These were days when all males of school-leaving age were required to do a spell of two years' National Service in one of the armed forces. I saw this definitely as an intruding imposition - a chore that I must get behind me before I could focus upon matters that were more important to me. But there was another way that I could treat the experience, in that it could be regarded as an opportunity to take a bite from the apple of adult life, before it became necessary to make a real decision upon the direction that I should take when committing myself to any particular career. And I had the option of doing it straight away after leaving Eton, or waiting until I had completed my education at Oxford University. On the theory that it might be sensible to postpone the most enjoyable period until the last, I had chosen to get the National Service over and done with.

The choice of regiment had been largely determined for me a couple of years previously, during a dinner conversation at Sturford with my father and sister. Caroline had offered the opinion that, as far as London social life was concerned. most of her best friends over that period were officers in the Life Guards; and since it was most unlikely that we would actually be going to war with anyone during the crucial two years of my service, it might be wisest to select my regiment for its social advantages, rather than for any particular concern about warfare, or the way it should be fought.

I criticise myself in retrospect for not producing firmer views of my own upon the matter. It should have occurred to me that the choice of an armoured car regiment should presuppose some liking for, or interest in the mechanisms and maintenance of cars. The whole idea of cavalry regiments nowadays was of dependence upon such machinery when riding into battle. And even if I took the line that there wouldn't be any real warfare, there would still be the exercises, schemes and manoeuvres with which to contend. It should have occurred to me that I had always felt more at ease when standing upon my own feet. Machinery was an appendage in the control of which I had yet to develop any aptitude - especially if I were to consider this as my battle mode. I was of the right material to join the Foot Guards, the Rifle Brigade, or even a Parachute Regiment I dare say. But it was surely a mistake for me to offer myself for training in either tanks or armoured cars.

But the conversation at Sturford led to my father writing a letter to Ferris St.George, who was currently the Colonel of the Life Guards, asking him (as a friend) to take young Alexander into his regiment for his National Service. And although Henry himself would have been disappointed if I had chosen to sign on for a career in the army - judging it to be the right destiny for aristocrats who couldn't do much else with their lives, the Colonel knew well how there had been many a young officer who finally opted to sign on, after experiencing the largely leisured life style that was involved. He was therefore happy to accept my application - after coming down to Eton to take a look at the various boys on his list. And it might be added that, by Eton standards, I had been the most distinguished of the boys thus to present themselves. Not that I have the recollection that any of us were actually rejected - at this particular stage, that is to say.

It flatters me somewhat that Colonel Richard Abel-Smith, who was Ferris St. George's opposite number in the Royal Horse Guards, and who had wanted to marry my mother in years long past, had written to Daphne soon after my acceptance for the Life Guards, to say that it might be more appropriate if I transferred my application to the Blues instead. I mention this to stress how eligible I must have appeared to everyone, at that point in time when I was just coming up to the peak of my school career - standing in considerable contrast to the depths of the pit, into which my general reputation was soon to be plunged. But in any case I declined to transfer my loyalties from the one regiment to the other, partly because I was reluctant to change my decision for what seemed inadequate reason, and partly because I looked forward, at that time, to the prospect of accompanying the Regiment out to West Germany, where they would be stationed in 1952.

Closer to the date when I was due to leave Eton, there were dates when particular batches of us were required to put in an appearance at the local recruiting office, probably in Slough, to submit ourselves to a whole variety of rudimentary tests. Not that the results were ever supposed to be made known to us. But I remember how I felt totally lost when it came to the tests for mechanical aptitude. There were six of them in all - of mounting complexity. And the simplest was to assemble the metal handle for a drawer, from a flattened strip of metal and two screws. All that one could possibly do wrong was to assemble it so that the heads of the screws stood proud of the metal strip, instead of sinking flush into the bevelled holes that had been prepared for them. But that is precisely what I did. And I noted from the quizzical smile on the face of the officer who came up to record whatever points that I might have scored, that I had done exceptionally badly.

