Despite NBC being of relative contemporary bearing, the exercise was still played out according to the now hackneyed Cold War template. And as dusk approached on the first night, we moved into the familiar routine of setting up a triangular home among the dense trees of a woodblock. This time I was sharing a shell-scrape with the Platoon Donkey and that night as we cooked our dinner and sorted ourselves out, I discovered in her someone even less suited to military service than myself as she produced a manicure set from a bergen pocket. I offered to dig our shell-scrape while she prepared the boil-in-the-bag ration-pack meals that would be our dinner (Tesco trips were now strictly out of the question), and I handed her my corned-beef hash to heat up while I attacked the topsoil.
‘Can you stick that on for me, please?’ I asked, throwing the dense silver foil packet to the ground beside her. ‘There’s some hexi3 in the pocket of my bergen lid if you need it,’ I said as I swept back a pile of leaves from the forest floor.
‘OK. Thanks. I’ll light it in a minute. Can I use some of your water too?’ she said, filing the jagged edge of a broken nail.
‘Yes, of course, it’s in one of my webbing pouches, but there isn’t much left, I need to fill up. Haven’t you got any left?’ I asked, as I shovelled the soil into a ridge around the outside of the shell-scrape hole, trying to create the illusion of a deeper excavation.
‘Yes, I’ve still got lots of water left, but it’s Evian and I don’t want to cook with it.’
‘It’s what?’ I asked, swinging around to look at her, unsure that I’d heard correctly.
‘Evian mineral water. I filled my water bottles with it back at Sandhurst before we deployed. If I only use it for drinking it’ll last me till Wednesday. So can I use your water for the cooking?’
Oh good God. How had she managed to get this far into the course? I quietly shook my head and carried on digging, aghast at her utter illogic. It wasn’t as though we had to go foraging for water on exercise, it was all provided readily for us in jerry cans to fill up from each time we stopped. But as I dug I thought about it more and in an odd sense I admired her; she had resolutely refused to give up her civilian girly ways, she was clinging on and dissenting, repelling the conversion to the army’s sensible soldier approach. Except we all knew that at some point you had to give in, you couldn’t fight the Sandhurst machine for ever and the earlier you relented the easier life became. Because once you understood that the Army has to operate within boundaries life made sense. To be an effective force there isn’t scope within the army for wild individualism. You can’t have ill-disciplined non-conformers. It would never work. It would be impossible to command an army of odd-bods and misfits and for this reason Sandhurst was pressing into us a method and way of doing things. Our personalities were not stifled (despite what I may have felt at times) but in uniform you can’t go violently against the grain, and filling water bottles with Evian while relying on someone else to provide water for you to cook and wash with was actually selfish. The Platoon Donkey’s fight couldn’t last for ever, and she’d have to break at some point because the system wouldn’t.
I dug away at our shell-scrape, finishing it off between spoonfuls of piping hot corned-beef hash, and as darkness finally fell I was looking forward to some brief snatched sleep at the bottom of it. In the army there is an exercise trade-off all soldiers face over the course of the year between warmth and sleep: during the cold winter months plummeting temperatures mean nights spent shivering in a sleeping bag, curled up into a foetal ball desperately seeking warmth, whereas the summer months bring more comfortable temperatures, but shorter nights, which reduce sleeping hours as dusk rapidly rushes into dawn. And as exercise Marathon’s Chase fell over the summer solstice we had only a few hours of darkness each night, which meant there was little point in us having packed our sleeping bags at all, especially once the stag rota had been drawn up.
I was on stag with the Platoon Donkey and after just thirty minutes of shut-eye we were shaken awake by Merv to take our place at the sentry post, staring into the darkness. We were wearing our NBC chemical oversuits and I felt pleasantly warm in the extra clothing as I lay on the dirt, my head propped against my rifle. The unusual exercise warmth had a soporific effect and as we lay there battling the will to fall asleep I offered the Platoon Donkey a boiled sweet. We chatted in hushed whispers to keep ourselves awake, playing ‘Shoot, Shag or Marry’ to pass the time and give us something more exciting to think about than NBC.
