Passing out
November was drawing to a close and so was our basic training course.
The Army now deemed us to be trained soldiers - either that or they'd given up on us! I didn't feel that I had learned very much, nor did I consider myself sufficiently equipped to go forth and defend the nation but, as I've said already, 'ours not to reason why'! None of our intake had flunked and been made to repeat. This penalty was usually reserved for those who had been hospitalised and had missed a substantial part of the course rather than anyone who had actually failed to meet the fairly unexacting requirements. The only formality remaining was the passing-out parade.
Aldershot garrison's main parade ground, a vast expanse of bitumen equaling several football fields, was the venue for this event. Passing-out parades were always under the direction of Sergeant-Major (Ronald) Brittain, an almost legendary being who was then the senior NCO of the British Army. A colossus, he stood about six foot-three in his regulation grey socks - I can't imagine him ever wearing Argyles - and he was built like that proverbial brick sanitary structure. The peak of his 'cheese cutter' was almost vertical which, had his posture been any less erect, would have totally obscured his vision. His barrel chest supported a polished Sam Browne belt, usually reserved for commissioned ranks, and he favoured the old fashioned puttees over the modern webbing gaiters. A gleaming pace stick, his emblem of office, was tucked firmly under his left arm in place of a swagger cane.
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 RSM Brittain, as a recruiter (1938) and in the company of royalty. |
Sgt-Maj. Brittain was an institution in Aldershot and every inch a soldier from his Coldstream Guards hat badge to the waxed ends of his Kitchener mustache. Any 'sprog' encountering this eminence for the first time would instinctively throw up the smartest salute he could muster, only to be greeted with the growled response, "Yer don't salute me, laddie, I'm not an officer!"
There are many stories told about Sgt-Maj. Brittain, contrived and otherwise. At one of the events he was conducting, some misguided individual had the temerity to wobble across a corner of the square on a bicycle. "Put that man in the guardroom" rang out the stentorian voice, whereupon a posse of his minions fell upon the unfortunate, who soon found himself in a cell - still on his bicycle! On another occasion when a royal inspection was due, he arranged for a handful of the more 'hopeless' of his charges to be conveniently deployed sweeping up leaves at a location well away from the intended route., The visitor, none other than the reigning monarch, King George VI, who was often inclined depart from pre-arranged itineraries, rounded a corner and suddenly appeared in the centre this 'awkward squad'. Promptly dropping their wheelbarrows, they all sprang smartly to attention, presenting their brooms and shovels in a Royal Salute, a maneuver that amused His Majesty but failed to humour the Sergeant-Major!
On his retirement from the Army, in 1956, Brittain applied for a job he considered consistent with his particular talents. He underwent an aptitude test but was turned down for this particular position on the grounds that he 'lacked authority'. As it was widely reported in the British press this tale, at least, was probably true. Later, he managed to carve out a minor post-service career in films, mostly playing himself!
On the appointed day - boots sparkling, brasses scintillating and with creases sharp enough to be dangerous - we marched to the hallowed ground. A small wooden dais had been erected to one side and this was occupied by a minor general and his red-tabbed entourage. We performed complicated manoeuvres for the benefit of this dignitary, wheeling and stomping in response to the barrage of commands relayed by our NCOs from their source, Sgt-Major Brittain. We stood like ramrods in review order while the senior officer strolled among us, snapping to the General Salute as the band struck up, with a crashing of hobnails and slapping of rifle butts, causing a small cloud of blanco-dust to envelope each of us.
Finally, we formed a giant column, three abreast, and marched past the rostrum to the strain of something military (I know it wasn't the tune we had adopted as our unofficial anthem, 'See them Shuffling Along'!) while the general took the salute, with Brittain standing rigidly at his elbow. He may not have been the senior officer present but it was undoubtedly the Sergeant-Major's day.
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