Just how badly I was to hear a few weeks later, after another batch of Etonians had gone up for their own bouts of testing. When it came to the mechanical aptitude tests, the NCO in charge told them: "You don't need to fret if you feel that you're not much good at these things. In the previous batch that came here for testing from your school, there was someone called Viscount Weymouth. He scored nought out of six. But he still passed!"

Other matters to one side, we would no doubt have been sorted out at this stage as to whether we were appropriate recruits for the infantry, the cavalry, the artillery - or whatever. But then I had already been selected by Colonel Ferris as a recruit for the Household Brigade. And it was soon to be impressed upon me that the Household Brigade was virtually independent from the rest of the British army. The tests that were devised for others did not necessarily apply to ourselves. So I finally got my papers to report at Combermere Barracks, Windsor, during the first week in January 1951 - while I was still eighteen years old. This was to be the start of my National Service in the Life Guards, and what should be regarded as my first taste of life as an adult human being.

Right from the very start, it was a question of watching my sense of self-esteem subjected to such a battering that, at times, I felt that it could never survive. Even when first approaching the barracks, I was foolhardy enough to cut a corner on the parade ground whilst some troop was being drilled there - calling down upon my own head a stream of abusive invective from the Corporal of Horse who was drilling them. And that was but a small foretaste of all the indignities to come.

There was a small group of Etonians joining the Life Guards as potential officers on the same day as myself. These were Tim Sainsbury, Patrick Daniel and Jeremy Clay - plus Richard. Steele and Milo Devereaux, who were joining the Royal Horse Guards. I had not been more than an acquaintance at Eton of any of these, although I now befriended Tim in particular. And we were joined as a trio by Lawrence Kelly, from Downside, who had spent the last few months being put into (just slightly) more muscular shape with the assistance of a physical training course at Pirbright. But he still looked somewhat puny by the general standard of the Brigade of Guards. And there were two Wykhamists in the same batch as ourselves, of whom Angus McNeill was joining the same regiment as ourselves, whilst Alastair Thompson was going into the Blues - as also was John Margotson from Harrow. Those of us who endured the course were to see a lot of each other over the next few months of our training as Potential Officers.

It should be noted how the entire intake came from public schools with an elitist ring to their names. There was no one at all from one of the lesser public schools, nor anyone from the state sector of education.

Right from the start, I was always aware how I was seen by others as wearing the Old Etonian ticket around my neck. There were stereotype images involved: something about individualism, charm, gentlemanly good manners, and an indomitable conviction about superiority - or arrogance, as the Harrovians viewed it. And unintelligence, was the barbed jest thrown in by the Wykhamists. And it is best to leave unstated how Etonians had been brought up to regard the stereotype images of our rivals upon this field of life's battle.

We surge from our classy kennel, unafraid,
while baying at impotent shadows, in a pack gladdened
by confraternity, eagerly bonded to respond
to all calls for mutual aid and succour.
Plucked as the best ripe fruit to suit
an elite palate, we treat each other to promises
of grooming in the natural leadership of men,
sent on our way with the blessings of divine right.
Like white peacocks parading on the social scene,
we preen our pale feathers with languid grace,
facing down all lesser species with baffling
affability - effortless in lordly charm.
Since status has been writ within the stars,
you others must accept the world is ours!

Potential Officers were not a popular breed within the eyes of the other ranks. If we made the grade as officers, then they knew only too well how we would soon be lording our authority over them. So this was their opportunity to give us a dose of such medicine, in reverse, while we were still without teeth. There were sneering comments at every turn. But none of this was in any way comparable to the indignities that were to be foisted upon us, once we had been transferred to the Guards' Training Depôt at Caterham. We had all heard - from school friends who had gone that way before us - how this was going to be a memorable, but miserable experience. And their reports were fully accurate.

I had also found it disheartening to receive a letter shortly before I started my National Service, from Hugh Lawson - who had been the Captain of M'tutor's at Eton when I was first elected into Debate. He was writing to say that he knew that I would soon be arriving at Caterham, where he was currently serving as an officer in the Scots Guards. He warned me however not to avail myself of any notion that we had formerly been on friendly terms. He bade me salute him in the same manner as I would any other officer. Only subsequent to this period in my training might we resume the notion of friendship, as it once had been. And on the few occasions when I did encounter him, I behaved precisely as I'd been instructed.

