by David Niven
The Commandant was Major-General Sir Eric Girdwood, D.S.O., etc., etc.; the Adjutant was the famous Major ‘Boy’ Browning, Grenadier Guards, D.S.O. etc., later to command all British Airborne troops in World War Il. In No. I Company, my Company Commander was Major Godwin Austen, South Wales Borderers, M.C.; my Chief Instructor was Major ‘Babe’ Alexander, Irish Guards, D.S.O., and the Company Sergeant Major was ‘Robbo’ Robinson, Grenadier Guards.
All these were completely splendid soldiers, with impeccable and gallant records, and however tough they may sometimes have been, they always had a deep understanding and sympathy for the cadets under their command.
The Cadet under-officer in charge of the junior platoon to which I was assigned, was a shifty-looking customer with a broken nose named Wright—a singularly, unattractive piece of work. It was small wonder to any of us who knew him at Sandhurst that later, after changing his name to Baillie-Stewart and joining the Seaforth Highlanders he was caught selling military secrets to the Germans, court-martialled and imprisoned in the Tower of London.
The ‘mud treatment’ started on the first day of our ten weeks of concentrated drill ‘on the square’. We were paraded in the civilian clothes in which we had arrived the day before. A strange assortment wearing suits, tweed jackets, plus-fours, hats, caps, boots, shoes and some with umbrellas, we smiled nervously at each other as we awaited the mini-strations of ‘Robbo’.
Rapidly, and with the minimum of trimmings, Robbo explained that although it looked unlikely at the moment, we were supposed to be officer material and it had fallen to his unfortunate lot to try, within eighteen months, to transform this ‘orrible shower’ into being worthy of the King’s commission. ‘I shall address you as ‘Sir’ because that’s the orders but when you speak to me you’ll stand at attention, look me right in the eye and call me Staff…got it?’
Scattered murmurs of ‘yes’, ‘right-ho’ and ‘jolly good’ were silenced by one of the mightiest roars in the British Army.
‘GOT IT!!!??? Now let me hear the answer, Gentlemen…ONE, TWO, THREE’…’GOT IT STAFF.’ we roared back.
Quickly and efficiently we were stripped of umbrellas and walking sticks and shown how to come to attention, how to march and how to halt. Then, at a hair-raising speed we were marched one and a half miles to be issued with boots and canvas uniforms. Round and round the College we whizzed, sweating and apprehensive beneath the patronising glances of beautifully turned out older cadets to the barbers to be shorn like sheep, to the gym to be fitted with physical training outfits, to the stables for breeches, brown boots and leggings, to the laundry ‘because I don’t want to see a speck of dirt for the next year an’
‘arf mind’ and finally to the Chapel ‘because ‘ere, gentlemen, you can thank Almighty Gawd at the end of each week if you are still breathin’. Got it?’
‘GOT IT STAFF!’ It was very hard and very exhausting—for the ten weeks on the square, we never stopped running, saluting, marching, drilling, climbing ropes, riding unmanageable chargers and polishing and burnishing everything in sight…boots, belts, chinstraps, buttons, bayonets and above all our rifles…’the soldiers’ best friend, mind.’
Normally, there were fifteen minutes between being dismissed from one parade and being inspected for the next in a totally different and spotless outfit. The slightest lapse, a finger mark on a brass button, a cap at the wrong angle or hair not mown like a convict was rewarded with the ‘Defaulters’—a particularly gruelling extra drill in full battle order at the end of the day when everyone else was resting.
A rifle barrel imperfectly cleaned invariably meant ‘Pack Drill’ at the hands of the dreaded Wright—full battle order but with a difference: the pack was filled with sand and in place of normal drill movements, it was a case of being forced after supper to run up and down several flights of stairs with the offending rifle at arms length above the head, shouting at the top of our lungs ‘Parade, Parade.’
The cadets incarcerated in their rooms, cleaning their equipment, made bets on how long each individual could stand punishment. Many defaulters found it a matter of honour to prolong their agony in order to impress their listening friends. I was a firm supporter of the doctrine of another group which sought kudos by pretending to pass out long before they would normally have collapsed.
