TO
PREFACE what follows below, I must just tell you that
the regiment I joined after Sandhurst, the 4th Royal
Tank Regiment (Scotland’s Own), usually known as 4 RTR
or 4th Tonks, was by common consensus the finest
armoured regiment the world has ever seen. It was vastly
superior to its cousins 1 RTR, 2 RTR, and 3 RTR, and was
quite simply in a league of its own in the Royal
Armoured Corps in terms of style, panache, and sheer
professionalism. No other armoured regiment has, or ever
will, come close. Rommel’s panzers don’t even begin to
compete. And please be assured there is no bias in my
statement here, it is just plain fact, not opinion. Ask
any of my former regimental comrades, whose contact
details I can supply if required.
Having go that out of the way, I do have to tell you
that my arrival at the Best Armoured Regiment In The
World Ever (henceforth #BARITWE), then stationed at York
Kaserne, Munster, Westphalia, was a tad underwhelming.
For reasons that can be only properly explained by those
involved at the time – I’m looking at you, Adjutant and
Chief Clerk (no names, no pack drill) – communications
with those outwith the Regiment’s immediate geographic
location were tenuous at best, and chaotic the rest of
the time.
So I more or less made my own way there, under my own
steam as it were, armed only with an MoD Posting Order
to guide me. I found myself on the regular RAF Trooping
Flight from Luton to RAF Gutersloh, on which, to my
chagrin and embarrassment, it was announced to the cabin
full of rowdy soldiers returning from leave that 2nd Lt
Crawford was officer-in-charge of personnel in transit,
an announcement greeted with a ribald cheer by my fellow
passengers. As it happened my duties were nil, thank
goodness.
Nobody met me at the airport – communications really
were shambolic – so I got on the normal trooping bus
heading for Munster, which was fine. I arrived at the
entrance to York Kaserne just as the guard was being
mounted at 6pm. Normally the mounting of the guard would
be a fairly formal affair, with the Orderly Officer of
the day in full rig inspecting the guard with much
saluting, crashing of feet, and swords being waved
about. To my mild surprise I noted that the Orderly
Officer that evening, one Lt Steve Anstey, had decided
not to bother with all the formal stuff, had driven the
short distance from the Officers’ Mess to the guardroom
in his car, whereupon he wound down the window
(remember, it was the eighties) and said something along
the lines of: “Very good, Sgt McDonald, fall them out
and crack on.”
I introduced myself as the new officer joining the
Regiment. From the blank look on his face I could tell
straight away that this was complete news to him. But I
got a bed for the night, something to eat (and no doubt
something to drink as well – I can’t remember) and all
was well in the end. I had arrived.
The next morning I got into my uniform, had breakfast,
and walked down to Regimental Headquarters (RHQ) for my
welcome interview with the Commanding Officer (CO), Lt
Col Mike Rose, a delightful man, and was duly despatched
to the D Squadron office as their new,
wet-behind-the-ears, Troop Leader. The Squadron was
commanded by Major Mike Williams*, I was told, and at
the designated time I marched into his office, gave him
my best Sandhurst crashing-to-attention salute, and said
something like: “2nd Lt Crawford reporting for duty,
Sir!”
Mike looked up from his desk somewhat bemusedly, and
kindly informed me that we didn’t go in for that sort of
nonsense in the 4th and that I should call him Mike from
then on. I learned that all officers in the Regiment
were to be addressed by their first names regardless of
rank and seniority. The exception was the CO, who was
addressed as “Colonel” or, if you were feeling relaxed,
confident, or slightly tipsy, you might occasionally
address as “Colonel Mike”.
By far and away the most terrifying part, though, was
meeting the troops you were to command for the first
time. This took place the next morning after my arrival
at First Parade, a short little ceremony held on the
tank park at 8am each working day. I was to take over 13
Troop, D Squadron, from Richard “Stig” Jenkinson**. I
knew the boys were eyeing me up just as I was them. It
was all a bit discombobulating, to be honest, but I
survived.
The relationship with your first command, your first
troop, was an interesting one. They desperately wanted
you to be good, and you desperately wanted them to like
you. Some young officers had just got it and succeeded
instantaneously; gaining both the respect and liking of
their men (it was all men in my day). Others never had
it and fell by the wayside ere too long, back to civvy
street after their three years and, it has to be said,
some of then went on to do great things and achieve high
office. But even if your boys thought you were a
complete muppet, as long as you were an honest, decent,
well-intentioned-trying-your-best muppet, then
eventually you became their muppet. They’d still call
you a muppet amongst themselves, but if anyone from
outside voiced the same opinion about their officer
they’d get battered, simple as. I would never condone
such violence, of course, but I’m sure there’s a lesson
there somewhere for the corporate world.
To come in Part 4, life as a young(ish) subaltern in the
Officers’ Mess.
© Stuart Crawford 2020
* By happy coincidence (for me, not necessarily for him)
Mike is now a near neighbour in, and Lord Lieutenant of,
East Lothian.
** A splendid chap, sadly taken to soon just recently to
join the great squadron leaguer in the sky. |