Our welfare and happiness over this period was put into the hands of Sergeant McMahon and Trained- Soldier Stableford: both of them from the Grenadier Guards, since the recruits from the Household Cavalry had been lumped into the same platoon as those from that regiment. But I was made to feel quite rapidly how there was a special rôle to be allotted to me within their eyes - which amounted to something in the nature of a squad buffoon.

I saw how I had been singled out for their special attention when we were all first lined up at the foot of our beds in the barrack hut, for them to make our acquaintance. We were stood to attention, ramrod-fashion, with Sergeant McMahon walking slowly down the line, making the odd sinister comment or two - just to make us fully aware that the cushy family life was a thing of the past. We each had to state our name and army serial number, while staring straight to our front.

When I had said my piece, he enquired: "Would that be the Viscount Weymouth?" If I had shown the slightest indication of feeling pleased with myself, or flattered that he should know so much about me, I would have been for instant retribution. But I played the situation correctly by just confirming that side of my identity, with the minimum of facial expression, and he moved on to take a look at the next in the row. But I had sensed quite distinctly that this fact of having a Viscount in their squad - or rather, there were the two of us at this stage - was something that tickled their humour. And I dreaded to think how they might make use of it, or what the traditional line of play in these matters might be.

Potential Officers at Caterham were put into the Brigade Squad, where we were required to absorb within four weeks the disciplinary training that other Guardsmen took in more gradually over a period of months. But during these four weeks, the whole idea was to drain from us every spark of individualism, so that we could be remoulded into the fused identity of a single platoon. The process involved the deliberate destruction, or suspense, of all that had previously amounted to any sense of personal identity. We had to be transformed into automatons before we could be of any use to the Brigade of Guards. And the dehumanising process was focused upon the idea of getting us marching, stamping our feet, pirouetting and twirling to the frenzied bark of Sergeant McMahon.

I had been prepared for a lot when coming into the army, but it involved a greater loss of status than I had been anticipating for a school potentate, of my standing, to be transformed within a few short weeks after leaving Eton, into the squad buffoon and butt of all barrackroom jests. I fulfilled the requirements almost perfectly. I was jumpy - because I was highly strung; I remained affable under badinage; and I couldn't polish my boots. I had never been required to do such menial tasks before, and it took me ages to get a proper shine even started. I never understood why things were always going wrong, but they invariably did; and Sergeant McMahon relished any opportunity for chasing a viscount up and down the parade- ground. It was: "Deft-doit-deft-doit-deft-doit-deft-turn-doit-turn-baht-turn-deft-doit-deft-doit-deft-doit...." until my feet were flapping like a mechanical duck's. And in the pauses, he would call me all the most opprobrious epithets within his repertoire for vituperation. Anything from a pregnant penguin, to a good- for-nothing donkey-walloper. But I never heard him utter an obscenity. It was the fierceness of his tone which demanded such instant obedience to his commands.

As a blinkered robot propelled on clock-work boots,
and a new recruit, I take the brunt of pot
shots from the barking teeth of a loud-mouthed
lout of a militant omnipotent drill-sergeant.
Starting to dance with a dicky-bird perched
chirping on my nose, I close my ears to the flurry
of blurred insults, hoping to put hot
rhythm in the steps of my dithering, blinded feet.
I'm greeted as a naked clown, whose nose has grown
overblown, like fallen fruit, frizzled
on a brute, open fire, and prodded with wooden
rods, to the point of slushing to a crushed mush.
But as I totter round the ordered track,
there's quite a store of fuel on my back.

Some of us didn't make the grade of course, and [A] was the first to fall by the wayside. He had been totally incapable of adapting himself to the speed in physical movement that was required in all this square- bashing. I know not how it was arranged, but he was returned to Combermere Barracks and soon after this, received a medical discharge from his National Service without even having to serve his time out in the ranks. The notion of strings being pulled somewhere within the Old Boy network sprang naturally to most of our minds. But we bore him no resentment over this method of avoiding it all - for he was indeed such a likeable young buffer.