In the riding school, the rough riding Sergeant Majors were particularly heartless. We had a beauty, an Irishman from the Inniskilling Dragoons called McMyn. At 6.30 on a Monday morning, winter and summer, he would be waiting for us with the same grisly joke…’Now then, gentlemen, I’m supposed to make mounted officers of all of you so let’s see how many dismounted showers we can have here on this lovely morning…Knot your reins. Cross your stirrups. Fold your bleedin’ arms and split ass over the jumps…go!’ Carnage, of course, but in those strange days all officers, even in infantry regiments, had to know how to ride, and ride well.
The great thing about those first ten weeks was that although one was being treated like mud, it was at least grown-up mud. We were treated like men for the first time in our lives and as men we were expected to react. Those weeks ‘on the square’ were sheer, undiluted hell. At weekends we were allowed no dining-out passes but by Saturday night we were so exhausted anyway that all we wanted to do was to fall into bed, underneath which was a dreadful receptacle described in Military Stores as ‘one pot, chamber, china with handle, Gentlemen Cadets for the use of’.
At the end of the purgatory, we ‘passed off the square’ and settled down to learning other things in addition to physical training, drill, riding, bayonet fighting and more drill. Instruction was given us in organization and administration, in the manual of military law and of course in tactics and man management.
Of the two hundred and fift3 ‘Juniors’ who passed off the square and still remained in one piece, four in each Company were promoted to Lance-Corporal. I was one of the lucky four in N° 1 Company and as there was now a little more time for leisure, I managed also to get a Rugger ‘Blue’ and played regularly for two seasons with the 1st XV.
I furthermore performed in a couple of College concerts, writing my own sketches, and played the lead opposite Mrs. Barcus, the wife of one of our Company officers, in It Pays to Advertise.
Nessie came down one Saturday to see the show which opened after a particularly gruelling afternoon’s rugger battle against the R.A.F. College, Cranwell.
‘Yew looked ever so nice up there on that stage, dear, but the sport’s better for yew isn’t it?—more balls, if yew know what I mean.’ My liaison with Nessie continued more or less full time all through my year and a half at Sandhurst. She still insisted that ‘pretty soon I’m goin’ to find that nice feller and fuck off to the Fiji Islands’. In the summer term, she came down for the June Ball, the big social event of the year. For the occasion she borrowed a magenta-coloured taffeta ball gown from a friend who danced in competitions on the outer London circuit. Her very great beauty and again, I say, her freshness overcame this extraordinary garment and I basked in her success as we waltzed and fox-trotted round the dusty gymnasium to the fluctuating rhythms of the Royal Military College Band.
Nessie was very specific about my seeing other girls—‘We’re just together for the larfs and the fuckin’, dear, so don’t go gettin’ serious wiv me or yew’ll spoil it.’
In her wisdom she encouraged my friendships and listened apparently with enthusiasm when I told her I had met a beautiful young actress playing in a naval comedy in London by Ian Hay and Stephen King-Hall—The Middle Watch—Ann Todd.
Ann had a tiny part and was infinitely glamorous. I had never been backstage in my life before and she was singlehandedly responsible for my becoming incurably stage-struck. I had an allowance of five pounds a month so I was not exactly a well-heeled ‘stage door Johnny’ but Ann was often sent free tickets for the opening of restaurants or night clubs which helped enormously.
Cadets in their Intermediate and Senior terms were allowed cars. Obvi
ously, I did not own one but the wheels of friends were always available and Saturday night in London on a late pass became the focal point of the week. In the Intermediate Term, I was promoted to full Corporal and received the ultimate accolade for that rank. Along with one other Corporal, Dick Hobson of N° 3 Company, I was appointed Commandant’s Orderly for six months. This post was highly coveted and besides announcing to all and sundry that the holder of it was practically bound to become an Under Officer in his senior term, it also carried various ‘perks’. One was excused Saturday morning Drill Parade, which meant early to London, and on Sunday, came the big moment…breakfast with the General, Sir Eric Girdwood.
