An Officer and a Gentlewoman

by Heloise Goodley

  ‘Told you you could do it, Miss Goodley, didn’t I. Well done.’

  9

  GAS, GAS, GAS

  The middle term at Sandhurst was chaotically busy, with no chances to come up for air as our feet barely touched the ground. There was no time for a Kit-Kat break, no slippers-and-pipe moments, no opportunity to put our feet up and chill out; we sped from exercise, to war studies, to the assault course, to exercise, to international affairs lectures, to drill, to thrashing PT sessions, to the rifle ranges, to another exercise. All the while the instructors crammed activity after event into the timetable until it was bursting, and all along the standard Sandhurst nonsense continued too. Where room inspections and water parades had become a thing of our Old College past, a new method of messing around our days was introduced instead in the form of the ‘show parade’.

  The show parade was a punishment handed out by the CSgts for any minor indiscretion, and was given as freely as the kisses of a whore, as they sought to ensure every waking hour of our day was tied up with something. A show parade meant having to parade at nine o’clock in the evening, a time selected for perfect inconvenience, and involved, as the name might suggest, showing something, which usually was your indiscretion rectified. For example, if on the morning inspection parade CSgt Bicknell spotted mud on your ‘daisy roots’, you would be required to parade at nine o’clock that night with all the other day’s ‘defaulters’ showing ‘boots without mud’. Simple. But with all the other business in our days it was an annoyance you could do without. And there was plenty of scope for comic humour in this too, as the CSgts stitched each other up, as it was they who had to inspect the parade. I was once required to show ‘ladder removed from tights’ and paraded that night with a fresh pair of tights on and a step-ladder, along with ‘show bed made’, who had dragged his bed outside onto the parade square and ‘show bright’ who had come with torches taped to his body.

  Another way Sandhurst used to occupy and waste our evenings was by employing us to guard the Academy. Since we had now learned weapon handling and visited the rifle range a couple of times we were deemed to hold the requisite qualifications to walk around the grounds at night armed, with real, live, bang, shoot-you-dead ammunition and a torch. We were after all trained and now equipped to kill, but God knows what would have happened if an intruder had actually tried to scale the fence because I didn’t have it in me to pull the trigger. For the rest of the night, in between these armed-patrols of Surrey, we had to sit behind a desk in the College Guard Room and answer the telephone, and then when it rang we had to write out the account of the phone call in the Daily Occurrence Book, but not in normal joined-up handwriting, but in BLOCK CAPITALS, against a ruler and only in black ink. (All army correspondence is only ever written in black ink. Colonels can write in red, and generals write in green.)

  Squeezed around this hectic Intermediate Term timetable, we were also busy writing academic essays, one for each of the academic subjects: War Studies, Defence & International Affairs and Leadership Management. I liked the academic side of the commissioning course. I found it in complete contrast to the military skills and all the polishing-cleaning-shining-shouting-running-about that I was so useless at. Writing essays was the only prior skill I brought to Sandhurst. Instead of standing stiffly in the cold on a parade square or polishing brass buttons and doorknobs, the academic stuff was conducted in a serene, almost civilian environment. We sat in small groups in warm comfortable classrooms in a building called Farady Hall (nicknamed Faraway Hall), which was far away from the Colleges and gymnasium, far away from our cleaning products and far, far away from the CSgts’ prying eyes. The staff who taught us were all academics, bespectacled civilians wearing cardigans and comfortable Hush Puppies, with not a combat trouser or polished boot in sight. The classroom atmosphere was relaxed and unpressurized, much like being back in a university tutorial. The academics didn’t even mind if you closed your eyes and slept, taking pity on the thrashings we received elsewhere in the Academy. But what I loved most about Faraway Hall was the biscuits. The staff smuggled them in for us to have in the more than regular tea breaks (now CSgt Bicknell was our platoon colour sergeant the chocolate biscuits had stopped) and a charitable donation had to be made in exchange for them, raising thousands of pounds each term by doing this.