You always had to be so bloody masculine at Caterham. Any departure from the grin-and-bear-it ideal was liable to be greeted with the fierce abuse of Sergeant McMahon, or the more quiet sarcasm of the Trained- Soldier - who had been planted in our barrackroom in order to bite us whenever we were beginning to look complacent. One of the initial tests for our masculinity was to see who fainted during the TAB injections. There were two doses to receive, and we were all lined up in a long file, with our hands on our hips, while the master of ceremonies came jabbing his way along it, like a piston-punching steam-engine. Since my name began with a W, I had a long time to wait. And on the first of these occasions, the wretched guardsman in front of me collapsed in a heap a few seconds before the needle reached him.

Later in the barrack-room, I heard everything they had to say about that. So by the time I was lined up, waiting for my second dose of these injections, I was petrified that I might disgrace myself by fainting. Well the needle arrived, and I remained standing. But as soon as it had passed on to the next man, I began to feel this was about to happen to me. It was a reaction of relief, I suppose. The walls of my vision closed in on me, until there was only blackness before my eyes. Yet I was now supposed to be marching off into the adjoining room - which I endeavoured to do. Marched straight into an invisible pillar in fact. I stood there uncertainly to attention, waiting for my vision to clear. And as it did so, my first sight was of Sergeant McMahon, now identifiable as the invisible pillar, and glaring at me with a sadistic gleam in his eye.

"You wouldn't be feeling ill, would you Weymouth?"
"No Sergeant, I feel fine."
"Rejoin the squad!"

So on this occasion I had saved myself from ridicule, but there were many others when I did not. I was quite incapable of organising my routine, so that all the menial tasks might be completed by the time when lights were put out. As a result of this, I had to spend half the night working by candle light in the latrines. And I was so bloody tired by morning, that I was in no mood to contend with the persecutions of the following day. But it was one of the rules of the game that you had to find this kind of life to be funny. "It's so bloody awful, it's got to be funny. See?" Yes. I saw. And I laughed with the rest of them.

Then one night, on my return from the latrines, I flopped down on my bed for a few seconds and promptly fell asleep. There may have been some idea in the back of my mind that I was making a fly move in that I'd be ready-dressed when reveille sounded. Something I deemed might be viewed humorously by the rest of the squad. But I had miscalculated. The Trained-Soldier observed that I was dressed before the others, and guessed how this had come about. I was put on a charge for idle sleeping.

On being marched into the presence of my Company Commander, who was Captain Gow of the Scots Guards, I was sentenced to the anticipated punishment parade. But I was also greatly perturbed to hear that a copy of a letter from my father to the Colonel of the Life Guards had been forwarded to him, to say that I was too much of a Bohemian in my ways; untidy in my appearance, and all that kind of thing. Apparently Henry had gone on to suggest that the Brigade of Guards would be doing him a favour if they could knock a little discipline into me. While hinting a degree of sympathy with me for possessing a father who made such requests, Captain Gow indicated that it was a policy that would naturally be implemented.

The first fortnight at Caterham was by far and away the worst. After that period, we were permitted a forty- eight hour pass to return home for the week-end - if we were fortunate enough to be living in the southern counties of the British Isles. Sturford Mead was within the prescribed range. So home I went - fervently relishing the renewed contact with home. And in a funny way I just wanted to share with them the horror of my recent experiences, and to display my shorn head in exemplification of what military training had done to me.

But there was one advantage in particular from being allowed to go back home, which was that I obtained a chance to ask Donald, who had after all been Henry's batman during the earlier part of the war, to put a good shine on my boots, which I had brought back home with me for that purpose - slung around my neck as I rode upon my Velocette motorcycle. In fact he put such a brilliant shine upon them, that it was to last throughout the week - after which time I would be getting another week-end pass, and another shine on my boots.