Those breakfasts must have been pure hell for this splendid officer but week after week, he toyed with toast and coffee while Dick and I ploughed through acres of scrambled eggs and miles of sausages. Afterwards, while the General was being dressed in highly polished riding boots, Sam Browne belt and sword, Dick and I waited in the garden proudly holding silver sticks, on which were engraved the names of a hundred years of Commandants’ Orderlies. Across our chests were white pipe-clayed belts to which, between our shoulder blades, very beautiful and heavily embossed silver Victorian message boxes were attached. Upon the appearance of the General, we formed up on either side of him and escorted him on to the parade, slow marching together ahead of him up the front rank and down the rear as he inspected his battalion of one thousand spotless cadets: then into chapel, trying not to skate with our hobnailed boots on the black marble of the nave and, afterwards, leading his Sunday morning inspection of the College buildings, gymnasium, hospital, stables and so on. The General was a most imposing and awe-inspiring figure with his chest full of medals and his bristling white moustache. He was also a God. A creature so far above the lowly cadet as to make his every word and gesture seem, to us, divine. Of the thousand at that moment under his command, perhaps one would ultimately attain his exalted position.
The silver message box nearly proved to be my undoing. So many cadets asked me what was in it that I decided to give them a little food for thought and I filled it with various commodities. Thereafter upon being asked the usual question I would reply, ‘Commandant’s personal supplies—take a look.’ Inside they were delighted to find a packet of Woodbines, a box of Swan Vestas matches, a roll of toilet paper and a dozen French letters. I believe my purchases went a long way towards relieving the tedium of those Sunday mornings, and cadets, kept standing to attention far too long in all weathers, were deeply appreciative of the fact that visiting dignitaries, Kings, Presidents, Prime Ministers and Archbishops were invariably preceded in their inspection of the ranks by the pompous passing of this curious cargo.
One cloudless Sunday morning after breakfast, Dick Hobson and I were waiting for, the General amidst the rhododendrons of his garden when he suddenly changed his routine. Normally, he would issue from the house, booted, spurred, shining like a new pin and we would fall into step on either side of him, listening to his extremely engaging and relaxed small talk as he headed towards the barrack square where the battalion would be drawn up ready for inspection by him and on occasion by his V.I.P. guests.
Some five hundred yards from his house and just out of sight of the parade it was taken for granted that all informality would melt away and Dick and I would put our silver-headed orderly sticks under our left armpits and start our slow march for the tour of the ranks.
This beautiful June morning, however, he came out of the garden door and stopped in front of us.
‘I think I’d better inspect you two fellers today,’ he said.
We immediately sprang to attention secure and relaxed in the knowledge that we, too, were faultlessly turned out. I was on Dick’s right, so the General looked first at my cap, chin, my buttons, my belt, my creases and my boots. Then, with a pace to the side and in the usual army fashion, he started on Dick from his boots to his cap. Round the back he went, inspecting Dick from the rear when Christ! I heard a little click as he opened Dick’s Message Box.
The joke of what mine contained had long since been over, hardly anybody bothered to ask me any more what was in it—everyone knew—in fact I had forgotten all about it myself. The few seconds that it took the Commander to inspect Dick’s rear view seemed to me to take until autumn. Finally, I heard his breathing directly behind me. I prayed he would move round to the front again without looking into my box. I promised God all sorts of rash things if he would arrange this for me, but he failed me. I felt rather than heard the General open my Box and I sensed him rustling about among its horrible contents—Woodbines, matches, lavatory paper and French letters! My military career was obviously over before it had even started and I toyed with the idea of falling on my bayonet among the rhododendron petals. Dick too had realised the full possibilities of the situation and started to vibrate like a harp string on my left, a condition brought about by a mixture of concern for his partner, suppressed laughter and keen anticipation of impending doom.
After an eternity, Major-General Sir Eric Girdwood stood before me. He looked for a long time at my sea-green face without saying a word. Staring blankly ahead, I waited for the axe to fall.
‘Niven,’ he said, ‘I had heard about that…thank you very much…you are very considerate…’
It was never referred to again, but immediately after Church Parade that day I cleared out my Message Box. Life at Sandhurst was tough but it was exhilarating and the cadets were a dedicated corps d’elite. Some went on to command Divisions and even armies. Several among the dignified Sikhs and Pathans became leaders in their countries but a heartbreakingly high percentage were destined in little more than ten years’ time to meet death on the beaches, deserts and hillsides of World War II, for this was the vintage of soldiers that suffered most heavily when the holocaust came.
