An Officer and a Gentlewoman (4 page)

Back in London, as I enjoyed my final few months of freedom amidst the comforts of a frappucino lifestyle, it became entertaining to shock friends and work associates with the news that I was abandoning the rat race to join forces in the war on terror. People couldn’t believe I was giving up my coveted lucrative career to fight real wars not just price ones. My grandmother thought I’d meet Prince William at Sandhurst and marry him; my boss said he’d be recalling my killing skills back to the boardroom while my dear friend Deborah was excited by the prospect of lots of hunky men in uniform.

But I most enjoyed the smugness of informing my employers.

Banks are used to the drama of people throwing a bonus strop and handing in their resignation, using the bargaining promise of a job offer from a competitor to squeeze yet more cash out of their employers. No City firm is ever for life and omnipresent greed drives fickleness among City employees who switch allegiances as readily as secretary affairs. But leaving the Square Mile altogether, they didn’t know what to make of it. It didn’t compute. Why would I want to do that? I hadn’t even made my first million yet. None of the usual bargaining arsenal had any value, as their offers of more pay or a different position fell on mind-made-up ears.

My flatmate Ann however did have a strong view on me joining the Army. She was far more sceptical about the whole idea and put forward an argument I struggled to counter. Ann is a bright cookie: she read politics at Oxford and has an educated conscience. Her objection was the prospect of me, under orders, having to fight a war I might not believe in. And she had a good point. Serving in the army I might have to. I was informed enough to have reached an opposing opinion on the invasion of Iraq, but if I were to join the army this opinion would have to go unheard. I could conscientiously object, but you need a pretty convincing ethical or moral reason to do so and a simple hunch that Saddam Hussein might not actually have weapons of mass destruction was unlikely to be a solid enough excuse to abstain; although bizarrely in reverse it was a perfectly good enough reason to invade. The British armed forces are strictly apolitical and service personnel are forbidden from taking an ‘active part in the affairs of any political organization’. Instead, forces personnel rely on the British electoral system and the power of their vote
5
to make sure Ann’s worst fears don’t happen. In any case it could be argued that I was already directly contributing more to ruining people’s lives through my nefarious
employment in the City than any subsequent actions I might have in Afghanistan.

As I enjoyed my last remaining plump pay cheques in Fulham’s bars and restaurants, I received the joining instructions for the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst and the commissioning course; immodestly described as ‘the finest command and leadership training course in the world’. The accompanying glossy recruitment literature brought evidence of the stark reality of what I was embarking on: photographic images showed cold, sweaty and tired people, exerting themselves in various muddy and uncomfortable situations, heaving heavy tree logs and scaling mountains with large backpacks on, while the pages talked of the hard work and long hours involved in making the transition from civilian to soldier.

These sweaty and out-of-breath people were also accompanied by threatening words of the need to be in ‘top physical shape’ for the ‘very physical demands’ of the course and to assist with this physical preparation there was an enclosed video,
Fit For the Best.
Thankful that I hadn’t disposed of my redundant video-player when DVDs caught on a decade earlier, waiting for a moment like this when an outmodish organization like the army might necessitate it, I invited Deborah around and we watched intently over a bottle of wine as muscle-sculpted men in tight white T-shirts demonstrated techniques to improve ‘stamina and strength’. Probably not the sort of viewing set-up the Army had intended it for, but the video had the desired effect as I was motivated to join a gym while Deborah went home having borrowed it and my video-player.

With £250 joining fees and £70 monthly membership, I have always thought membership at one of London’s pretentious City gyms a ridiculous expense for something I’d probably visit once. I preferred to be outside, gulping fresh air, running up and down the Thames towpath to keep the calorific effects of client dinners and
happy hour cocktails at bay. However, this alone was not going to ready me for Sandhurst. I was fit by civilian standards, and had even recently run a few half-marathons, but the Army wanted more than that. Much more.

Before Westbury I had never done a press-up. Never. Not one. And attempts at heaves involved me dangling from a pole by my pathetic chicken-wing arms and flailing helplessly in the air. So to build up a bit of muscle and upper-body punch I enlisted the services of a personal trainer at my local gym to instruct me on how to develop biceps, without turning my size 8 frame into that of a shot-putter’s.

I joined my local Fulham branch of Holmes Place Fitness Centre, where before work fellow gym-goers could be found on the reclining bike reading the
Financial Times
, while stylish women in the latest coordinated Stella McCartney gym fashions walked on the treadmills gossiping into mobile phones and yummy mummies dropped off young Harrys for swimming lessons. To boost motivation there were music videos of the Pussycat Dolls prancing about on the bank of enormous flat-screen televisions, to remind me how tight and small my bottom could never be if I was committed enough and ignored the ice-cream counter by the exit. I worked through my training programme, progressively lifting heavier weights with my gnat’s limbs until I could execute press-ups without collapsing to my knees. And as the months before Sandhurst turned to weeks and days I ran further and further, regularly completing over forty miles a week. By Christmas I was pretty fit, the fittest I’ve ever been, but no amount of time in Fulham’s Holmes Place would fully prepare me for the ‘physical demands’ of the commissioning course, as I was soon to find out.

My arrival date at Sandhurst was now looming large and I was still remarkably naive about the place. Unlike school and university where I had been with my parents to look prior to applying, Sandhurst continued to be a mystery. My only knowledge came
from the glossy brochures I had been given and stories in the press about Princes William and Harry who were both there.