  I can’t remember what titles I chose for my War Studies or International Affairs essays, but I do remember the research I did for the Leadership essay, which dug up some rather frightening findings. I wrote my essay on transformational leadership in religious cults (Churchill or Nelson seemed a little too trite and military for me). And for the essay’s research, I ventured, for the first time, into the Academy library, another of Sandhurst’s CSgt-less oases. Today the library occupies the former Academy gym in what is a distinctly average building when settled alongside Old and New Colleges. Inside, this quiet, whispering sanctum was quite impervious to the shouting and marching that dominated much of the rest of the Academy’s grounds, and the few moments we could steal in there were like dipping into the tranquillity of a health spa.

  For my essay I plucked a dusty book on ‘exploring the CULT in culture’ from the shelves of books and between its musty pages found a list of the mind-control techniques used by cult leaders, some of which rang with sinister familiarity:1

  Sleep deprivation and fatigue: Creating disorientation and vulnerability by prolonging mental and physical activity and withholding adequate rest and sleep – typical brainwashing process

  Dress codes: Removing individuality by demanding conformity to the group dress code

  Verbal abuse: Desensitizing through bombardment with critical, foul and abusive language

  Confusion: Encouraging blind acceptance and rejection of logic through interminable complex lectures on incomprehensible doctrines

  Time sense deprivation: Destroying the ability to evaluate information, personal reactions, and body functions in relation to passage of time by removing all clocks and watches.

  I was standing in the corridor in New College looking up at a noticeboard, flicking my eyes over the details on Company orders, checking for my name among the dentist appointments and timings for tomorrow’s day on the pistol range. It was a Wednesday afternoon and I was wearing my Academy tracksuit, the staple blue baggy bottoms and red fleece-lined sweatshirt that was our only escape from army uniform. On my back was a little rucksack with my wet swimming kit rolled up in it, as I’d just finished in the pool. Around my eyes the red trace of where my goggles had been pressing against my cheeks was still visible and I smelled of chlorine. To my left a door suddenly swung open as CSM Mockridge strode out with some paperwork and drawing pins clasped in his hand.

  ‘Ah, Miss Goodley. Just the person I wanted to see,’ he said as he came to stand next to me and started pinning the pieces of paper to the noticeboard. ‘How do you fancy being on a committee?’

  ‘Er, what sort of committee, sir?’ I asked, a little unsure what he was lining me up for.

  ‘The Academy Adjutant is putting together a Mess Committee,’ he said, finishing his pinning and turning to me. ‘I thought you’d be the perfect person to represent Imjin Company,’ he said. ‘I need someone who won’t take any crap in there. Someone who’ll stick up for what the cadets want. You’ll get stuck in and stand your ground, won’t you, Miss Goodley? Give them some stick. Like Margaret Thatcher.’ He chuckled to himself.

  ‘Erm, yes, sir. I’ll be happy to do it if you want me to,’ I said, a little puzzled by his analogy. Where had CSM Mockridge got the opinion that I was like the Iron Lady from?

  As he flitted back through the door to his office, Fergus came darting out through the brief gap and into the corridor beside me. Fergus was the dog belonging to the Officer in Command (OC) of Imjin Companys’ and was having a great time at the Academy. army officers and dogs go perfectly together, like cheese and pickle, and an army dog’s life has to be one of the best. They can revel in plenty of open fields to run
around, mud to roll in, and they get to come to work all day, where crowds of people fuss over them all day in the Mess. For a dog the army is a dream. But this dream is not open to all breeds, because officers’ dogs typically conform to one of two types: Labradors or retrievers. A bit of variety can be brought into this by having a chocolate Lab rather than the standard black, but aside from this, army dogs come only in a standard issue. Although somehow Fergus had managed to buck this trend, as he was neither a chocolate nor black Lab, not even a retriever, for he was a scruffy little Border terrier and was totally apathetic to the importance of his surroundings. The complete antithesis of an officer’s dog, he had flagrant disregard for the commands of his owner and the OC could regularly be seen standing on the steps of New College entrance calling Fergus’s name as the little dog disappeared off into the distance with two fingers up to any promise of coming back. At home he had cunningly found a gap in the fence at the bottom of the garden through which he came and went as he pleased and we would often bump into him during a platoon run or loaded march as he went about his business on his own, returning home in time for his dinner. When he was in the mood to follow his master he would come along to Company meetings and sniff around at the back, looking for the best lap to curl up on. Though sadly for Fergus this treat came to a comic end one morning as he joined a gathering of Imjin Company in which the OC was handing out a Company-scale bollocking. That morning Fergus was obviously having a good day and feeling a little frisky, so while the OC stood gravely at the front raising his voice to us in a serious tone, Fergus was busying himself at the back of the room inappropriately humping the Yemeni cadet’s leg.

