Mahmoud had left a wife and three children in Yemen to join Ten Platoon; chosen because he was simply in the room when his commanding officer was tasked with selecting someone. He wouldn’t return home to his family for the entire year. And not only did Mahmoud have to contend with the inclement climate and strictures of British military authoritarianism, but he was also a devout Muslim and had to match his prayer timings, halal beliefs and Ramadan customs to the training programme as well; orientating to Mecca in the middle of a fire fight in Brecon brings a whole new dimension to covering your arcs and praying.
In Eleven Platoon we were joined by Officer Cadet Black from Jamaica, whose chilled, laid-back totally tropical Caribbean ways were in for a cruel car crash collision with the strict Sandhurst regimen. Her Creole drawl brought a Malibu gloss to our little army and she shivered continually for the entire eleven months. We also had Khadka, our own bantam Nepali warrior, whose English was impeccable (I once heard her use the word ‘monocotyledon’ in casual conversation) and despite coming from Kathmandu she too suffered terribly with the British weather. Although, in spite of the air miles, Khadka wasn’t as far from home as you might expect in Surrey since Sandhurst and its neighbouring Camberley have a large army Gurkha population who kept her company.
Twelve Platoon were enriched by Maganizo from Malawi who had never seen snow and Karumba who was actually from southwest London but routinely mistaken for another external import.
With uncharacteristic humanity, Sandhurst did bestow small pity on these legal aliens (and Karumba), issuing them with extra-warm cold-weather clothing: thick down jackets, arctic gloves, socks and Gortex boots, all of which Black and Khadka wore religiously.
Eventually after four horrendous days and sleepless nights our angry camping ordeal came to its painful conclusion. In the darkness before the arrival of dawn, as the platoon innocently slept, the harbour got ‘bumped’.
The enemy had finally found us.
Panicked shouting and crackling gunfire suddenly shattered the early morning calm of Hundred Acre Wood. Through the darkness around us, pandemonium broke. Bawling and hollering, the enemy came, crashing through the forest to storm our position.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Firing at us through the trees, they came thundering towards us.
Startled into consciousness, I was still wrapped up in my sleeping bag, rifle tucked at my side and sodden boots on. I tried to dismiss the noises around me as a bad dream. I just wanted to sleep and pretend it wasn’t happening. Beside me, Wheeler was already awake and galvanized into action, thrusting her sleeping bag into her bergen and tearing down our poncho shelter.
She shone the light of her torch at my face, rousing me out of my dream into the nightmare. ‘Come on, we’ve got to go,’ she urged.
Behind her, I could see Allinson and Merv up and ready to go, lifting their bergens onto their backs. Reluctantly I left the relative warmth of my sleeping bag and joined the flustered confusion. By now the harbour area was a flurry of activity. The platoon were hurriedly gathering up possessions in the dark, stuffing them into bergens and webbing while Captain Trunchbull and SSgt Cox had arrived to add to the mayhem.
We were fleeing, clearing out of our woodblock home in a blind blustering panic to the ERV (emergency rendezvous). With bergens packed and hoisted onto our backs, we stampeded out of the copse and down a forest track, with someone at the front clutching a map and compass that would point us to safety. Ahead lay a five-mile forced march in fighting order across the Sussex Weald to showers and breakfast. The pace was brisk and demanding. Captain Trunchbull ran along beside us, unhindered by kit, shouting threatening words of abusive encouragement, which we allowed to wash over our ears. The bergens and webbing on our backs weighed us down as we trudged along the muddy tracks, stumbling over stones and tree roots, our legs lazy with exhaustion. Straight from the lines of a Wilfred Owen poem, we staggered, bent double and coughing like hags in the moist winter air, rifles cradled in our arms. It was a battle of wills to keep going. My back ached and legs groaned. My years in London had trained me to handle pounds sterling and a calculator, not pounds of kit and a weapon. I tried to focus my mind elsewhere, thinking thoughts of the reward, of bacon, eggs, toast and beans, the elation of being clean and warm back at the Academy.
