My Army days, all five of them in total, were nearly coming to an anti-climactic end. All that remained was to attend an interview with another stiffly uniformed soul-reaver, then it was the Mess Dinner later in the evening and some kind of farewell race programmed despicably early the next morning. Of course, this was the Machiavellian brainchild of another warped mind, clearly concocted to prod at the perfectly human temptation to indulge in some Rabelaisian hell-raising at the Mess Dinner after the three days of being led through the circles of Dante’s Inferno. It was a trap I was aware of, but one into which I fell headfirst nonetheless.
At the interview I was informed that I had come first out of all the candidates in both the Military and General Knowledge tests. This, I felt ambivalently, could count as a plus for me, as when invading the next Third World country, not only would I be able to identify enemy armour and artillery batteries from blurred reconnaissance photos, but I would also be on hand to give relevant information on the population density of the main urban centres, the mainstay of each region’s economy, as well as what kind of wildfowl one may expect to find on local waterways. All, I imagined, from a fortified underground bunker with a working lavatory and a well-stocked drinks cabinet a safe distance from the front line.
“So how do you measure success in your current job?” the galloping Major enquired, fixing me with hooded, deathly eyes. “In millennia,” I almost replied, but thought better of it. “Well, we have these pink questionnaires that students fill out at the end of the course…” I began, instantly regretting having mentioned the colour. The officer’s face screwed up like his hiatus hernia had just caused him to regurgitate something uniquely sour, and through tightly clenched teeth he managed to mutter sarcastically, “Yes, well, soldiers don’t fill out pink questionnaires, do they?” He didn’t add, “They tend to shoot you in the back instead,” but I was sure he wanted to. The rest was damage limitation and half-hearted attempts to convince us both that I was the right man for the jodhpurs.
The Mess Dinner was the best, and at the same time the worst, part of the whole shebang. We were waited upon by the non-commissioned officers (including the detonative Scottish Sergeant Major), and, as Chairman of the Mess, I got to sit at the head of a long table with a gavel. We had been assured that this wasn’t part of the testing process, that we were free to enjoy the evening as much as we cared to, but that was disingenuous bunkum – they wanted to see which of us would get steamed on the free booze and forget the next morning’s pointless race to carry something awkward over something irritating in the least possible time.
In the event, I made little use of my gavel except for when I looked up at the end of the meal and saw the port decanter on the table. This was something the Scottish Sergeant-Major had briefed me about – the pedantic tradition that the port must be passed around the table without touching its surface. I tapped meekly to call everybody’s attention to the scandal that was unfolding at the far end of the dining table. “Who put the port on the table?” I enquired. A hubbub ensued, but the blackguard remained faceless. I knocked again and repeated my question, feeling empowered by the respectful silence that met my persistent pounding, and the Cabernet Sauvignon that was gently starting to disable my faculties. Still nobody owned up. I swatted the table again with grape-induced relish and cried, “WHO PUT THE PORT ON THE TABLE?” The cad was upstanding and I passed sentence – he was to buy a bottle of brandy in the bar afterwards, to be shared by all and sundry. Looking back, it wasn’t the wisest of punishments, but I was past caring. There followed a toast that I vaguely remember someone proposing, then the Royal Military Policeman asked me for “permission to speak” - I loved that. He pointed out that the proposer of said toast hadn’t faced the portrait of the Queen when making it – I hadn’t realised one should, but by that time, anything went. “Then he shall buy a bottle of brandy too!” I brayed triumphantly, amid whoops and slaps on the back and constantly topped up brandy glasses. I have a feeling they even gave me three cheers…
We came last in the race out of the three teams. I came in last in our team, after falling off one of the rain-dampened obstacles and having to go back and start it all again. I don’t know why they insist on using those senseless climbing nets – the only place you'll ever find them is on Army assault courses, so it’s not like they’re training you for anything in the real world.
Shortly after my release, my Spanish gypsy girl went back to her bohemian lifestyle on the
And so came to a pacific end my undistinguished military career.
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