fire, defusing bombs or flying helicopters, everyone in the army requires a basic understanding of what it is infantry soldiers on the ground do, and for this reason Sandhurst uses the infantry model to teach leadership.
Each of the three annual intakes to the Academy are split into three infantry-style rifle companies, each of these sub-divided into three platoons of around thirty and each of these platoons subsequently split into three infantry sections, consistent with real infantry rifle platoons.
In the army three really is the magic number.
On completion of their training the cadets from Sandhurst commissioning into the infantry would take command of a platoon. Though the army isnât foolish enough to grant custody of thirty soldiers to a young man in his early twenties, who only a year earlier had most likely been a jaunty, carefree student, so a young second-lieutenantâs enthusiasm and naivety are reined in by a war-hardened platoon sergeant. Sergeants are hard-bitten experienced senior soldiers who have been promoted through the ranks from private to lance-corporal to corporal and then sergeant, toughened at each stage by arduous NCO 8 leadership courses in Brecon. Although the second-lieutenant is officially in charge the sergeant can hold greater true authority, especially in the early months while the baby PlatoonCommander is still wide-eyed and wet behind the ears. Sticking to the infantry model at Sandhurst we cadets made up the platoonâs number with Captain Trunchbull as the notional and uninspiring platoon commander while our real respect was for SSgt Cox. Over the year as we deployed on more horrific weeks like Self-Abuse and the exercises progressed we would each take it in turn to act as platoon commander and sergeant, being assessed for leadership ability in trying to command our friends and peers.
The manpower in an infantry section is further split into two four-man fire teams. At the lowest level these are the most basic building blocks in the British infantry. And on the second day of Self-Abuse we grouped into our own little fire teams, to build on the previous dayâs fire and manoeuvre training. This time four of us would do the dash, down, crawl routine together. We practised all morning, a team at a time, firing rounds at imaginary enemy in the copse beyond an open field. The snow and rain had finally stopped and, as I sat on my daysack waiting my turn, the sun broke through the clouds to warm my tired muddy face. As the sky cleared the picture-perfect rolling hills of Winnie-the-Pooh country unfurled in front of me, the open heathland brightened by splashes of yellow gorse and purple moor grass.
There was something restful in that physical landscape that gave me a small moment to extract and ponder, a brief peaceful interlude in the shouting-shooting-crawling exercise melee. I smiled inwardly to myself. It was my birthday, and I would rather have been here on this hillside, with newfound friends in the fresh open air, feeling the warmth of the sun on my cheeks than cooped up behind a computer screen like a battery hen in an office. Next to me Wheeler leaned over and snapped off a chunk of her Yorkie bar and handed it to me. And in that brief moment, with the sun on my face, looking at open fields, I felt content and, for the first time, that I wanted to be here.
*
That night after sundown we were sent out on a navigation patrol to put our orienteering skills to the test and prove that the compasses we had been issued could be used as more than just a short ruler. So with map in hand, I stumbled around Christopher Robinâs playground in the dark on my own, finding my way from checkpoint to checkpoint through the night. For two hours, I crossed over forest streams, clambered stone walls, waded through tall deer grass and considered stopping for a snooze in an empty barn. By now the tiredness was dragging me down. It was only the second night of the exercise and I felt
Each of the three annual intakes to the Academy are split into three infantry-style rifle companies, each of these sub-divided into three platoons of around thirty and each of these platoons subsequently split into three infantry sections, consistent with real infantry rifle platoons.
In the army three really is the magic number.
On completion of their training the cadets from Sandhurst commissioning into the infantry would take command of a platoon. Though the army isnât foolish enough to grant custody of thirty soldiers to a young man in his early twenties, who only a year earlier had most likely been a jaunty, carefree student, so a young second-lieutenantâs enthusiasm and naivety are reined in by a war-hardened platoon sergeant. Sergeants are hard-bitten experienced senior soldiers who have been promoted through the ranks from private to lance-corporal to corporal and then sergeant, toughened at each stage by arduous NCO 8 leadership courses in Brecon. Although the second-lieutenant is officially in charge the sergeant can hold greater true authority, especially in the early months while the baby PlatoonCommander is still wide-eyed and wet behind the ears. Sticking to the infantry model at Sandhurst we cadets made up the platoonâs number with Captain Trunchbull as the notional and uninspiring platoon commander while our real respect was for SSgt Cox. Over the year as we deployed on more horrific weeks like Self-Abuse and the exercises progressed we would each take it in turn to act as platoon commander and sergeant, being assessed for leadership ability in trying to command our friends and peers.
The manpower in an infantry section is further split into two four-man fire teams. At the lowest level these are the most basic building blocks in the British infantry. And on the second day of Self-Abuse we grouped into our own little fire teams, to build on the previous dayâs fire and manoeuvre training. This time four of us would do the dash, down, crawl routine together. We practised all morning, a team at a time, firing rounds at imaginary enemy in the copse beyond an open field. The snow and rain had finally stopped and, as I sat on my daysack waiting my turn, the sun broke through the clouds to warm my tired muddy face. As the sky cleared the picture-perfect rolling hills of Winnie-the-Pooh country unfurled in front of me, the open heathland brightened by splashes of yellow gorse and purple moor grass.
There was something restful in that physical landscape that gave me a small moment to extract and ponder, a brief peaceful interlude in the shouting-shooting-crawling exercise melee. I smiled inwardly to myself. It was my birthday, and I would rather have been here on this hillside, with newfound friends in the fresh open air, feeling the warmth of the sun on my cheeks than cooped up behind a computer screen like a battery hen in an office. Next to me Wheeler leaned over and snapped off a chunk of her Yorkie bar and handed it to me. And in that brief moment, with the sun on my face, looking at open fields, I felt content and, for the first time, that I wanted to be here.
*
That night after sundown we were sent out on a navigation patrol to put our orienteering skills to the test and prove that the compasses we had been issued could be used as more than just a short ruler. So with map in hand, I stumbled around Christopher Robinâs playground in the dark on my own, finding my way from checkpoint to checkpoint through the night. For two hours, I crossed over forest streams, clambered stone walls, waded through tall deer grass and considered stopping for a snooze in an empty barn. By now the tiredness was dragging me down. It was only the second night of the exercise and I felt
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