An Officer and a Gentlewoman by Heloise Goodley Page A

that ensured none of us would be getting any sleep that night anyway. And after less than an hour of trembling in my sleep, I was shaken awake by Allinson for my turn to lie in the numbing cold on stag. 7 I lay shaking with cold on the sentry position next to Wheeler, our breath forming little clouds in the cold air, watching the snow settle around us, as the forest floor got whiter. With my head in my helmet propped against my rifle I stifled yawns and wriggled my legs back and forth, trying to keep as little of my body from touching the painfully frozen ground. From her pocket Wheeler produced a packet of ration-pack boiled sweets and we talked of food fantasies in a hushed whisper to keep ourselves awake (her dreaming of a home-made lasagne, me a Sunday roast with all the trimmings). After an hour of staring into the darkness like this our duty came to an end and we stood to reveal a clear untouched patch of brown earth in the snow for the next two to lie in, creeping back along the track plan to our shell-scrape and climbing back into our sleeping bags for another allotted ninety minutes’ rest.
    On our second stag I saw two figures approach us through the blackness. I blinked to check, hoping that my eyes were deceiving me, wishing for an uneventful, peaceful hour watching the snow fall. But they were there and coming closer, walking straight towards us.
    â€˜Stop. Who goes there?’ Wheeler called out the challenge to them.
    â€˜SSgt Cox and Captain Trunchbull.’
    â€˜Advance one and be recognized.’
    The unmistakable misshapen onion-seller’s beret of Captain Trunchbull stepped forwards into view.
    â€˜Evening, ma’am, staff sergeant,’ Wheeler greeted them.
    They walked straight past us, disappearing off into the harbour area, emerging a few minutes later with two rifles and heading back in the direction from which they had come. They dissolved into the night.
    â€˜Oh dear,’ Wheeler exclaimed.
    â€˜What?’
    We were supposed to sleep with our rifles uncomfortably inside our sleeping bags, so should the enemy creep up on us while we slept they couldn’t be stolen, which is exactly what Captain Trunchbull and SSgt Cox had meanly done, plucking them from beside our sleeping comrades. Indeed as morning arrived two of the platoon were missing weapons, and we all knew what was coming.
    More from Willy.
    With the first light of dawn, I forced down another boil-in-the-bag breakfast (burgers and beans) and had a wet-wipe shower, then joined the Platoon lining up in a forest clearing to await the arrival of SSgt Cox and Captain Trunchbull. One of the benefits of being in the field was supposed to be a separation from the theatre of morning room inspections; freedom from the ceaseless ironing, polishing and cleaning crap. So as dawn arrived we were all rather perturbed to be standing with mess tins, boots and those weapons remaining laid out on the ground ready for inspection. And were even more pissed off to subsequently be running up and down a hill, knees to chest, doing press-ups in the mud because we hadn’t passed. Captain Trunchbull and SSgt Cox screamed at our rancid ‘gopping’ ill-disciplined selves, teaching us another brutally delivered lesson. The lax discipline of a few had brought collective punishment to us all. Those who had failed to clean their messtins, polish their boots or sleep with their rifle saw us all suffering, hounding home the need for us to stick together, if one person failed we all did. It didn’t matter if you couldn’t bear the person you were basha’d up with, you still had to work together to get through the hell of Self-Abuse.
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    Commanding soldiers under fire, in the heat of battle, is arguably the greatest leadership challenge. While the infantry accounts for less than a third of the army, the primary role of the remaining two-thirds is to support them. Whether it be providing radio communications, artillery