So, with a month to go before I was due to start my new life, I was invited, along with some of the other new recruits, to attend a familiarization visit to the Academy. After my brief exposure into army establishment at Westbury this presented another opportunity for me to experience army food, scratchy blankets and unnecessary shouting whilst also being sized up for the new uniform. Whilst there I was also issued with a new pair of military black leather boots to take away and wear in, so that when I came back a month later to start the commissioning course my feet would already be blistered and raw. As a girl I would never reject a new pair of shoes, but these were not the latest Christian Louboutin killer heels and I’ve never been less excited to receive new footwear. Big, heavy, clumpy, Doc Martenesque boots. No fine styling and flattering cut. No soft Italian leather. We were shown like four-year-olds how to lace them up (there is a specific technique to reduce pressure and injury) and sent home to break them in.

This Sandhurst visit also gave me my first exposure to marching. An experience that ended in naive catastrophe.

While at Sandhurst all recruits are required to march. Everywhere. At all times. Arms are to be out straight, swinging shoulder high, legs should mark a good pace, as no ambling or bumbling are permitted. Cadets are marched around the Academy in orderly rank and file as a squad with a shouty sergeant at the back barking commands.

Left, right, left, right, left, right.

Arms and legs ticking like a metronome. Heels drilling forcefully into the ground, which for me literally happened as I discovered, in a wobbly, scratchy totter, that you cannot march in high heels.

There was a lot of City girl in me that was going to need transforming into soldier.

The visit concluded with a question and answer session about what to expect at Sandhurst, including lots of helpful little tips like
‘bring lots of sports bras’ and featured my favourite question of all time: ‘Can I bring my horse?’

The answer to which was an even more surprising ‘Yes’.

Along with new boots I had also been given an extensive and detailed packing list, so as my days numbered I began to assemble the items on it, plundering supermarket aisles for cleaning products. It soon became apparent that Sandhurst was going to involve a fair amount of scrubbing and polishing. The longest section of the list came under the heading ‘Cleaning Kit’ and included an exhaustive catalogue of items: Flash, Cif, J-Cloths, Brillo pads, furniture polish, dusters, glass cleaner, Duraglit, Brasso, a Selvyt Silver cleaning cloth, brushes, cloths, black shoe polish (plain and parade gloss), brown shoe polish, tan shoe polish, an ironing board and a good quality steam iron. I began to think that employment as a cleaner at Sandhurst was probably one of the easiest jobs in Surrey, with the cadets doing all the work for you. While the hairnets, hairpins, grips, plain slides, black elastics, strong hair spray and hair wax on the specific females’ packing list didn’t fill me with joy either.

As the weeks ticked down the new military boots I had been issued remained in their box, laced according to the specific instruction. But I had to get them on and break them in, so Deborah and I packed our warm clothes, Gortex, a thermos flask and a map and headed west to the Brecon Beacons in South Wales, which, when suggested over a couple of drinks in the pub, seemed like a good idea.

Deborah and I have been good friends since university, where she was a member of the mountaineering society. Each term she used to disappear off on weekend expeditions to the Lake District or Snowdonia to get piss-wet through, sleeping in a tent, while I preferred the warmth and comforts of the university’s indoor swimming pool, my own bed, four walls and a roof over my head. But Debs loved it; she was an outdoor enthusiast and knew what she was doing when it came to mountains and harsh conditions. 
I didn’t. During our summer holidays she had spent weeks in the Arctic sampling ice cores and lichen, while I sought the beaches of Thailand. Deborah had trekked in the jungles of South America, the Alps and Himalayas, while I preferred to bob about in a boat instead. And she had all the gear too: down jacket, gaiters, Scarpa boots, GPS. She was the perfect companion for a boot-breaking mission to Brecon. But Brecon is a formidable part of the country whatever the season, and in late December it was particularly austere; these hills are not used as the selection ground for the Special Forces for no reason, and only a matter of contours up Pen-y-Fan it soon became apparent that the slopes of South Wales’s highest mountain were an ill-advised terrain choice for breaking in my brand-new boots. So with blisters forming, we had to retreat back to the burger van and after a bacon sandwich and a shoe change, we managed a happy day in the hills but my primary aim still remained unachieved, as the boots remained in their box in the boot of my car.

There are many theories on how best to break in new boots. The favourite and widely practised is to tape up your feet with medical tape, letting the tape take all the painful rubbing rather than tender skin; some wear two pairs of socks for the same reason, or socks over tights as one soldier once advised me, although I suspect this has more to do with the wearing of ladies’ hosiery than blister prevention. Alternatively there are those who try to soften the leather by standing in the bath or use leather conditioner, Dubbin, or urinate in them. The privileged few could ask their manservant to wear them in for them or alternatively, if the whole process is simply too painful, there is always the Navy, where they wear shoes.

As my arrival date at Sandhurst grew closer and the career switch more of a reality, the complete transformation I was embarking on became increasingly apparent. Around me I saw life choices I would no longer be able to make. Doors shut on expensive beach holidays, Alpine chalets and the dream of owning a big country
pile. I would no longer be able to afford my shoe and handbag habit, as my spending would have to adjust. As I downsized my car and mortgage, I realized that money meant more than just the materialistic greed I despised in the City. It meant not being able to provide for my children as my parents had for me. No head start with a public school education.
6
No far-flung family holidays. No large home. Having been in a position where I could provide all this for my progeny, was I now being selfish in giving it up? I began to recognize the enormous gravity of what I was doing and, as the importance of this sank in, I had doubts.

But if I didn’t go to Sandhurst now I knew I’d regret it for ever, so I packed up my Fulham flat and moved my worldly possessions into my parents’ attic (where far too much of it still lies), and, on the first Sunday of 2007, with boots broken in, countless cleaning products packed, City job resigned and my name removed from all social activity lists, I was as ready as I could be to drive to Sandhurst.

And what lay in store for me was beyond even the wildest of my preconceptions.