Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies by Charley Boorman Page B
Authors: Charley Boorman
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centimetres, whichever you prefer – he’d had to have extra-long shirts specially made.
A little taller than me, then. I’d probably see him around; he was the tallest cadet they’d had in years and I was unlikely
to miss him, that’s for sure. When he was gone, I asked the woman behind the counter if she knew anything about my trousers;
with nineteen seamstresses working back there, she just handed them to me already done.
Dan told me that at 0600 tomorrow morning I had to be dressed correctly in shirt, pants, belt and cap – which you put on by
holding the crown, by the way, never the brim, otherwiseit would be perpetually smothered in fingerprints and you’d be hauled over the coals for that. Meeting up with the rest of
Troop 2, I would proceed to morning parade. The drill staff would be there to inspect me and make sure I was wearing the uniform
properly.
Further down the concourse we saw Troop 2 being drilled, kitted out in shirts, trousers and body armour with their blue kitbags
slung over their shoulders and the dummy guns in their holsters. A sergeant-major-type guy was yelling at them, although it
turned out he was just another cadet. I watched from a safe distance, taking shade under a tree; tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow, as my dad used to say when he was quoting Shakespeare. They came marching down the block like a well-oiled machine.
I just knew I was going to let them down.
They halted right where we were filming, wheeled to the left then broke off. The guy drilling them was what they call a ‘right
marker’, someone facilitating their movements around the camp. He told me that although the day was officially over, that
evening some of them had firearms training, while others were doing patrol drives, and they had to get all their paperwork
squared away.
They gave me cell number D153 for the night. Not a cell actually, but a spacious room with its own bathroom and a comfortable
bed; given how hot it was outside, it was also reasonably cool. Dan told me that I was privileged: if I was a regular cadet,
I’d be in one of thirty-two beds in one long dormitory for the next six months of my life. I got some sleep, although not
much, and at 0600, as instructed, I hit the parade ground with the rest of Troop 2. When I say 0600, I was perhaps a fraction
late … As the last one there, I had to walk past every other eagle-eyed recruit to find my place. Of course, they stuckme in the front row. I made my introductions and promised them I would try not to let them down, but already it was looking
like a complete disaster. I had some buttons done up in the wrong places and others undone in the wrong places. I was wearing
my dummy gun, which apparently I shouldn’t be. We hadn’t even started yet.
I had no idea what to expect. I knew nothing about anything and Dan suggested to the other cadets that they ought to take
advantage of that, because I would be taking the brunt of everything that morning. I even got the stand to attention all wrong:
right foot instead of left. ‘I’m dyslexic,’ I said. ‘I get muddled.’ My cap wasn’t on straight and I was considerably chubbier
than the other recruits. My hair was long, my expression nowhere near as serious as it should be.
The cadet next to me told me that after parade and before breakfast they had to clean up their dormitory, something I’d be
spared at least. Last night he had got to bed at about twelve after sorting his files, polishing his boots and ironing his
shirt for this morning. The files were reports written on various scenarios they had practised, as if they had been at a crime
scene or an accident and were writing up the appropriate paperwork. The actual work day starts at eight, but they’re up at
five to get ready for parade, and the evenings are spent doing stuff like the patrol drives I mentioned. It’s a massive commitment
but they all seem to love it – working as a team,
A little taller than me, then. I’d probably see him around; he was the tallest cadet they’d had in years and I was unlikely
to miss him, that’s for sure. When he was gone, I asked the woman behind the counter if she knew anything about my trousers;
with nineteen seamstresses working back there, she just handed them to me already done.
Dan told me that at 0600 tomorrow morning I had to be dressed correctly in shirt, pants, belt and cap – which you put on by
holding the crown, by the way, never the brim, otherwiseit would be perpetually smothered in fingerprints and you’d be hauled over the coals for that. Meeting up with the rest of
Troop 2, I would proceed to morning parade. The drill staff would be there to inspect me and make sure I was wearing the uniform
properly.
Further down the concourse we saw Troop 2 being drilled, kitted out in shirts, trousers and body armour with their blue kitbags
slung over their shoulders and the dummy guns in their holsters. A sergeant-major-type guy was yelling at them, although it
turned out he was just another cadet. I watched from a safe distance, taking shade under a tree; tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow, as my dad used to say when he was quoting Shakespeare. They came marching down the block like a well-oiled machine.
I just knew I was going to let them down.
They halted right where we were filming, wheeled to the left then broke off. The guy drilling them was what they call a ‘right
marker’, someone facilitating their movements around the camp. He told me that although the day was officially over, that
evening some of them had firearms training, while others were doing patrol drives, and they had to get all their paperwork
squared away.
They gave me cell number D153 for the night. Not a cell actually, but a spacious room with its own bathroom and a comfortable
bed; given how hot it was outside, it was also reasonably cool. Dan told me that I was privileged: if I was a regular cadet,
I’d be in one of thirty-two beds in one long dormitory for the next six months of my life. I got some sleep, although not
much, and at 0600, as instructed, I hit the parade ground with the rest of Troop 2. When I say 0600, I was perhaps a fraction
late … As the last one there, I had to walk past every other eagle-eyed recruit to find my place. Of course, they stuckme in the front row. I made my introductions and promised them I would try not to let them down, but already it was looking
like a complete disaster. I had some buttons done up in the wrong places and others undone in the wrong places. I was wearing
my dummy gun, which apparently I shouldn’t be. We hadn’t even started yet.
I had no idea what to expect. I knew nothing about anything and Dan suggested to the other cadets that they ought to take
advantage of that, because I would be taking the brunt of everything that morning. I even got the stand to attention all wrong:
right foot instead of left. ‘I’m dyslexic,’ I said. ‘I get muddled.’ My cap wasn’t on straight and I was considerably chubbier
than the other recruits. My hair was long, my expression nowhere near as serious as it should be.
The cadet next to me told me that after parade and before breakfast they had to clean up their dormitory, something I’d be
spared at least. Last night he had got to bed at about twelve after sorting his files, polishing his boots and ironing his
shirt for this morning. The files were reports written on various scenarios they had practised, as if they had been at a crime
scene or an accident and were writing up the appropriate paperwork. The actual work day starts at eight, but they’re up at
five to get ready for parade, and the evenings are spent doing stuff like the patrol drives I mentioned. It’s a massive commitment
but they all seem to love it – working as a team,
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