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I LEFT YOU ALL in suspense
after my visit to 3RTR on Salisbury Plain when I had my
first hurl in a Chieftain tank. I was, of course,
pleased and relieved to have navigated the fast and
tricky currents of regimental acceptance, but ahead lay
the far choppier waters of the Regular Commissions Board
(RCB) and, inshallah, the Royal Military Academy,
Sandhurst (RMAS), pictured, an institution my Dad had
attended in 1946 and graduated from without too much
difficulty, or so I assumed.
The pressure was on. Like a fool I had told all my
friends that “I was going to Sandhurst” and then the
awful reality of perhaps not being good enough to make
it through sunk in. The first big hurdle was RCB, but
before that I attended something called pre-RCB as a
taster for the real thing. I remember nothing about the
pre-course except it took place at Catterick Camp in
Yorkshire and we young hopefuls were collected from the
station by the rudest and most unpleasant corporal it
has ever been my misfortune to meet. Mind you, he was a
Royal Hussar which goes a considerable way to explain
it. More on the cavalry regiments of the British Army
later!
RCB proper was held in those days in a wee town called
Westbury, which I think is in Wiltshire – it was then
anyway. Again, I have very little recollection of what
happened during the three days (?) I was there. I can
remember giving a mini lecture to my fellow aspirants on
starting your own business, as I had done whilst a
university undergraduate to pay my way. There were also
command tasks, leadership exercises in which each of us
in turn were put in charge of the group and given a
problem to solve. These were usually along the lines of
“you have to get that barrel across the minefield
without it touching the ground using only the two staves
and ball of string provided”. The briefing always ended
with the question; “How much time do you think you’ll
need?” Answer; “Oh, about 10 minutes”. Response; “You’ve
got four. Crack on!”
And there was an obstacle course to be negotiated, timed
of course. It wasn’t so much a test of strength or
fitness but of nerve, courage and confidence. There were
always two ways of approaching each obstacle, one the
safer and usually easier approach which took more time,
and the other which was riskier, quicker, but carried
more danger of failure. The only one I remember was the
mock-up of a house window; the option was either to use
the conveniently-placed plank to run up and lower
yourself through the opening, or to tackle it some other
way. I just had a hunch about this one and launched
myself head first through the opening, to be greeted by
a welcoming bed of soft sand on the other side. In doing
so I caught my heel on the supporting scaffolding and
brought the entire structure down. “Do you want me to do
it again?” I asked. I was told to crack on. I had made
the right choice.
We were also told that after the tests we could relax
and there was no assessment in the evening in the
officers’ mess. Well, that was an outright fib and the
sensible amongst us knew it. Some of the young lads,
however, took it at face value and wellied into the
bevvy at the bar. I had a half of shandy and went early
to bed. I wish I could say I then demolished a bottle of
the Game Bird which I had secreted in my room but that
wouldn’t be true. I wasn’t that savvy then.
And that was it. I passed.
I still had no real idea what I was letting myself in
for at this stage but all was going according to plan.
Reality bit hard when I got to Sandhurst. Lots of people
I know loved being there, but for me it’s six months of
my life I’d rather forget. I guess that part of it was
because most of my fellow officer cadets were straight
out of university where many of them had been in the
Officer Training Corps, whereas I’d come straight from
two and a half years in a civvy job and was a bit older
than most of them. Although I think I get it now, years
later, I just thought that much of the regulation and
discipline was mindless BS.
It was also exhausting. I wasn’t fit enough when I
turned up (how would I have known?) and the days were
long and brutal. Thankfully, we had some brilliant
instructors, the NCOs I mean. Unlike many other
militaries, the British Army’s officer cadets are
instructed mainly by NCOs, and the people selected to do
this job are the best there are available. My platoon’s
NCO instructor was Colour Sergeant Brian Adams KOSB (you
never forget these things), a smallish, hard little
terrier of a man with a rare sense of humour and a
hidden compassion and kindness for his charges. I’ll
never forget the swig he gave me from his hip flask when
I was still a couple of miles out from the final tasked
destination and basically out on my feet. I made it.
Midway through the course, which I hated so much, I had
decided I wouldn’t give up but would resign the day
before the final parade, just to show them I’d won.
Inevitably, fitted out in my new uniform and with my
parents and family down for the Pass Off Parade, that
futile gesture fell by the wayside.
I was especially glad my Dad
was in the stands when I got my commission. At the after
party, he told me that the parade format and
accompanying band music were exactly the same as at his
parade in 1946. Some things never change.
To come in Part 3, finally joining my regiment, 4RTR,
the best armoured regiment in the world, ever.
© Stuart Crawford 2020 |
