Right Marker

I served in three officer training units: Belfast, Wrotham and Stoke-on-Trent before I was commissioned. During that period, from December 1944 to July 1946, I went through the gamut of being taught (three times) everything there was to know about platoon weapons, field defences, tactics and map reading. I was shouted at by warrant officers and non-commissioned-officers of the Royal Ulster Rifles and, in the case of the last two units, warrant officers and drill sergeants of the Brigade of Guards.
These people had discovered a way of converting you from flesh and blood into machines operating in unison with each other when activated by a series of high pitched screams. They terrified you and made you wonder why you volunteered to be trained as an officer. You cursed them (under your breath) and were inclined to believe stories you heard about them, one of which was about an old lady beating a regimental sergeant major with an umbrella when she saw 'her boys' being badly treated. You accepted the notion of a senior Brigade of Guards warrant officer lining up his wife and children for inspection before marching them off to collect their groceries in the NAAFI. Yet you could not help respecting them and eventually feel grateful for the way they made you look, feel and act like a soldier.
The pinnacle of excellence, or the one who terrified me most, was Warrant Officer Class One 'Charlie' Copp of the Coldstream Guards. He was the Regimental Sergeant Major of 164 Officer Cadet Training Unit (OCTU) based at Trentham Park, Stoke-on-Trent when I arrived there for the last stage of officer training in February 1946. He stood out from all others like a lighthouse on a barren shore, towering over most of his flock by at least six inches and wearing a uniform into which he seemed to have been poured. He was the epitome of military perfection from the tip of his nose-flattening peaked cap to the twin brass ferrules on his highly polished pace stick.
Despite being complimented by the drill sergeants at 148 pre- OCTU at Wrotham, Kent for our performance on the final parade, it was back to square one when I arrived at Trentham Park.
RSM Copp believed in introducing himself to new arrivals as soon as possible; within two days we were pounding the square and being told we were the worst selection of ragamuffins he had ever come across. In order to freshen us up, he gave the order for double mark time at the slope. In other words: 'running on the spot, knees as high as you can raise them with a rifle banging on your collar bone'. After five minutes of this, it was hard to decide which hurt most - knees sandpapered of skin by coarse battle dress trousers, or a left shoulder bruised by an Enfield Mark 1V rifle.
As the tallest man in the platoon, a mere six foot two inches, I was appointed right marker - the one from whom the remainder of the squad took their dressing. It was a responsible position and I felt a certain amount of pride whenever I heard the command: "Right Dress."
The RSM must have realised we were in danger of being whittled down to our kneecaps if we double marked time any longer, for the next command was: "Fore---ward." Anything would have been preferable from the piston-like movements we had been executing for the previous five minutes, but it was still a painful business to jog around the drill square with a rifle bouncing on your shoulder. I gritted my teeth and bared my lips aggressively, determined that the RSM should see no sign of weakening when I doubled past him for the third time. At last, the torture came to an end when a drill sergeant was given the job of marching us off. Later that morning, the orderly sergeant told me I was on a charge and that I should attend Company Commander's Orders at midday. I asked him what I had done wrong, and he replied: "You'll find out when you get there."
I presented myself to the Company Sergeant Major at noon and was told to line up with two or three others who were waiting to be tried by the Company Commander. Just before I was marched in, I was surprised to see RSM Copp marching in to the office, but I still had no idea what I had done wrong.
Like a bullock entering an abattoir, I was prodded through the open door of the office where the Company Commander sat behind a large desk. "You are charged with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in that you did laugh at RSM Copp as he was conducting a drill parade." The languid major in the Rifle Brigade stared at me and continued: "Are you guilty or not guilty of this offence?" I was so surprised that I could not say anything for a few seconds. The thought of laughing at the RSM was preposterous and the only excuse I could make was that he had interpreted my grimace for a grin. "Not guilty," I stuttered. The RSM then gave his evidence and confirmed that I had laughed at him on a number of occasions as the squad doubled around the square. This was pretty damning evidence made worse when the Company Commander asked his next question: "Do you have complete control of your facial muscles?" Wondering if I would be booted out of OCTU if I admitted to being physically impaired, I told him that everything I possessed worked properly. "Seven days confined to barracks," he barked.

The really irksome part of this punishment was having to parade twice every evening in 'field service marching order' (everything a soldier would carry if he was marching in a combat situation). The rifle you drew from the stores (not the same one each time) had to be cleaned (with woodwork slightly oiled). Brass fittings on large and small packs, ammunition pouches, belt, gaiters and hat had to be polished to perfection - the fact that it had all been done the day before, or even once already that evening, was no guarantee that you would satisfy the Orderly Officer who ran a fine-tooth comb over you.
I was on my last day of confinement to barracks when an officer of the 60th Rifles found a trace of blanco dust behind one of my brasses. I was in front of the company commander the following morning and he awarded me another three days CB for being idle on the Orderly Officer's inspection.
I was careful not to laugh, smile or even let a grin cross my face for the rest of the time I was right marker on drill parades. RSM Copp and his team of drill sergeants continued to extract every ounce of effort from us on the square and, by the 19th July 1946 - when our commissioning parade took place, with my parents seated alongside the saluting dais, there was no prouder soldier in the Army than me.
As soon as we were dismissed from the parade ground, we raced back to our billets, removed battle dress trousers and blouses and donned our new bespoke uniforms with one 'pip' on each epaulette. As a special concession, we were allowed to accompany our parents etc. home dressed as officers although our commissions did not become effective until 00.01hrs the following day. It seemed that one officer cadet, a few terms before us, had not heeded that fact. Just as he was leaving Trentham Park for good in his parents' car - with his girl friend by his side, he spied the Regimental Sergeant Major talking to some guests. He got out of the car strolled over and tapped the RSM on his rump with his new silver topped cane and told him what he thought of him and his pack of voracious drill sergeants. If he had waited overnight in nearby Stoke-on-Trent and come back the following day, the RSM and drill sergeants would have had to stand to attention and accept the young subaltern's invective - but he had forgotten the one important detail about the effective date of his commission. Within seconds he was put under arrest, deprived of his service dress, peaked hat, Sam Browne belt - et al, and left to consider his position in the guard room. The following day he was returned to his unit as a private soldier.