  I went along to the Mess Committee meeting as CSM Mockridge had asked, ready to fight a battle. In my mind my combats were a sharp suit once more as I felt all boardroom and power heels again. I hadn’t lost my City edge. It was still there underneath the layers of green and boot polish. I relished being given a cause to pursue, a principle to stand up for. I may have even slammed my fist on the table at one point, frightening the Adjutant in his chair. And CSM Mockridge knew exactly what he was doing in selecting me to represent Imjin Company. He knew that I didn’t shine on the drill square and got left behind when it came to exercise skills. He knew that digging trenches and leopard crawling were not my forte. He’d sussed out where my strengths did lie, then spotted somewhere I could prove them. I left the meeting triumphant, having successfully brokered the removal of yoghurts from our exercise packed lunches to be replaced with something sturdier. It wasn’t a new corporate loan deal or rescue finance package that would have been an achievement in my former City days but it felt good to be in control of something again.

  Things were now ticking along quite nicely at the Academy. I was comfortable with my surroundings, I was coming to grips with the military way and I’d made some good friends. I was even enjoying it. My early fears of incompetence had faded, and slowly I was creeping up the class. I no longer felt alone or useless and had earned my place in the platoon. In between the digging and crawling there was a lot of camaraderie and laughter too, as Eleven Platoon became a group of firm friends. The army is famed for its gallows humour and this is bred at institutions like Sandhurst, where often the only way you can get through the day is to laugh at it. When a CSgt is screaming at you on the parade square and threatening to flick you into the lake with his pace stick, chuckling behind fixed eyes is the only safe way to take it. Up in Norfolk as we had sat at the bottom of our trench, Allinson, Rhodes and I had howled with laughter at the ridiculousness of our situation: unearthing a Second World War bomb in sleeping rural East Anglia. In Cilieni village we had giggled between snatched breaths as we ran from house to house, leaping through windows and watching Captain Trunchbull getting stuck in the loft hatch, her bottom wedged in the square hole, legs kicking out for freedom.

  We’d now spent a total of twenty weeks in training, and life had smoothed to a busy but manageable routine. We had learned to play the Sandhurst game, and were now quite good at it. We knew our way around and knew the shortcuts too. In CSgt Bicknell we had also found an ally at the Academy, having successfully converted him to the female approach, as he now embraced the subtle feminine touches with mugs of Rooibos ‘Rosie Lee’ (tea) supped from Cath Kidston china in the Pink Palace (the Pink Palace was Eleven Platoon’s common room which we had painted a hideous, sickly Pepto-Bismol pink, in a bid to apply a feminine streak to our surroundings). And the platoon was settled. We were getting the hang of Sandhurst, but were nowhere near the finished article yet. We could dig trenches, fortify a house and advance to contact, but anything more complicated or contemporary was still beyond us. My initial terrifyingly steep learning curve had lessened and I was on the right course, although the thought of standing up in front of real-life soldiers and commanding them was still hugely daunting.

  But by now real-life soldiers were already going to war. Because after just twenty weeks of their training, they were done. Trained. Good to go. From high school dropout to gun-wielding teen2 in a mere twenty weeks. An infantry soldier spends just twenty weeks in training and some even graduate from the infantry training centre in Catterick and get straight on the plane to Afghanistan. It’s a frighteningly quick process.