Jokes about the Vy-cunt's fuckin' butler were rife within the barrack-room. But the severe rigour of our training was easing up very slightly at this stage. According to the text-book theory, we had now been drained of our individualism, so that we already fitted quite well into the prescribed platoon of foot- stamping robots. So they could now permit us to revive our sense of personal identity just a little.

With a glimmer of personality rekindling in my heart, I made so bold as to crack a joke to someone about the way the Trained-Soldier's hair was standing on end, when we were passing him in the street. So that evening I was called out in front of the rest of the squad. He wanted to know what had given rise to my merriment. So I told him. But he was in a nasty mood: declared that I ought to have the courage to say things to a man's face, instead of behind his back. "Because I can take it, you know. I'm not afraid of anyone, I'll have you know."

The bastard had a chip on his shoulder about people laughing at him. But so did I about people insinuating that I was a coward. So I replied: "No, Trained-Soldier, nor am I."

For a moment he stood there, looking incredulous. Then he said: "You think the hell of a lot of yourself, don't you Weymouth? Well I think you're a cheeky pup. I'll be seeing you later." And he stalked out of the room.

I thought I'd really put my foot in it this time. I just sat there with butterflies in my stomach, waiting for him to return. But to the general surprise, when he did so, he had nothing to say to anyone. He just went to bed. Next morning however, when I committed some trivial misdemeanour on the parade-ground, Sergeant McMahon called me out in front of the squad.

"The trouble with you Weymouth, is that you're gutless. You can't drill because you haven't any guts!"

I looked daggers at him - standing rigidly to attention of course.

The sadistic gleam returned to his eye. "You wouldn't be going to strike me, would you? No, you're not the sort of person who would dare to strike a superior officer. Are you, Weymouth?"

I didn't reply. I just glared at him. And he glared back - without either of us moving. Then he told me to fall back in line.

This episode had one good effect in that it marked a point where a transition began in my relationship with the rest of the squad. Both Sergeant McMahon and the Trained-Soldier now became friendly in their disposition towards me. They seemed to regard me as a bit of a personality. And it coincided with the move from Caterham to Pirbright, where the character of our training was less ferocious all round. I was subjected to just as much ridicule as before, and I was still the butt of all their practical jokes. But it was now done almost in a spirit of affectionate regard.

For example, I was called out to play some fatuous game with the Trained-Soldier, in which I had to balance a sixpenny piece on my forehead, and then toss it up into the air so that it landed in a petrol funnel, which had been shoved down the front of my trousers. Well it hardly needs to be stated that, as soon as my face was tilted up towards the ceiling, he produced a jug of water from behind his back, and poured it down the funnel - giving rise to hilarity all round. "Fancy a Vy-cunt pissing himself in public!" More laughter. And I had to find the whole business so jolly funny too!

But they managed to get me quite worried on some occasions, for I was never quite sure if they were being serious, or funny at my expense. The time when I was nearly put into close arrest for immoral practices, for example. It was after lights out, and Sergeant McMahon and the Trained-Soldier were out of the room. Someone came up with the bright theory that farts go off with a blue flame, if you hold a lighted candle to them. But there were sceptics in the squad. And of course it had to be me who volunteered to test the theory, so that the public curiosity could be satisfied.

Unfortunately our guardian angels had to return at the very moment when I was bending over, with my pants down, and a candle in my hand. And this was the kind of situation which army humour could never resist. I was to be put in the guard-room, under lock and key. Naturally, I didn't really believe it, but they certainly carried the pretence a long way. I was made to dress, and was then marched off to the very door of the guard-room, before it was revealed to me that everyone was having a giggle at my expense. And that was certainly a relief. I didn't relish having to face my father with the news that I'd been discharged from military service for gross indecency.