Led by Major Godwin Austen and goaded almost beyond endurance by the much loved Robb Robinson No. I Company became champion Company and for the eighteen months I was at Sandhurst, I was one of the privileged, proudly wearing the red lanyard of the Champions.
If the work was hard, so was the play. Cadets in their senior term were allowed motor cars and a few well-heeled young men could be seen whizzing up the Great West–Road, London-bound for weekends in an assortment of jalopies. Jimmy Gresham in my platoon, owned a Hillman Huskie and was most generous about giving his friends lifts. A very bright fellow destined for the Welsh Guards, he was highly resilient when it came to contretemps. For some misdemeanour he was not allowed to use his car for several weeks but he solved this temporary inconvenience by keeping a chauffeur’s uniform and a false moustache at White’s Garage in Camberley and our weekly forays to the capital continued without missing a beat.
Reggie Hodgkinson, an old Bembridge friend, also headed for the Welsh Guards, was a member of N° 3 Company housed across the Barrack Square in the new buildings. One night, having persuaded some kind friend to sign in for him before midnight, he was almost caught by the watchful Robbo crossing our Parade Ground at 3 AM wearing a dinner jacket. Reggie arrived beating at my door, breathless—‘Give me a pair of pyjamas for Christ’s sake, that bloody Robbo nearly nabbed me.’ He quickly donned the pyjamas over his dinner jacket and dashed outside again.
From the window, I watched, fascinated, as Reggie, with closed eyes, gave it the full ‘I come from haunts of coot and hern’ treatment; arms stretched out before him, he ambled in the bright moonlight, straight across the Barrack Square towards N° 3 Company.
He soon realised that Robbo was walking beside him.
‘Wod d’you think you’re doin’, Mr. ‘Odgkinson, Sir?’
‘Sleep walking, Staff.’
‘Then sleep walk into the bleedin’ Guard Room. Lef rite, lef rite…smartly now, swing the arms, Sir,’ and my pyjamas disappeared at high speed in the direction of ‘the cooler’. It had long been decided that no stone would be left unturned for me to be commissioned in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders once I had successfully passed out of San
dhurst. When I say it had been decided, I really mean that my mother had gone to a great deal of trouble to raise old influential friends of my father’s from the days when we had lived in Argyllshire. For my part I was delighted at the prospect of joining such a glamorous regiment and revelled in the meetings that were arranged by one of my mother’s advisers, the Colonel of the Regiment. The McClean of Loch Buie. The McClean, three times during my days at Sandhurst, took me, all spruced up, to visit Princess Louise, sister of King George V, who was the honorary Colonel of the Regiment and who took a great interest in all things pertaining to that famous outfit.
The first time I was taken to visit her, I was instructed to meet the McClean at his London club so that he could check me over and among other things, teach me how to bow properly to Royalty—never, but never, any arching of the back or movement from the waist—that he informed me was strictly for head-waiters.
‘Stand upright, my boy, look ‘em right in the eye, then, with a completely stif back, a sharp, very definite inclination of the head, bringing the chin almost to the chest.’
I tried this rather painful manoeuvre several times and each time a peculiar squeaking sound issued from my undergarments. A minute inspection disclosed the fact that the new braces which I had purchased for the occasion, complete with a very complicated gadget—a sort of pulley effect…little wheels over which passed elastic straps—had been delivered with a faulty wheel and this was complaining bitterly at the unusual strain that was being placed upon it. The McClean solved the problem by oiling the offending part with a dab of hair lotion.
The elderly Princess became a great ally and it was at her suggestion that I was invited to spend the day with the ofcers of the Regiment just before they embarked for service in the West Indies where I hoped to be joining them later. They were a gay and friendly group and Colonel and subalterns alike all made me feel confident of a warm welcome in about one year’s time. All I had to do, they assured me, was to pass the final Sandhurst exams and I would be with them for sure.