‘Brad Pitt, Daniel Craig or Justin Timberlake?’ she said, sotto voce. ‘Shoot, shag or marry?’
‘Oh tough one,’ I said, crunching on the remains of a boiled sweet as I mulled over my decision. ‘I think I’d have to shoot Brad Pitt, to teach him a lesson for leaving Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie. I’d snog Daniel Craig, definitely.’ I closed my eyes and thought of the shirt-off James Bond moments.
‘Good choice. Snog Daniel Craig, definitely,’ the Platoon Donkey agreed.
‘Oh, but hang on,’ I said, trying not to raise my voice in the excitement of the memory. ‘Do you remember that scene in Thelma and Louise with Brad Pitt, maybe I should snog him.’
‘No, no. You should strangle Brad Pitt, for being an adulterous sleaze,’ she said. ‘Plus he’s past his prime now anyway.’
‘I suppose then that leaves Justin Trousersnake for marriage. I’m not happy with that. I don’t like him. His music annoys me,’ I said, taking my decision very seriously. ‘OK, your turn to decide,’ I whispered, turning the tables. ‘How about Jeremy Clarkson, James May and Richard Hammond? Snog, marry, strangle?’ I said, just as CSgt Bicknell emerged through the trees and appeared in front of us.
‘Ladies,’ he said as he strode towards us, giving the Platoon Donkey a fright.
‘What’s going on here? Were you asleep there?’ he said, challenging the Platoon Donkey’s startled reaction.
‘No, Colour Sergeant,’ she quickly responded. ‘You just made me jump. Miss Goodley and I are keeping a vigilant watch out here.’ She turned to look at me.
‘Good, good. I wouldn’t want to find you asleep on stag, would I? Did you know that it was the alert reactions of a young lance corporal guard commander in the middle of the night at Tern Hill barracks that saved lives?’ he said, squatting on the ground beside us to tell us this fable lesson. ‘He spotted the IRA planting a bomb, Miss Goodley. He wasn’t asleep when he raised the alarm. It was his swift prompt reaction that stopped British soldiers being killed by the IRA as they slept in their own beds. Good vigilant soldier. So don’t let me catch you sleeping on stag. You hear?’
‘Yes, Colour Sergeant,’ we responded in unison.
We’d heard this parable before. CSgt Bicknell told us the Tern Hill barracks story a lot. He liked the point it proved. And it was a true story. In 1989 a young Parachute Regiment soldier spotted two men acting suspiciously at Tern Hill barracks in Shropshire. He raised the alarm and evacuated the area just in time, before two home-made bombs exploded, destroying the accommodation block where fifty soldiers had previously been sleeping. I know this to be true because after I left Sandhurst I went to that guard commander’s leaving lunch as he left the Army at the end of his twenty-two year career and felt a little pang of excitement at meeting this legendary man who had been so extolled to us by CSgt Bicknell.
With Marathon’s being another Cold War scenario but with an NBC gloss, every now and then during the exercise we got gassed. Which was a thoroughly grim way to make a bad day worse. At completely inopportune moments, the CSgts would appear with small tablets of CS gas and let loose with them among us. Like someone farting in church. And this was why CSgt Bicknell had just popped out of the bushes and ruined our game of snog, marry or strangle. Very soon after his arrival on the scene someone in the Platoon Harbour area shrieked out, ‘GAS, GAS, GAS,’ sending us all scrabbling around for our gas masks, fumbling madly to get them on before the chilli sting kicked in. Being on sentry when this happened, as the Platoon Donkey and I wer
e, came with an additional NBC farce, as it was our responsibility to give the camp the ‘all clear’ again when the gas had passed. And the way we had been taught to do this was by conducting the ‘two-man sniff test’.
