The Pitfalls . . .
For reasons so nearly feudal that they would make a Fabian sick, I am, and have been for years, in charge of the British Legion parade in our village on Remembrance Day. No position of responsibility ever made fewer demands on those qualities of leadership and resource which a commander is expected to embody. All the veterans have to do is to fall in, march 400 yards down the High Street and go into the church; they cannot possibly lose their way, the risk of mutiny is minimal, there is really no need for anyone to be in command at all. But it is much too late to try and alter things now, and every year I worry about the protocol appro- priate to a quasi-military occasion. I cannot dis- charge my basic duties (which are to march the parade off, to march it back from the church, to halt it and dismiss it) without giving at least four words of command. How should one give these? An average turn-out of round about six- teen hardly justifies a stentorian delivery; on the other hand, it is almost a physical impossibility to say 'By the left, quick march!' in a wheedling tone, as though one was selling soap on tele- vision. I do my best to strike an off-crisp compromise between the Caterham • and the conspiratorial techniques; the effect is rather that of a very shy man hailing a taxi, but it's the best I can do.
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