But they seemed to like me, and that was the important thing. The only person to suffer from this alteration in my status was poor [B]. He had instantly replaced me in all the more dolorous aspects of being the squad buffoon. But when he saw how I'd emerged from that status myself, by offering some well-timed insolence to the Trained-Soldier, he evidently thought that he'd best do likewise. Therefore in response to the continual nagging that he was receiving, to get a better shine on his boots, he stood up one day and told the Trained-Soldier to mind his own flipping business. And there was hell to pay. His kit went flying all round the barrack-room, and some of it went through the open window into the puddles outside. The wretched [B[ was now in tears, and that didn't help matters much either. And by the time the rest of us were ready for the transfer from Caterham to Pirbright, he appeared to be suffering from a nervous breakdown. He didn't return from a week-end pass, and we were to hear later that he'd been invalided out of the army - on medical grounds which were probably, in his case, quite genuine.

There had in fact been the all important hurdle to clear, between the two parts of our training - at Caterham and at Pirbright - and this consisted of a three day visit to WOSB (or the War Office Selection Board,) at Barton Stacey near Andover. This was where the army had to decide whether we were made of the right stuff, to warrant all the further expense of training us to become officers. And we'd all heard cautionary tales about those who had been expected to pass, but had failed in the event. The story that came closest to home being told by Tim Sainsbury, about his brother Simon, who as the President of Pop, had been one of the most revered boys at Eton. He had been failed for what was described as an irresponsible attitude - in that he had answered their query as to why he wished to be an officer, by saying that he supposed it involved a much more comfortable life. But he was later to prove his metal not only by passing his WOSB, but also going on to be awarded the Stick of Honour, after passing out at the very top in his training at Mons OCS.

There was always this terrible fear in my heart that I might not match up to the mark: that after all the promise in life that I had shown as a schoolboy, what might now come to the surface would be the fundamental weaknesses in my personality structure - arising largely from the fact that I'd been over-protected against the sheer rough and tumble of fending for myself, outside the orderly arenas which had been my lot. But the greatest portion of my fear was that, if I failed, I would inevitably be losing my father's esteem. I had never been his favourite son, but he still admired my potential in life. Up to now, it looked as if I was a winner. All that might change if I failed my WOSB.

But I got through it all right; did impressively, as I was later told - by Nicholas Cobbold's mother, who happened to be the wife of the officer in charge of that board. So all I had to do now was to complete my initial training at Pirbright - which in comparison with Caterham was all so friendly - before going on to Mons. We were still at the mercy of Sergeant McMahon, but during this final phase we were actually growing to love him. He could bark at us in any manner that he pleased, but the squad spirit was there. The terror that he had inflicted into our hearts over the past two months, now just served to enhance our love for him. And it was with real sorrow that we finally bade him farewell, after a party which we threw in his honour up in London - involving a visit to a saucy revue, followed by a slap up dinner at the Ecu de France in Jermyn Street.

Mons was the school where principally, all Potential Officers for the Cavalry and the Artillery were trained. But the first half of this training was concerned with infantry matters. The whole intake was lumped into a single company of four platoons, with recruits from the Household Cavalry spread out amongst them. What came as a pleasant surprise was the prestige - as the sole representatives of the Brigade of Guards - which we appeared to hold in the eyes of all the others PO's. We were able to lob it up, as the saying went. For the training which we were now receiving was cushy stuff, when compared to the horrors we had experienced at Caterham. We were able to treat the complaints of all the others as derisible.

The prestige was ill-founded, if the truth needs to be told. They seemed to imagine that we must be very special people, to have been selected for training as PO's within the elite Brigade of Guards. But I'd seen for myself how the whole process for such selection was dubious, to say the least. It was true that we had experienced the same initial training as the Foot Guards, who had now gone on to Eaton Hall instead of Mons. We had suffered as much as any of them, and were equal in disciplinary excellence I daresay. But there was one hell of a difference between the ethos of the Foot Guards, to that of the Household Cavalry. They regarded us more in the light of being bumbling members of the same intimate family as themselves: more cavalry than guardsmen in spirit. But here at Mons, the savour of our elitist reputation might be savoured - for what it was worth.