And that was it, the magic of Self-Abuse. After four days exposed to the uncomfortable realities of soldiering I viewed the confines of Old College and the endless ironing-cleaning-boot-polishing insanity as relief. I wanted five uninterrupted hours of sleep and I was content to iron my bed in the morning in order to have it. I could tolerate the national anthem dawn chorus if it meant hot showers and clean clothes. The melodrama of room inspections were a worthy exchange for a roof and four walls, because Exercise Self-Abuse had broken me and forced me to acquiesce.
That morning five miles felt like twenty. It was hard going. I still felt weak from my fever and the pain must have been clearly visible on my face, as Wheeler reached out her hand and gave my arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘Come on, Héloïse, not much further to go.’
Eventually we reached the safety of camp, beaten, broken shadows of our former selves. Finally it was over. I felt every muscle in my body relax with joyous relief as I loosened my webbing and bergen and dropped them to the floor, happy to leave them lying where they fell. I stretched out my back, feeling the muscles release and unwind, vertebrae slotting back into place. I felt almost emotional; I had survived the most unpleasant week of my entire life and was still in one piece, and I had war stories to boast exaggeratedly about to friends in London on my first leave weekend. Inside I had a quiet feeling of pride, of having achieved. Though only trivial and minor by army standards, I knew my civilian self-exacting brain would never have completed it. My tolerance of cold, pain and discomfort had never been so violated. The conversion from civilian to soldier was far from complete, but I had overcome my first true test of grittiness and headed triumphantly for the showers.
It is truly horrifying how bad the body can smell after a week of war games. Mud mixes with dried sweat, flaking camouflage cream and damp clothing to create a toxic whiff, which can overwhelm the freshly bathed, and which after a time I worryingly got used to. As I finally got to the camp showers, my stomach satiated with sausage and beans, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a bathroom mirror and recoiled. I looked like an aged rock star at the end of a hedonistic weekend: hair bedraggled, make-up smudged, clothing dishevelled, eyes narrow and puffy. I had turned feral. Peeling off my filthy clothing and stepping into the steaming shower was like being reborn. I scrubbed at my skin trying to discern bruising from dirt, as water and soap washed away five days of caked mud, bringing my body back to life. I watched the frothy brown water swirl around the plughole mingling with blades of grass, leaves and filth. Looking at the soggy pile of muddy kit on the changing room floor, I groaned, thinking about the toil involved in washing and ironing it all when I got back, ready in time for the following morning’s room inspection.
The cycle was tireless.
That night back at the Academy, I finally climbed into bed, fresh, clean and smooth, crushed with exhaustion. I lay back and was asleep in moments, plunging into a deep blissful slumber. I slept like I had never slept before, a velvety smothering sleep, too tired to even dream as my battered body was restored. The eventual release of mind and limb felt like arrival at Valhalla, like succumbing to an opiate, like pressing pause on life and taking time out. I was grateful that the Exercise Self-Abuse bad dream was finally over, but fearful that there would be more field exercises in the coming months, and they would only get harder.
Having survived Self-Abuse we returned to the Gulag with a mere week now separating us from the outside freedoms of our first leave weekend. A week of room inspections, polishing and drill, lots and lots of drill. The usual inane dross continued as Sandhurst persisted to test our leadership and resolve. For a few days SSgt Cox confiscated all of the platoon’s watches,
leaving the unlucky cadet in charge herding cats as the only person with the time. Regular and rushed uniform changes were called, seeing us parade hurriedly in barrack order, then combats, then blues, orienteering kit and back to combats or barrack dress, then Blues or running kit. Too little time was given for each costume change and all my clothes became strewn across the bedroom like a messy teenager, leaving me to later pick it all up, wash it, iron it, fold it and put it back in its correct location for the morning’s room inspection. My favourite of these senseless mess-arounds involved the entire platoon standing still for an hour, in stony silence on an empty parade square being taught a ‘lesson in waiting’.
And it wasn’t just Eleven Platoon who got this treatment.
Early one morning I ran down the stairs from my room in Old College to line up outside for the morning parade, and as I burst through the double doors into Chapel Square, I was confronted by the whole of Ten Platoon on the ground doing press-ups in front of the Rat.
‘Come on. Ye’ll keep doin’ this until ya can get them all,’ the Rat shouted at them, as they raised and lowered with each press-up motion. I walked discreetly behind them to where Eleven Platoon lined up, trying not to draw attention to myself and took up my place in the middle rank, looking over to watch the spectacle. What were they doing?
