Either loud message could be applied at random intervals, although not usually simultaneously. Whichever, life involved a certain about of moving around the expanses of the College. And in the cruel, harsh world of the 1960s the greater proportion of that was done at the double. I think Reveille was piped at 0630 (or was it 0615?). From then, until 1900 (or was it 1830?) cadets moved at the double everywhere unless actually marching as a formed body of men (or flotilla, possibly, as this was the RN). Indoors or out, between those hours, you ran - and if you ever considered slowing to a walk you could guarantee a disembodied voice from somewhere would bellow those familiar words that haunted your existence … “Double Up, Cadet!”
In common with everyone else at this stage of training, many hours were spent doing drill on the expansive parade ground in front of the main College building, with its sweeping carriage ramps at each side that led up to the main entrance. There are also elaborate steps going up in the centre, below which lurked a couple of small offices. It was here that the GIs lurked. No, not American soldiers … our Gunnery Instructors, who taught us the old familiar drill movements. As noted previously, these were mainly Petty Officers (always called “Chief”) and, as noted by HTB above, a Royal Marine Colour Sergeant (always called “Colour”). Woe betide the cadet who in a moment of stress, whilst receiving one of those imaginative verbal lashings, called Colour Chief, of Chief Colour, or the ultimate sin … Sir. As we were commission on entry to the College, and wore officers’ uniforms, we were “Mister” … a reminder that we weren’t really officers, perhaps, other than a mark of respect!
So, marching around we merrily go. Significant failures in carrying out the required evolutions result in the offending party being required to fall out (properly) and, pursued by a barrage of invective, double around the ramps a couple of times. What was the lap distance? 440 yards seems familiar? And, of course, failure to fall back in properly (or indeed out in the first place) resulted in further lonely laps around the ramps.
And eventually, when there is a degree of competence and a prospect of us all heading in the same direction at the same time, we are allowed to drill with weapons. No, neither “Lee Enfield No 4” nor “SLR” entered our lexicon. We are to be Naval Officers, and thus are taught sword drill. Here enters another little nuance in the context of retribution - errors during sword drill required the culprit to run around the ramps with the sword in the position at which the error occurred. Some of these can be quite inconvenient, especially with the scabbard thrashing your left leg as you run.
But we are not supposed to be a decorative addition to parades. We are supposed to conduct them, and thus further hours are spent taking charge and drilling our colleagues in the approved manner. Commanding halt on the wrong foot, or indeed failing to command halt in time to prevent the flotilla running aground/hitting the wall had their inevitable circulatory consequences. Mercifully my previous experience with drill in the CCF/ATC stood me in good stead … I generally avoided taking any extra exercise. And of course my boots were ultra-shiny.
MPN11 moves to the right in ones, and doubles away smartly to write about boats.