Coupled to all this however, was an augmenting fear that I might fail to make the grade: that I might be Returned To Unit, as unfit for further training as a Potential Officer. Somewhere deep down inside, I was too much aware of the gaping holes within my personality development that there was far more anxiety than self-confidence in my current attitude. And I compensated for this by striving to develop in the direction of a parade-ground military shit - such as Donald had once told me that Henry had been. It was a question of striving at all times to present on public view what I imagined the concept of officer-like qualities truly entailed. And I got plenty of opportunity to display these when I was elevated to the rank of Cadet- Sergeant, with responsibilities to see that others within the platoon were performing the various duties which had been allotted to them.

The problem that was emerging within this situation was that I discovered my popularity was slipping away from me. I remained on good terms with the batch of us from the Household Cavalry, who were all generally disposed towards the idea of maintaining a humorous notion of our innate superiority over all recruits from other regiments. But I could feel that notion begin to wobble inside me. I wasn't happy about such a pretence, when the whole need to excel was something so important. Indeed, it might be said that I was living too close to this sense of crisis. I couldn't acquire sufficient distance from it, to enable me to view such matters with detachment, in a lighter frame of mind. I was there in the middle of it all, and I felt as if the urgency was heaped up on my shoulders. So I was becoming too earnest: too serious about the whole requirement to appear officer-like; and I was losing the sympathy of the other cadets. I was being military according to the rules of the book, barking orders, and giving sharp rebukes to anyone who didn't carry them out. It was noticeable that I wasn't making any new friends, and there were many who regarded me with distrust.

I can remember acting with quite unnecessary officiousness when - in my capacity as the cadet-sergeant, and in strict accordance with the company regulations - I ordered someone in my platoon to open up the window beside his bed, when he had protested that he would prefer to keep it shut. It suddenly became an issue of immense importance to me, that the authority of my command should be obeyed. And for a moment there was real tension in the barrackroom, with everyone waiting to see whose will would prevail. I picked up a piece of the equipment that he would require next morning on parade, and told him that it would only be returned to him after he had done my bidding. There was a terrible pause, but he did finally comply. And I felt satisfied that I had won the day.

But there were other instances which did not go quite so well for me - like the time I was marching at the head of the platoon, when they ganged up against me by gradually increasing the pace of the step at which they were marching, until it had reached something absurd. Nor were they responding to my orders to slow it down. A spirit of mutiny was humorously in the air and, in hindsight, I can probably say that the best retort on my side would have been to give a humorous display of being an outraged drill instructor. Humour is nearly always the safest remedy in those situations, and the lack of it being there at my beck and call rendered me precariously vulnerable. The imminence of this breakdown to my authority felt vastly too threatening for me to treat lightly at the time. I halted them, and when we marched off for the second time, all was well. But it did make me see warning lights about not distancing myself too far in spirit, from the rest of the group.

As spikey brittle as a sea urchin, I search
to see a safe enclave for my cloven foot,
rooting twenty fathoms deep in the rolling
swell of the ocean's ferocious belly button.
Fluttering with buttered feet on the shrinking brink
of collapsed thinking, my piston fist must strike
at the streaking faces, howling for domination
in the rumbustious anarchy of grim survival.
Driving the schitzoid team of inner horses
that I force onwards to the precipice edge, I pledge
my humourless dedication to the nasty task
of coming out from the treacle bin - on top.
And when you hear the snap of my command,
jump sprightly to avoid my reprimand.

But I was keeping afloat in the crisis. There were the Company boxing competitions, for example, where I won my weight - as indeed I was expected to do, after all the prestige I had acquired in that field when at Eton. And on the surface at least, things might appear to be going well for me. I had already been appointed to be the Platoon Commander, and was then promoted to be the Half-Company Commander, who was required to march at the head of two platoons at the passing-out parade. And I was given a grading of +22 for my officer- like qualities. There were only two who obtained a higher grading, and not by much. This was only the half way point within our training at Mons, but my prospects for the final grading looked most encouraging at this stage.

