sooner had they sewn on their stripes than the two sections they led became deadly rivals; not just on the parade ground or in the gymnasium, but whenever they went out on night ops or were involved in field exercises and troop movements. At the end of each day, like a couple of schoolboys, Giles and Bates would both declare themselves the winner. Often the sergeant major would have to prise them apart.
As they approached the day of the passing-out parade, Giles could sense the pride in both sections, who’d begun to believe they might just be worthy of calling themselves Wessexions by the time they passed out; although the sergeant major repeatedly warned them that it wouldn’t be long before they had to take part in a real battle, against a real enemy with real bullets. He also reminded them that he wouldn’t be around to hold their hands. For the first time Giles accepted that he was going to miss the damn man.
‘Bring ’em on,’ was all Bates had to say on the subject.
When they finally passed out on the Friday of the twelfth week, Giles assumed that he would be returning to Bristol with the other lads, to enjoy a weekend’s leave before reporting to the regimental depot the following Monday. But when he walked off the parade ground that afternoon, the sergeant major took him to one side.
‘Corporal Barrington, you’re to report to Major Radcliffe immediately.’
Giles would have asked why, but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.
He marched across the parade ground and knocked on the office door of the adjutant, a man he’d only ever seen at a distance.
‘Enter,’ said a voice. Giles walked in, stood to attention and saluted. ‘Barrington,’ Major Radcliffe said after he’d returned the salute, ‘I have some good news for you. You’ve been accepted for officer training school.’
Giles didn’t even realize he was being considered for a commission.
‘You’ll have to travel straight to Mons tomorrow morning, where you will begin an induction course on Monday. Many congratulations, and good luck.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Giles, before asking, ‘Will Bates be joining me?’
‘Bates?’ said Major Radcliffe. ‘Do you mean Corporal Bates?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good heavens, no,’ replied the adjutant. ‘He’s not officer material.’
Giles could only hope that the Germans were just as short-sighted when it came to selecting their officers.
When Giles reported to the Mons Officer Cadet Training Unit in Aldershot the following afternoon, he was unprepared for how quickly his life would change again. It took him some time to get used to corporals, sergeants, even the sergeant major calling him ‘sir’.
He slept in a single room where the door didn’t fly open at five in the morning with an NCO banging the end of his bed with a stick, demanding he place both feet on the ground. The door only opened when Giles chose to open it. He had breakfast in the mess with a group of young men who didn’t need to be taught how to hold a knife and fork, although one or two of them looked as if they would never learn how to handle a rifle, let alone fire it in anger. But in a few weeks’ time these same men would be in the front line, leading inexperienced volunteers whose lives would depend on their judgement.
Giles joined these men in a classroom where they were taught military history, geography, map reading, battle tactics, German and the art of leadership. If he’d learnt one thing from the butcher from Broad Street, it was that the art of leadership couldn’t be taught.
Eight weeks later, the same young men stood on a passing-out parade and were awarded the King’s Commission. They were presented with two crowned pips, one for each shoulder, a brown leather officer’s cane and a letter of congratulations from a grateful King.
All Giles wanted to do was to rejoin his regiment and team up with his old comrades, but he knew that wouldn’t be possible, because when he walked off the
As they approached the day of the passing-out parade, Giles could sense the pride in both sections, who’d begun to believe they might just be worthy of calling themselves Wessexions by the time they passed out; although the sergeant major repeatedly warned them that it wouldn’t be long before they had to take part in a real battle, against a real enemy with real bullets. He also reminded them that he wouldn’t be around to hold their hands. For the first time Giles accepted that he was going to miss the damn man.
‘Bring ’em on,’ was all Bates had to say on the subject.
When they finally passed out on the Friday of the twelfth week, Giles assumed that he would be returning to Bristol with the other lads, to enjoy a weekend’s leave before reporting to the regimental depot the following Monday. But when he walked off the parade ground that afternoon, the sergeant major took him to one side.
‘Corporal Barrington, you’re to report to Major Radcliffe immediately.’
Giles would have asked why, but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.
He marched across the parade ground and knocked on the office door of the adjutant, a man he’d only ever seen at a distance.
‘Enter,’ said a voice. Giles walked in, stood to attention and saluted. ‘Barrington,’ Major Radcliffe said after he’d returned the salute, ‘I have some good news for you. You’ve been accepted for officer training school.’
Giles didn’t even realize he was being considered for a commission.
‘You’ll have to travel straight to Mons tomorrow morning, where you will begin an induction course on Monday. Many congratulations, and good luck.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Giles, before asking, ‘Will Bates be joining me?’
‘Bates?’ said Major Radcliffe. ‘Do you mean Corporal Bates?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good heavens, no,’ replied the adjutant. ‘He’s not officer material.’
Giles could only hope that the Germans were just as short-sighted when it came to selecting their officers.
When Giles reported to the Mons Officer Cadet Training Unit in Aldershot the following afternoon, he was unprepared for how quickly his life would change again. It took him some time to get used to corporals, sergeants, even the sergeant major calling him ‘sir’.
He slept in a single room where the door didn’t fly open at five in the morning with an NCO banging the end of his bed with a stick, demanding he place both feet on the ground. The door only opened when Giles chose to open it. He had breakfast in the mess with a group of young men who didn’t need to be taught how to hold a knife and fork, although one or two of them looked as if they would never learn how to handle a rifle, let alone fire it in anger. But in a few weeks’ time these same men would be in the front line, leading inexperienced volunteers whose lives would depend on their judgement.
Giles joined these men in a classroom where they were taught military history, geography, map reading, battle tactics, German and the art of leadership. If he’d learnt one thing from the butcher from Broad Street, it was that the art of leadership couldn’t be taught.
Eight weeks later, the same young men stood on a passing-out parade and were awarded the King’s Commission. They were presented with two crowned pips, one for each shoulder, a brown leather officer’s cane and a letter of congratulations from a grateful King.
All Giles wanted to do was to rejoin his regiment and team up with his old comrades, but he knew that wouldn’t be possible, because when he walked off the
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