Open Writing

Trained Soldier Langford taught us our barrack room basics - how to clean and polish our equipment, how to fold our blankets and make up our kit for inspectiong, how to study Regimental History, a score of other 'how tos' and, finally, how to stay out of trouble.

In the last item we all failed. One after another we 'lost our name', i.e. our name was taken to be reported and placed on a charge for some heinous crime, such as 'dirty cap badge' or 'boots not clean' or, worse still, 'idle on parade'.

The information that shocked us most was the appalling casualty rate at the Guards Depot, Caterham; about nine suicides a year, while Trained Soldier Langford declined to tell us, for morale reasons, the number of recruits who had been transferred, permanently, to the lunatic asylum next door.

Our squad was known, rather optimistically, as the 'Potential Officers' Squad', which meant that we were expected to do every thing twice as well and to be twice as smart as the other squads. Under Sergeant Daly, we were. He was the best.

After two weeks we were permitted to walk to the mess rooms rather than run at the double. Slowly we progressed and became more like Guardsmen as Sergeant Daly whipped us into shape. All the time there were 'Dalyisms' galore:

"Wake up!... You'll lose your name, I'll take it... You dozy lot, you bloody, dozy lot, MOVE!... If you don't smarten yourself up then, by God, I'll have you marched off to the Guard Room so damned quick that your bloody feet won't even touch the ground... I'll warm you up, you're too idle... By God, get a move on yourselves. You're enough to make a bloody parson swear..." (and with his face one inch from the victim's) "Now, not for your sake, and not for my sake, BUT FOR CHRIST'S SAKE GET YOUR DAMNED RIFLE STRAIGHT!"

Everything was done by numbers. 'Left TURN!"...

"One-tup-three-one," we chorused.

"About TURN!"...

"One-tup-three-one."

One night, somebody in a Daly nightmare was shouting out in his sleep, "One-tup-three-one," until a neighbour threw a well-aimed boot.

As we progressed we took turns in drilling the squad. If the command was given on the wrong foot, the squad would continue onwards. Once I kept failing to allow my voice to carry the distance. The squad went further and further away, heading for the main gate. Sergeant Daly turned to me and said, "Well, for God's sake, before they disappear for ever, tell 'em something, even if it's only 'Good bye'." With a barked command he brought them to a halt.

And yet, behind that austere, disciplinary facade there lurked a human heart after all. While I was waiting for my turn on the firing range at the rear of the squad, he came up to me and spoke. He did not bawl, he actually spoke quietly, with a soft, lilting Welsh accent, "Indeed to goodness that was a damned good game of rugby you played last Saturday. You'll be a useful member of the Officers' Mess when you join the Battalion."

I could not believe my ears. At that moment I would have followed him anywhere. Two minutes later he bawled me out, and I 'lost my name" for incorrect safety procedures on the firing range. I would willingly have given him five rounds of rapid fire. And yet he was quite right to do so. Nobody was ever punished without a sound reason. Sergeant Daly was superb.

But it came to an end. Our basic training was a busy time - constant drill, or 'square bashing', as it was and always will be called; weapon training, map reading, physical training, bayonet drill, and more square bashing. Sergeant Daly had done his job.

Five of our squad disappeared, probably to the asylum. On the final night, as fully-fledged Guardsmen (as we erroneously imagined), protocol was relaxed. Sergeant Daly joined us for a farewell drink at a quiet back-street pub. We had the last laugh, after all, not even a Sergeant of the Brigade of Guards can sink twenty pints of beer with impunity. Indeed, Sergeant Daly was hardly able to sink even half this amount.

On the last morning the Regimental Tailor cut the peaks of our caps and we set up the front, inside, with part of a button-stick. At last we were wearing 'cheesecutters', the peaks coming down almost to our eyes.

With glee, we watched Sergeant Daly greet his new squad of trembling recruits, "I've never seen anything like it in all my life, Trained Soldier Langford...." We enjoyed the last laugh at the pub; it was Sergeant Daly who had the last word. As our truck started to move, Sergeant Daly turned round in our direction,
"Guardsman Powell, put your cap on straight!"

As the truck moved beyond the two hundred yards 'safety range', I replied, "And you know where you can put your damned cap, Sergeant Daly."

"Aw, come on, Johnny," somebody said, "You'll lose your name." Then the others," Yes, put it straight, Johnny, you're enough to make a bloody parson swear."

And then, as if by telepathy, we all shouted as one man, myself included, "I've never seen anything like it in all my life!"

Napoleon once said that an army never has bad soldiers, only bad officers. The converse would also apply, that first-class soldiers have first-class officers. I always used to think that the backbone of the Brigade of Guards was the NCOs, the 'Sergeant Dalys'. Only later did I realise that the perfection of the Guards as elite soldiers is due to a perfect combination of all ranks, Guardsmen, NCOs and Officers. What a damned good combination! I am proud to have been one of them. And the original mould that formed them was situated at the Brigade of Guards' Depot, Caterham Barracks.