I would love to meet the person who drew up the British Army’s NBC warfare guidelines. Because this man (and it was undoubtedly a man) had not only managed to pass the utterly ridiculous nuclear immediate action drill into military doctrine but trumped himself with a second madcap, away-with-the-fairies NBC practice when he created the two-man sniff test. A concept I can only think was dreamed up in the pub at the end of a heavy drinking session. The two-man sniff test was just that, two men, or in the Platoon Donkey’s and my case, two women, sniffing. Like a dog at a lamppost. What was supposed to happen was that after a period of time sweating uncomfortably into our masks, the sentries would be tasked with testing the air to see if it was clear. And since in One Section we had managed to ditch our cumbersome ‘chemical warfare agent detector’ as broken, we had to check the Norfolk air for remnants of CS gas by tentatively removing our masks and sniffing it, sacrificially exposing ourselves to the gas so the rest of the platoon would know whether it was safe or not. Except for me there was one fundamental flaw in this set-up: I was partnered with the Platoon Donkey, who as we had all now discovered was immune.
Disaster struck for me on Marathon’s Chase.
It happened as we were being gassed.
Again.
The entire contingent of Imjin Company had walked through the night, trampling across Norfolk farmland to assault an enemy village. Still in the darkness of early morning, we were at the end of the attack, reorganizing our fighting forces to extract, when suddenly a mortar boom thundered out across the quiet morning air, clearing my stomach and knocking the blood to my boots. Just as my eardrums recovered there came a second and third loud vibrating bang and then someone shouted the now dreaded words, ‘GAS, GAS, GAS.’ Utter pandemonium ensued in the morning blackness as the ninety cadets of Imjin Company hurriedly scrambled to put on their gas masks while the air around us began to fill with smoke. And within seconds the outside world became blocked out. My mask steamed up with sweat, and quietness filled my ears as the radio headset I was wearing became completely useless. I could hear nothing and couldn’t speak into the microphone with my gas mask on. Straining to see through the misty lenses of my mask, I could see the faint silhouettes of people amidst the smoke and darkness. Everyone looked identical with their faces masked and finding the rest of One Section became impossible. Forget the difficulties of commanding odd-bods and misfits, here we were all identikit blind deaf mutes and it was far harder.
Using waving hand gestures, the whole company somehow came to be lined up in a semblance of order on the dirt track that led away from the village. At the front, people started moving forwards, trying to get away from the smoke and gas. With them the pace picked up and I found myself swept along, breaking my stride into a run as urgency dragged me forwards. I was still wearing full NBC clothing: the chemical oversuit, gas mask, rubber gloves and large rubber overboots, which flapped around at my ankles. The track beneath my feet was uneasy and I soon stumbled and fell in the confused melee, my ankle rolling over and out of joint at a divot in the path. The weight of the rucksack on my back propelled me forwards into the dirt, pinning and flattening me to the floor. Its force knocked the wind from my lungs and I struggled to gasp for breath as my gas mask restricted my breathing.
And then the pain hit me.
A searing, shooting pain that exploded in my ankle and flashed through my body to my brain, sending it screaming in torment. I let out a futile muffled yelp into my mask at the intense agony and lay there momentarily, sprawled on the dirt track, completely immobilized. I could feel chilling moisture begin to seep through the torn trousers of my chemical oversuit from the puddle of mud beneath me, and a tingling sting in my grazed palms. As blood began to trickle from the gritty open wound in my knee, I knew this was GAME OVER.
Around me time slowed as the stampede of people continued. The air was filled with muffled shouting and smoke as everything briefly became blurred. I lay there in a tangled sprawl on the ground for no more than five seconds before the Rat ran over to me. Grabbing hold of my rucksack, he hauled me to my feet in one swift movement, propelling me forwards, back into the migrating pack. Pain flared again from my damaged ankle as I put weight on it, but I began a limping run, swept along once more.
We ran like this for three miles before stopping. Running in full NBC kit, with gas masks on, rucksacks strapped to our backs and rifles cradled in our arms. An injection of adrenaline soon kicked into my bloodstream, which numbed the pain in my ankle, and for the three miles I ran regardless. Ahead of us dawn was approaching in the purple sky above but I couldn’t see it through the smog and misted lenses of my gas mask. I sank into a trance, forgetting the pain and discomfort, just running. My mind was blank.
