4.1: Authority: on the turn of the tide

I was actually beginning to enjoy myself in the Life Guards, and I should have been quite content to stay out in Germany for the remaining three months of my National Service. But I had gone and put my name down for the Boxing course - something which I regretted once I had been informed that the whole business culminated in having the honour to participate in the Army Officers’ Boxing Competitions. But I couldn’t possibly withdraw at this belated stage without losing face. And in my appreciation of the fact that I really had no alternative but to go through with it, I decided that it was best to do so with an air of apparent indifference.

All the entrants had to undergo a fortnight’s intensive training at Aldershot, which provided us with ample time to size up our potential opponents. But there were so few entrants this year, that it was decided to promote only two contenders for each weight. I didn’t manage to get myself eliminated on these grounds; and since I won my fight, I suddenly found myself being hailed as the new Army Officers’ Welter-weight boxing champion for 1952. Then the press got hold of this information, and made a big thing of it - Viscount wins title, and all that kind of nonsense. Congratulations began to pour in, and I was careful not to disillusion anyone as to the amateurish tenor of these competitions.

There was one letter in particular which warmed the cockles of my heart, in that it came from my former drill-sergeant at Caterham. It is worth quoting.

Dear Viscount Weymouth,

I am writing to congratulate you on becoming the officers’ new Welter-weight champion. I was delighted to read of your success as printed in ‘The Star’. Trained-Soldier Stapleford and I have often laughed and chatted about yourself and the remainder of the squad. I said to him on Friday: "Well we have trained a champ. His reply was "Blank-blank! Xxxxx!"

I see you are spending a spot of leave at home now. I trust that you will enjoy yourself, sir. Once again my hearty congratulations, and best wishes for your future.

I remain sir, your obedient servant

D.McMahon, Sgt.

But the role of champion had fallen upon me somewhat too suddenly for me to feel at ease under such an appellation. I knew too well that I had only got there by mistake, on minimal effort, and that I wasn’t the courageous bruiser that people seemed to expect. I certainly wasn’t going to let myself in for any of the club’s fixtures, in the manner that they seemed to expect of me - to fight against the other armed services, against Oxford and Cambridge, and institutes of that calibre. I steadfastly refused all such demands. I had already paid the price of obtaining for myself a few weeks in England, and that was the end of the matter, as far as I was concerned. They could damn well find their pugilists elsewhere.

But the news of my success was well-received by the Life Guards. On returning to Germany, I was hailed as a bit of a hero. And the less I said about my achievement, the more glorious they assumed it to be. My silence was even interpreted as modesty. People suddenly discovered that traits which they had formerly attributed to eccentricity, were in fact rather endearing. And they began looking for qualities in what had previously been regarded as barren ground.

I also had the satisfaction of receiving an apology from CoH Bobbit, who had been scurrilous in his comments about me when he had been acting temporarily as my Corporal-of-Horse during those manoeuvres at Combermere. He had then blamed me wholeheartedly for all the misfortunes which had come his way, and he had gone round the squadron telling everyone his undiluted opinion of me. Well he now came up to me, during a visit to the NCOs’ mess, and insisted on buying me a drink. He was a little tight, and wanted everyone to know that he had "misjudged" me. And he wanted my assurance that I bore him no ill will - something which I readily gave to him.

And it was much the same with Cpl-Maj Radcliffe, who had once booked me for being late on parade. He didn’t actually apologise - he would never do that - but he talked about the matter indirectly. "You know sir, there are two sorts of officer. Some are good on the parade-ground, and some are good on the battlefield. And I think we all know which is the category to which you belong, sir." Well that was good enough for me. Thereafter we could be friends. It was most comforting to know that people no longer regarded me with contempt.

As far as my own troop was concerned, I could now do nothing wrong. They considered themselves to be the finest unit in the squadron; and they seemed to think that this made me the finest troop-leader. During my last few days with the Regiment, at the NAAFI party on Christmas day, they gave me a rousing farewell, trying to hoist me on their shoulders while singing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, and all that kind of thing. I managed to transform it into some kind of Ring a Ring o’ Roses dance, in which we could all equally participate. But the flattering signal which they were communicating was clear enough for everyone present to read. And they could all take note just how very different was the spirit which now prevailed, in contrast to what had once prevailed. I felt quite sentimental at the idea of leaving them.

Turning an eye to each uncertain face,
I placed them in mind like a new deck of cards;
hard lidless expressions, dressed to assess
the measure of my own humanity and power of command.
Granted the insight of fretful retrospection,
direct from recollection of details where our feet
were ground down into rolling stubs, and our bodies
trodden in shit, it’s fine that smiles can shine.
Entwined together in a single silken skein,
it’s plain to see that confraternal bonds,
fondly - if without affection - unite my troop’s
grouping to a comrade fellowship in arms.
It never fell to us to fight a foe,
but if we had, such butchery they’d know!

It might be difficult for me to claim that I had actually made a success of the army. But I knew in any case that the tide of failure had been turned. If I had remained with the Regiment for an additional year, I might yet have emerged as the best subaltern that the place had ever seen. There may still have been those amongst my peer group who regarded me as an utter cunt, but I knew that I had won the esteem of my own troop, and of the senior NCOs. In time I felt that the others would surely have followed suit.

The stigma of the low grading at Mons had now, in my own judgement, been vindicated. Things had been pretty tough for me at one point, and my self-confidence had certainly been shaken. But I had no reason to conclude that my former faith in myself had been misplaced. The same old pattern had been about to emerge. I had the capacity to succeed - no matter where, or in what. And the feeling of relief was enormous.