’t quite work out what was going on. Why was a film crew recording our breakfast, and who were these chefs? As I collected my paper plate and plastic cutlery a blonde woman handed me a glass of champagne. I took a sip, and let the bubbles glide straight to my brain, feeling them instantly relax me, and that’s when I saw him. Cheerily spooning kedgeree onto a paper plate ahead, smiling and chatting with the cadets. Andi Peters. I couldn’t believe it. Was tiredness making me hallucinate? Why was Andi Peters serving us breakfast? Andi Peters who we had all grown up with presenting our children’s television programmes. Andi Peters of Edd the Duck fame. What was going on?

The twitter of gossip travelled along the queuing line, sending word that these plain-clothed civilians were in fact celebrities taking part in the television programme
Celebrity MasterChef
. Apparently while we had been assaulting the village, Andi Peters and his group of Z-list celebrities, whom none of us recognized, had been under the heat in an army field kitchen preparing us a gourmet breakfast. And in front of us were trays of beautifully prepared smoked salmon, scrambled egg, kedgeree, pancakes and perfectly poached eggs Benedict. It looked delicious but was not going to be sufficient to feed our ravenous hunger right now, so at the far end of the hotplate lay trays of usual army fare: sausages, bacon, fried bread and gallons of baked beans. After ten days of shivering on Salisbury Plain the gastronomy was somewhat wasted as I politely accepted one of Andi Peters’s lovingly prepared eggs Benedict and then smothered it in sausage and beans.

I was woken by the sound of bagpipes, the strangled screeching that had somehow become cause for nostalgia now I was in the military. I looked at my bedside clock, 05.27, army early. Outside in the corridor the bagpipe shrills drifted away, moving along to wake up someone else. I stretched my legs and spun out of bed, with all the excitement of a child at Christmas, leaping across the room and flinging open the door. Standing in the doorway I poked my head out into the brightly lit corridor, looking up and down, watching more heads popping out of the other rooms, each covered by a wide broad smile. The door opposite cracked open and Merv appeared in her pyjamas. Scratching her head she looked at me, grinning from ear to ear. Today was our last day at Sandhurst. Friday, 14 December 2007.

The day we finally commissioned.

For the preceding two weeks since the final exercise our days had been devoted to preparing for this – shining and smartening. Between final mess dress fittings and handing back kit, hours had been spent pacing the parade square, rehearsing and practising until every step of the final Sovereign’s Parade was ingrained in our muscle memory. Each drumbeat, each halting step, every salute, all committed until they started entering my dreams at night. In our rooms each night we had polished and preened, shining shoes and buckles, buttons and brass, until everything was perfect. Because this time it wasn’t just Captain Trunchbull who would be inspecting us, and it wasn’t just CSgt Bicknell we needed to impress. It was the 2,000 spectating family and friends who mattered today.

As the preparations hit fever pitch, I finally understood why Sandhurst places such a high priority on drill. After eleven months at the Academy I realized that it was all about marketing the Sandhurst brand. It was all a show. It was about putting on a good performance for the viewing public, because for most people outside Sandhurst the pageantry of the Sovereign’s Parade is the only insight available into Academy life. Three times a year, with each commissioning day, the gates are opened to family, friends
and the national press to come and peer with their cameras. Getting a slim snapshot of life at this esoteric institution. Royalty arrive, foreign dignitaries, politicians and military chiefs, taking their places in the front row to watch the spectacle.

And before them a stately display is laid on, with a brass band playing and 500 cadets marching around Old College parade square in synchrony, showcasing the discipline and superior mettle of the British Army’s Officer corps. This impressive display of pomp and ceremony masks the real blood, mud and grit that go into the commissioning course.

On that December morning, seated in stands at the edge of the parade square, were my parents, brother and Deborah, huddled in the cold with their cameras primed. My grandfather was the only regrettable absentee that day. As a former Second World War soldier, I desperately wanted him to be there. He would have appreciated the whole significance of my commissioning day the most, but at nearly ninety years old he was too frail to make the long journey south. Instead I phoned him the next day to tell him all about it. From his chair in a North Wales care home, he proudly saluted me down the telephone line and chuckled over the miracle that someone had finally forced his granddaughter to tidy her room.

Standing to a flank, formed up and ready to march I could hear the buzz of the crowd quietened as a brass band marched onto the parade square ahead of us. Smartly dressed in their red tunics, the splendour of Old College provided a stunning backdrop behind them as the drum beat out a military melody.

Da-da-da-dum-dum-dum.

The backing track for 500 cadets marching behind them. Now in the Senior Term, we had ditched the rifles that had been so cumbersome to march with in Inters, replacing them with far more stately swords. In the low winter light the rows of swords glittered, catching the sun and sparkling as we advanced to a cymbal clash. Stepping forwards, I could feel the pulsating resonance of the drum beating deep in the pit of my stomach.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Setting the pace.