  But I wasn’t worrying about any of that, because at Sandhurst we were off to the pistol ranges.

  There is something undeniably sexy about being armed with a pistol. Holding it tightly in your grip, clasping your fingers around the cool metal of its body and smoothly pulling the trigger towards you. Then feeling the power of the weapon as it kicks back and the round fires out, keeping your grasp steady and firm ready to aim for the next shot. Pistols feel racy and 007. Like being a Bond girl or one of Charlie’s Angels. Its holster straps suggestively around your thigh and unlike a rifle there is no lying prone on the ground getting wet and muddy, shuffling about in the dirt as you try to tuck the weapon into your shoulder. A pistol is small, sleek and pocket sized. It’s a girl’s weapon. Stylish and sophisticated, it’s easy on the arm muscles and would slip nicely into a handbag. As I stood at the firing point on the pistol ranges, pointing the weapon at targets, I wanted a cape and eye mask, a black leather catsuit and Farrah Fawcett’s flick. I felt the rounds spitting out, knocking down the life-sized figures twenty-five metres away and it felt so much more glamorous with a pistol.

  In between firing, we sat in the little range hut cleaning the weapons, scrubbing away at the coated layers of carbon (Coca-Cola is a surprisingly good cleaning fluid for this, which is probably why it is also so effective at stripping the enamel from your teeth). We chatted and joked as we worked our way through the brown paper bag packed lunches, chewing on flaky sausage rolls and swapping crisp flavours. In the background, the firing of rounds could still be heard, interspersed with birdsong and the shouted orders from the CSgts in charge of the range. I was happy as I stripped down the weapon, smiling to myself as I removed the pistol barrel. This was a perfectly contented way to spend an afternoon, sitting in the sunshine having lunch in good company. I lay the pistol spring beside me on the wooden bench, appreciating the weapon’s simplicity. It felt snug as it nestled in the palm of my hand and fitted back together effortlessly. I welcomed its small compactness, and the lightweight sensation as I held it. Handling the pistol felt simple and less complicated than a rifle. And unfortunately since our move to New College we had been spending a lot more time with our rifles and not necessarily for the most gratifying of reasons.

  This extra rifle time came about because on our arrival at New College drill took a new and unpleasant turn, as now, having finally mastered the basic moves on Old College parade square, our first drill session in New College started with us queuing up outside the armoury. When I got to the front of the queue the armourer handed me my rifle as usual, lifting it out of its wooden bracket and passing it through the service hatch in the steel cage. From behind him he also picked a bayonet from a hook on the wall and handed it to me for the first time.
I held them with awkwardness once more, harking back to that first time I had held my rifle in the Junior Term. This time I felt awkward because I was dressed for drill, not the ranges. I couldn’t understand what we needed them for. Traipsing outside onto the parade square in my Blues with the rifle cradled stiffly in my arms, I clearly recognized the discordance. Rifles are not meant for drill, rifles are meant for killing. Rifles and drill do not go together like cheese and pickle. Rifles and drill go together like lemon juice and paper cuts. They smart and sting, bringing tears to your eyes. They are clumsy and graceless. Nothing about their design is meant for the parade square. When Heckler & Koch remodelled the SA80 army rifles there wasn’t anything in their remit about ensuring they could be ‘SEIZED’, ‘STRIKED’ and ‘GRASPED’. Rifles are designed for shooting, not holding to attention, but at Sandhurst we spent more precious time prancing up and down the parade square with them than actually pulling the trigger.

  And the pain caused carrying this ridiculous 4 kg of pointless metal and plastic around in the sweltering sun was excruciating. Because, of course, during drill the rifle wasn’t carried sensibly like on exercise or in Helmand. We didn’t use a rifle sling or comfortable carrying posture; on the drill square the rifle had to be carried with one, just one, hand, as we switched it from the ‘slope’ to the ‘shoulder’ arms, balancing it against our shoulder, the rifle’s weight held up by just a small group of quickly seizing muscles in your arm. A dull ache would spread its way up my arms, through biceps and triceps, from my gripped hand to my trembling shoulder.