‘Bagpipes,’ one of the Ten Platoon boys shouted out as sweaty steam started to rise from their backs in the cold winter’s air.
‘Yes,’ the Rat shouted. ‘Well done. Tha’s one of me five favourite things. Ya got two more ta get. Come on, men, think.’ In front of him they continued to do press-ups, a couple of huffing grunts of discomfort now being expressed. The Rat was playing one of his favourite games. He would get the boys of Ten Platoon to do press-ups like this until they could name each of his five favourite things: a transient list that changed with each iteration of the game. This always included Irn-Bru and porridge, and usually his wife, but the rest was anyone’s guess, depending on his mood and whim, and they could be stuck doing press-ups like this for long protracted periods until they finally landed on whatever obscure pleasure took his Scottish fancy that day.
I had now been at Sandhurst for nearly five weeks but had barely spoken to any of the boys. I recognized some of their faces and we all wore name badges but I didn’t know anything about any of them. There was a forced separation between us and we rarely risked the wrath of SSgt Cox by speaking to any of them. They were not allowed to enter our accommodation and during those first five weeks we ate, worked and marched everywhere as a platoon of just girls.
That particular morning as Ten Platoon finished their press-ups for the Rat, SSgt Cox emerged. Stepping serenely through the doors into Chapel Square, her head held high as if sniffing for prey, she walked coolly past the captivating charm of the Rat with a quick gleeful gibe in his direction, and came to take her place at the front of Eleven Platoon. In Chapel Square we lined up in numerical order, with Eleven Platoon sandwiched between the two boys’ platoons of Ten and Twelve, neither of which we were allowed to speak to, even though one of the girls, Holmström, had her boyfriend in Twelve Platoon. Earlier as SSgt Cox had been absent outside, Holmström had seized the moment to sidle up to her boyfriend, Officer Cadet Browne, and have an innocent little chat with him. There was no opportunity for intimacy in Old College, but a quick exchange of smiles and brief squeeze of the hand made all the difference. And as SSgt Cox joined us outside she instantly locked eyes on them.
‘Holmström,’ she shrieked. ‘What are you doing talking to that boy?’
‘Nothing, staff sergeant,’ Holmström replied, quickly leaping away from Browne, stung by SSgt Cox’s arrival.
‘Don’t lie to me, Miss Holmström, I saw you. Perhaps Mr Browne might like to explain,’ she said as she came to a stop in front of us, her eyes firmly fixed on Officer Cadet Browne. ‘Mr Browne, would you like to come over here and explain to me what you were doing talking to one of my cadets,’ SSgt Cox goaded, putting her hands on her hips and lifting her head aloft in his direction. He had no choice. Bravely he stepped forwards, leaving the comfort of Twelve Platoon and marched over to SSgt Cox’s bait. Smartly he came to attention in front of her, keeping his head held high, his eyes never meeting hers.
‘I’m sorry, staff sergeant. I was talking to my girlfriend,’ he said in a low meek voice. Around him the rest of Imjin Company remained silent, intently watching and listening, to see what drama would unfold.
‘Your girlfriend,’ SSgt Cox shouted in a high-pitched shriek. ‘Girlfriend.’ She spat out the word. Her eyes widened and a sly temper began to build, fuelled by her distaste that there could be a cosy couple in Imjin’s midst. ‘We’ll see about that.’ She stamped her feet together and took a pace towards him, meeting his gaze with a challenging eye. ‘You know you are not allowed to speak to my girls, Mr Browne,’ she snapped, her finger waving at him in disapproval. ‘But perhaps this morning I might permit you to sing to them instead.’
What?
We all looked at Browne. A perplexed frown formed across his face. Did she seriously expect him to stand there and sing to Holmström, in front of the whole company? What could he possibly sing in this situation?
‘Go on then, Mr Browne,’ she provoked.
Silence.
He said nothing. His mouth remained firmly shut, his brain working in overdrive to think of a suitable way out of this awkward situation.
‘I’m waiting,’ she said, as the seconds ticked on.
