THE SHORTEST PERSON IN NATO
Elizabeth Spalton says she is grateful that
Sandhurst had a space for her vertically challenged, state-educated son
IN the stoical north of England when I was a child, tears were permitted only when peeling onions or, if you really had to, at funerals, but when I saw Queen Noor of Jordan dabbing at her eyes just a few yards away, I broke the habit of a lifetime and wept, too. The Queen and I were united as mothers overcome with emotion at the sight of their sons receiving their commis- sion at the Royal Military Academy, Sand- hurst, in the last Sovereign's Parade of the old millennium.
There, of course, the similarity ended. Her son is the Crown Prince of Jordan, presumably always destined for military training, while mine is the product of a state comprehensive school, who speaks with a northern accent and comes from a non-military family. Add to that the fact that, at 5ft 4in, my son was also the small- est officer cadet in his year at Sandhurst and I think it's fair to say that he didn't conform to any stereotypes.
All of which, I believe, goes to prove that the army is realistic, open-minded and fair in its admissions policy. Far from find- ing himself isolated among a bunch of ex- public-school 'Hooray Henrys', my son seemed very much at home in a platoon of 30 young men from varied backgrounds whose interests ranged from playing the bagpipes and frequenting the nightclubs of Reading to partake in naked karaoke ses- sions with the locals, to breaking every rule it is possible to break.
Not that it is an easy life at Sandhurst. On the contrary. Cadets have to submit to a routine of early rising, punishing exercise in the cold and wet, and constant 'encour- agement' from very vocal sergeant majors. Friends reeled with disbelief when I recounted tales of my son resorting, after a hard day's exercise, to sleeping on the cold, hard floor of his room at Sandhurst — the most elite military academy in the world — because he was so desperate to keep his bed in pristine condition for the next day's early-morning inspection.
And then there was the constant round of what might seem to the onlooker to be senseless activity — endless boot-cleaning (including the soles which were also inspected) and polishing anything that stood still for more than a second. Every spare minute of the officer cadets' time was filled, and when we got the occasional phone-call from our son, it was usually a plea for help: 'Can you send a shower-cap right away? I need it for keeping dust off my hat,' or 'Can you send a new ironing- board cover? I've worn out the original one.' And that was after the first week! He was tired, he had blisters on his feet and an open sore on his back where his heavy bergen (that's a back-pack to the non-mili- tary like myself) had rubbed. His hands were scratched from tussles with barbed wire — stepping over it is a much nastier experience for a person with very short legs. He had a black eye from boxing (`I couldn't even hit him back because he was much taller and held me at arm's length').
Then there was the drill work and public parades where everything had to be per- fection. Being taken ill on parade was not allowed. The company sergeant major was quite clear about what cadets had to do if they felt sick: 'You will swallow hard, Sir.' As for fainting, this was definitely to be avoided, but anyone who did succumb would be excused only if he broke at least an arm or a leg or, better still, his nose in the fall. Only then would the fainting be deemed genuine.
But Sandhurst is by no means indifferent to the wellbeing of cadets. At times it is positively solicitous. On my son's first deep-river crossing, for example, when normal-sized cadets were head and shoul- ders above the water surface, he stepped in, only to disappear completely from view. Having lived with a lack of height all these years he went into the water knowing exactly what to expect, but the rescue team on hand saw a possible problem and they dived into the river, dragging my surprised `Relax, it's organic.' son to the surface. The same happened when he carelessly dropped his weapon in a shallower river. He didn't dare arrive on terra firma minus the precious weapon, so he ducked down, grovelling in the murky water to try to locate it, only to be yanked back up by firm hands.
A balance was struck between the neces- sarily hard and often brutal training regime and the vital caring aspect. Instructors stood over the cadets before an exercise, forcing them to drink sufficient water to prevent dehydration; and afterwards they inspected the cadets' feet. (They deserve plenty of credit for that one, in my opin- ion!) They also gave advice and support for personal problems.
So, here we have an army which, as well as being very fair in its admissions procedure, is also caring and approachable — not what the media usually tell us. But I have to admit it is not very politically correct. My son was frequently called a 1—ing runt' or worse, at full voice on the parade ground. His sports shirts bore his nickname of 'combat dwarf' and he was given the title of 'Spin' (Shortest Person in Nato). But has the public lost its sense of humour? Let's face it, the more dangerous our way of life, the more we need the relief of shared humour. So if you see a young man whose T-shirt bears the slogan: `Join the army; see the world; meet new peo- ple; then kill them', take a deep breath before adopting a holier-than-thou attitude of condemnation.
After my son's first fortnight at Sand- burst, I asked him the question that all mothers of unattached sons would ask, `What are the women like?' To which I got the disappointed reply, 'Men'. Mind you, I would much rather my son was sharing his trench (living shoulder-to-shoulder and sleeping together) with a female than with a homosexual, but people don't like you to say that sort of thing. In fact, when I got a phone-call from my son saying, 'Can you send me some red ribbon?' my heart nearly missed a beat. Surely the army wasn't going to add red ribbons to its uniform, not even to please our oh-so-tolerant government? What a relief to find that the ribbon was needed for constructing a model of a battle. Just before my son's commissioning parade, I attended a service in the Acad- emy chapel. When the National Anthem began, every officer cadet in that chapel stood rigidly to attention, head up and face full of pride. The atmosphere was electric, Many of them were only in their earlY twenties, but they understood what it was all about. Some two weeks after this won- derful occasion, I happened to be watching the Millennium celebrations on the televi- sion. I saw the singing of the National Anthem in that wretched Dome, and I saw the rabble of people. It might have been a fun occasion, but singing the National Anthem should be a moment of solemnity• I realised then that all those people — including our Prime Minister — had not the faintest idea what it is all about.
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