To be awarded the Stick of Honour at the final passing-out parade was the ambition lurking somewhere at the back of my mind, and to achieve this, I needed to push up my grading to somewhere only just short of +30. Much as I tried to persuade myself that I really had the capacity to get there, I was losing confidence all the time. Things might seem to be going right, but I knew inside me that they were not. The unpopularity I had acquired during the earlier part of the training now began to tell against me. I had few real allies, as we started to work under a new set of instructors. For this second half of our training was in G Squadron, and was concerned more specifically with our duties as future cavalry officers.

In some respects, this was a more relaxed life all round and, now that we were moving into the summer, there were social events connected to the London debutante season to distract us from too great an absorption in our training. It was a problem to keep alert during the lectures, or even awake on some occasions - after returning on my motorbike from a London ball in the early hours of the morning. It was all very well trying to appear officer-like at all moments of the day, but there was now the additional requirement of absorbing the notes that we took. And my performance began to lapse in these matters - to an extent that my self- confidence was suddenly quite badly shaken. It became a real fear that I actually might fail the next test, and get Returned To Unit. A panic set in, and my whole attitude fell to pieces.

Unless I could feel that I was liked, there was no hope for me to emerge triumphant. So much of my functional efficiency depended upon a spirit of concord between myself, and the people with whom I was working. And there was no chance that it could now be kindled. I had to display officer-like qualities by complete rule of thumb. But it was just a facade, a big game of bluff, in the hopes that I could persuade the instructors that I really felt like that inside. And my grading was slipping. It was down to +12, with the final days of testing still to come. But it was bound to work out all right in the end. That was the way I thought about my life up to date. The same pattern as at Ludgrove, and at Eton, must get repeated here at Mons. All I had to do was to bide my time, and I'd suddenly perceive how I was slipping through to the head of the field.

But what if this didn't happen? What if they uncovered the facade, and perceived how I was really feeling inside? There was nothing officer-like about that. I had an awful presentiment that this was bound to happen. And what would follow? Relegation? Returned to Unit? And how would my father then see fit to regard me? This last question was always close to the epicentre of the quakes that I felt within. I might try to stop myself from worrying about such matters. Stop thinking: just work. More and more officer-like qualities. I lay there counting them, like sheep jumping over a style.

It didn't work out all right, although it could have been a lot worse. I prepared myself for the final piece of bluff when we were all taken out on trek. But during the course of it, I became involved in a most unfortunate episode. I had a vicious altercation over the wireless, with a cadet in an armoured-car which I believed to be situated in a faulty position. Well it turned out that he was in the right position, whereas mine was wrong; and worse than that, his map-reader - at the moment of the dispute - happened to be Captain Morrison, the officer who was responsible for giving us our final gradings. My own promptly sank to -4, which was all too close to a relegation score, which was indeed the fate experienced by my good friend [C], who was now required to toil on at Mons for an additional few weeks before he caught up with the rest of us. But it would have needed a total of around -10 to have involved the ultimate degradation of being Returned to Unit, without a commission.

As far as I myself was concerned, it meant that I had finally passed out, and that was something. But I didn't feel that there was any cause for celebration. I felt utterly dejected. This was almost the first occasion in my life when I had failed to emerge with the stamp of quality upon my performance. It was a major set back, and I was uncertain what to make of it. I didn't deserve to have done much better. I accepted that, for I knew in my heart that I wasn't really made of the right stuff to become an efficient officer; or not until I had matured greatly as an adult human being. Captain Morrison had in fact told me as much when I went to discuss my grading with him. (He had said: "I think you will make a good officer - but not yet.") In the meantime, I had to carry on living with myself - when all I wanted to do was to shut myself away from the world, and hide.

Impaled on a stage, and weighed on scales, with bits
of litmus paper thrust distrustfully in odd
body crevices, I'm shown the statistical proof
of stunted growth and blundered opportunities.
Wounded in self-esteem, I study my dented
identity, feeling loathing and disgust for the sham
ham actor, who practised his insufficient
skills within that person that I strove to be.
Ceilings to ambition, once so lofty in height,
slide downwards to cramp my impeded vision,
while derision goads me to wriggle free from the grim
limits, newly imposed on walking tall.
From deep within, I'll somehow bring to birth
a structured character of human worth.

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