Filled with nervous pride and a stiffener of port, we were led onto the square by the Academy Adjutant mounted on his steady white stallion. I was tense and anxious. This was a big moment and not the time for one of my drill ineptitudes. For the Sovereign’s Parade we didn’t march in our usual platoons but as a half company, mixed up with the boys of Imjin. To my left was Officer Cadet Leroy from Ten Platoon, who took pride in his appearance and had kindly polished my shoes for me the night before. Leroy was commissioning into the Royal Logistics Corps and his family and friends were also seated in the crowd ahead.

As we marched forward and stepped onto Old College parade square I noticed something out of the corner of my eye on the ground next to Leroy’s right foot.

‘Leroy,’ I whispered loudly over the drumbeat, ‘your shoelace is coming undone.’ At that Leroy tilted his head every so slightly and glanced down. Sure enough his right boot was starting to unravel and a long black lace was starting to snake around his ankles. Next to me he bristled with the hideous reality of what was happening, of all the occasions, right now, here with 1,000 family, friends and dignitaries watching. The George boots the boys wore were laced with extraordinarily long laces too and by the time we reached the front of Old College for our first circle of the parade square Leroy’s lace had now unravelled to a metre in length and was trailing like a whip behind him, kicking forth with each step.

It was catastrophic.

As we marched in circles around the parade square in front of the spectating crowd Leroy’s lace flicked around out of control at his feet, baiting for one of us to stand on it and trip him up. And there was nothing he could do about it. I focused forward, minding each step but casting a sideways glance at the sea of spectators, searching for my parents among them. Eventually we came to a halt and turned to face the crowd standing to attention ready for
inspection by the Queen’s representative,
1
who today was the Chief of the Defence Staff, Air Chief Marshall Sir Jock Stirrup. Next to me Leroy was panicking. Glancing at the sight of his lace extending along the ground in front of us, he said to me in a hushed whisper: ‘This is the worst moment of my life. I can’t believe this is happening to me.’ With my nerves this sent me giggling at the situation and I started to choke as I held them back. ‘I’ve got to bend down and do it up,’ he said.

‘No, no, no. Leroy, you can’t do that,’ I pleaded. We were standing in the front row. No one but the head of the British Armed Forces would see Leroy’s lace, but the entire gathered crowd would see him crouch down and do up his laces. And the Academy sergeant major would probably have him shot on the spot for ruining proceedings. No, he had to leave it.

As the air chief marshall approached with his entourage Leroy began sweating. I could feel the tension and fear in him for what was about to happen. We were warned daily at Sandhurst by CSgt Bicknell and CSgt Rattray about the horrors of a stray lace. Then I heard a scraping sound, and felt Leroy fidgeting beside me. I heard it again and glancing down realized he was using his sword to scrape up the offending lace on the ground. Trying to drag it towards him, so that it didn’t extend quite so obviously a metre in front of him. But it was futile. The air chief marshall was working his way along the front rank and was almost upon us.

Next to me Leroy stiffened and held his breath. Accompanying the air chief marshall was the Academy commandant (a major general) and the Academy sergeant major with his rack of campaign medals pinned to his barrelled chest glinting along with his brass buttons and shiny shoes in the sunlight. Everything about his appearance screamed perfection. If he saw the stray lace lying in a
winding ribbon on the parade square I was sure he would rip Leroy’s throat out.

The air chief marshall continued to move forward, stopping every third or fourth person to engage in pleasant chit-chat.

Christ, why did we have to be in the front row?

He moved nearer.

Standing to attention my head was thrust forward and my chin angled upwards but my eyes were stretched sideways in their sockets, focusing intently on the progress of the Academy sergeant major. Watching him as he looked around, taking it all in, absorbing the atmosphere and sense of occasion on this proud moment: his favourite of the term. A moment Leroy’s lace was about to destroy.

The air chief marshall was steps away now and as he moved towards us from his conversation three cadets away he settled his eyes on Leroy and walked towards him. I became almost faint with fear on Leroy’s behalf. This was horrible. The most important day of our year at Sandhurst, a day that would stick with him for the rest of his military career. As the air chief marshall stopped in front of Leroy his aide de camp hovered behind, and the Academy sergeant major stood back glancing around at the faces in the front row. He was bound to spot the lace trailing beneath his feet. He had the eyes of a hawk. He could spot a speck of mud on a boot at thirty paces.

‘And are your family here today?’ the air chief marshall asked Leroy.

‘Yes. Yes, sir. My … my … my mother and father have travelled up from Devon, sir.’ Leroy stammered out his response as, inside his heart was beating out of his chest.

‘Goodness, that’s a long way to have travelled,’ the air chief marshall said. ‘I do hope they have a lovely day.’ And with that he turned and continued on, dragging with him the rest of his entourage including the Academy sergeant major. Leroy almost collapsed with relief. His lace had gone unnoticed and he remained unscathed.

As I continued to stand to attention holding my sword steady as the air chief marshall completed his rounds, I looked for the faces of my parents in the crowd, scanning the rows of faces watching. But there were too many people for me to find them. At the same time up in the stands my father was busy clicking away, watching the spectacle through his camera lens, eager to get a good shot of the day. When I later got home I looked through these images and was disappointed to see that I wasn’t in a single one of them. Instead he had mistakenly snapped photographs of Wheeler, thinking she was me.