In Officer Cadet Browne she had picked on the wrong person. He was a quiet personal man, not a confident exhibitionist. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself in front of everyone as she wanted. But what was he going to do?
The seconds ticked on.
‘Come on. We haven’t got all day, Mr Browne.’ She sighed. ‘You better hurry up before I think of a more severe alternative punishment for you.’
The whole company stared at him, waiting in anticipation. How the hell was he going to get out of this one? Then he lowered his head, briefly closed his eyes and exhaled. He looked over to Holmström, opened his mouth and began to sing in a low croaky voice: ‘You never close your eyes any more when I kiss your lips./ And there’s no tenderness like before in your fingertips.’ He glanced at the rest of Twelve Platoon for encouragement and they joined in with him, their voices building as they sang: ‘You’re trying hard not to show it, baby,/But, baby, believe me I know it./You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling,/Whoa that lovin’ feeling,/You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling,/Now it’s gone, gone, gone, whoooooa.’
It wasn’t quite Maverick and Goose in Top Gun, but he’d pulled it off, putting a smile on all our faces, and getting a curt dismissal from SSgt Cox.
Holmström and Browne were the love story of Imjin Company. They had met as young University Officer Cadets in Newcastle and decided to join the army together. As they arrived with each other on that first Sunday in January they had no control over which company they would be allocated to, but with pure luck they were both united in Imjin Company. Their romance survived the trauma of Sandhurst, sustaining them through the low points in the course, giving them a crutch on which to lean when times were bad. And they are now happily married, both as serving officers.
Despite my glimmer of contentment as the sun broke through over the rolling hills of Winnie-the-Pooh country, I was still bitterly unhappy at the Academy. I was still sitting firmly at the bottom of the class and knew that I was unlikely to survive another ordeal like Self-Abuse. I was perpetually tired and my patience was wearing thin and I couldn’t see how any of this would get better. I was pondering this one evening at dinner, pushing a lone potato around my plate, as I stared into the distance at a hanging portrait of the Queen, my mind elsewhere. I had been quiet for some time and my eyes were glassy. Merv and Wheeler were with me and picked up on it instantly.
‘Are you all right, hun?’ Merv asked, putting her hand consolingly over mine.
I didn’t want to answer her. I kn
ew if I did I would start to crack up in front of them. Crying would be seen as weak and pathetic. I wanted to avoid it so looked at them and pulled a false smile.
‘No, it’s not,’ Merv said, not fooled.
‘Are you sure, Hélöise? What’s bothering you?’ Wheeler prodded further.
Their concern was heartening. I’d known them for just four weeks but they cared about me.
‘I don’t think I can carry on,’ I said, opening up and choking on the lump in my throat. ‘I can’t do it. I’m useless and I just don’t think the army is for me.’
‘Don’t be silly, Héloïse, you’ll be fine. Of course this is more difficult for you, we’ve all done it before, but you’ll catch us up in no time,’ Wheeler cooed, soothing my fears.
‘I’m thinking about leaving at the end of week five,’ I said, expressing my rational conclusion.
‘No. Don’t do that, hun. Give it more time. You’ll make a fantastic officer when you get the hang of things,’ Merv interjected, trying to save the situation. ‘You can do it, so don’t be put off by the struggle of these first few weeks, you’ll find your feet. And trust me it gets better. Honestly. Plus, we’ll miss you if you go, won’t we, Wheelie?’
‘Of course. Héloïse, don’t give up yet. The platoon would be lost without you.’
Their compassion was heartfelt but it didn’t help allay my fears. I had no talent for any of it and was floundering terribly. I’d had enough and was ready to tuck tail and run, rather than continue with the fight. But there was something sweet in their sympathy. In their eyes I was one of them now, a part of the Platoon and they genuinely didn’t want to see me leave. In just four weeks I’d made stronger friendships than I had in more than four years in the City and that wasn’t something to forget.
With life in those first five weeks galloping at breakneck pace, there were few opportunities for us to sit back and reflect, take a deep breath and appreciate the significance of it all. The hours of pointless running around (and standing still ‘waiting’) detracted from what was supposed to be the privilege of our circumstance; and when there were slim breaks in the fribbling tedium I tended to switch my brain off rather than engage it.
An Officer and a Gentlewoman Page 9