Finally, back at our harbour area, I unlaced my left boot and tentatively removed it to inspect the damage. I pulled off my black woolly sock and took a look at my bare foot. My ankle was swollen beyond all recognition, a bulbous pale ball. The knobble of my ankle bone had disappeared in the puffy swell and a tinge of black bruising was already forming in the arch of my sole. Now back inside the comforts of safety, the adrenaline that had kept me going on the march subsided and the pain returned, forcing me to limp to the medical tent.
If you were to ask any graduate of Sandhurst what their worst experience was at the Academy, undoubtedly the most likely response you would get would be the NBC extraction on Marathon’s Chase. Eight miles in full NBC clothing, with gas masks, fully packed bergens and rifles, while also, unsportingly, being gassed. It is the sort of stuff that can bring grown men to tears and make the infantry hopefuls question their choice. The reputation of its horror and pain far preceded it and it was something everyone had been fearfully dreading on Marathon’s Chase. We all knew that at some point the time would come and, as I sat there in the back of an ambulance, my leg elevated as a nurse filled out X-ray paperwork, it did. The call of ‘GAS, GAS, GAS’ came once more and the rest of Eleven Platoon, Imjin Company and CC071 masked up, grabbed their bergens and started the long gruelling march.
On Marathon’s Chase I may not have been saved by my Worst Encounter swimming angel, but someone somewhere was still certainly looking out for me, because despite having a badly sprained ankle I was in far less pain than those on the NBC march.
Injury at Sandhurst is a fact of life. The intensity of the course means that bodies regularly get broken and there is a whole industry at the Academy devoted to putting damaged cadets back together again. If your injuries were serious and you couldn’t continue with the training there was even a dedicated platoon where cadets went to convalesce and rehabilitate until they were fit enough to return to the course. Lucknow Platoon (or No-Luck Platoon as it was known) lived in Old College and, during my time in the Junior Term, they had paraded each morning beneath the window of my room. Each morning, I would see them line up, three rows of cripples on crutches, broken arms in slings, patched eyes and limbs, an assortment of woeful tales. As I made the final adjustments to my room before an inspection, I would look out at them, hoping to God that I would never have to join their ranks and spend any longer than necessary at the Academy. And thankfully I wouldn’t, because my injury occurred so close to the end of term that there would be enough time over the summer holiday break for my ankle to heal.
Anyway, spraining my ankle proved to be the best thing that could have happened to Eleven Platoon, because as soon as we returned from Thetford, CC071 found themselves straight out of NBC and back onto the parade square.
No sooner had we handed in our rifles from exercise than they were all being signed straight back out again, along with bayonets, to be marched around the parade square in the baking August sun. CSgt Bicknell’s moment of glory was now only days away and we could all feel the weight of apprehension, as he so de
sperately wanted to win. For a proud guardsman with an unhealthy passion for drill, the Drill Competition was certain to be the highlight of his time as a member of staff at Sandhurst, and you could sense the tension building as the big day approached. In readiness Eleven Platoon practised, polished, preened and prepared, making every effort to do CSgt Bicknell proud. Unlike most of the other Sandhurst competitions, the girls had a realistic fighting chance in the Drill Competition. We were now languishing at the bottom of the Sovereign’s Banner competition, the year-long contest to find the best overall platoon in the intake, but there was the anticipation that in the Drill Competition we could redeem a modicum of pride in finally winning something. Especially with me injured on the sidelines, my sprained ankle strapped up. With me out of the competition, Eleven Platoon had their best chance yet, as my intractable legs and two left feet wouldn’t be there to show them up.
Before the drill parade there was an inspection phase, which CSgt Bicknell fussed terribly over, clucking after us like a mother hen, checking the polish of our brass buttons and the shine of our shoes.
‘Come on, ladies, I want those shoes so shiny the inspecting officer can see his very soul reflected in them,’ he said, as he walked up and down the platoon lines checking our work. ‘I want you to dazzle out there, ladies. I want you as smart as carrots, you hear? Smart as carrots.’
An Officer and a Gentlewoman Page 21
