The Elite Leadership Course

Life at Sandhurst

Garry McCarthy

• Éditeur: Pen & Sword Military
• Année: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781526790507
• Sujet: History
• Sous-sujet: Military & Maritime History

The only authentic account of Lord Rowallan's ruthlessly unorthodox methods of leadership development at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. "This is a brilliant account of how leadership is made." - Andy McNab This is the true story of 21 young men desperately trying to survive the most brutal leadership course of modern times. A throw back to the Highland Fieldcraft Training Center, the revolutionary brain child of Lord Rowallan during the Second World War, this fascinating insight explains the extraordinary lengths Sandhurst goes to in pursuit of generating the world's greatest military leaders. No one could have known that the intensity of their training was coincidentally little more than a prelude to a decade of war in Afghanistan and Iraq where attrition rates became comparable to those reached during the Second World War. This captivating story is full of emotion brought on by physical and mental endeavor that leads to success and failure. This intimate and revealing story of camaraderie is the first of its kind. But learning how to lead subordinates during the darkest of hours, living in the most austere of environments comes at a price. Unconventional and at times controversial, this is the only authentic account of life in Rowallan Company Sandhurst at a time when the world teetered on the brink of war with insurgents and dictators armed with weapons of mass destruction.

Chapter One

Reception Day

‘Marvellous! Marvellous! Absolutely bloody marvellous, don’t you just love reception day. Great to have you on board Gaz, welcome to Row-Co!’

Pat’s voice bounced off the magnolia walls of the cellar accommodation deep below the grandeur of Sandhurst’s Old College building. Purposefully, walking at pace heading to his office, he continued to reminisce about previous courses: ‘You know, if the students had the smallest inclination of what they were letting themselves in for, they wouldn’t turn up.’

I was perplexed by his comment, which was contrary to my understanding. My belief was that anyone winning a place at Sandhurst knew exactly what to expect. If anyone should be worried, it was me. Prior to attending the selection course for potential instructors at Sandhurst, my research into the ‘Officer Development’ courses proved fruitless. The only literature available was a short pamphlet written in the late seventies explaining that Rowallan Company was a descendant of the Highland Fieldcraft Training Centre, or a bespoke course designed for developing leadership in young men wishing to become Army officers. There was nothing sinister that would substantiate Pat’s comments. Confused by his statement, I pressed him for an explanation: ‘Hang about Sir! The Regular Commissions Board [RCB] briefs everyone about Rowallan. Surely all of the students are prepared before they arrive?’

‘True Gaz,’ Pat replied. ‘Very true. But those who know better won’t fall for the claptrap spouted by the selectors at RCB. They will be easy to identify!’

‘How?’ I enquired.

‘They will be the ones that don’t turn up!’ Pat laughed psychotically as he rubbed his hands vigorously and hunched his back like an archetypal villain.

Pat was typical Parachute Regiment. Although physically small, his powerful frame was dwarfed only by the enormity of his character. A soldier of twenty madcap years, his quick wit and black humour were frequently exercised at the expense of others. Having excelled as a Colour Sergeant Instructor in the previous two years, the Commandant of Sandhurst had singled him out for promotion to Warrant Officer Class Two and installed him as the Company Sergeant Major of the most notorious training organization in the British Army. Rowallan Company – also known as ‘Row-Co’ – was the primary source of all horror stories associated with Sandhurst. The Commandant could not have chosen a better man to keep these stories alive.

First impressions of Pat were hugely misleading. With wild blue eyes, an errant bouffant, out-of-control eyebrows and a crazy expression permanently fixed to his face, all complemented by his carefree use of politically incorrect words, it was easy to jump to the wrong conclusion and cast him as a typical Para. But Pat was an expert in human behaviour. Although there were no recognized academic credentials or post-nominal, he crafted his unique style through life experience. Always likely to say or do something that would leave you puzzled, astonished or bent over double on the floor in fits of laughter, he played to the audience for effect. But misjudge the moment at your peril. Astute and as driven as any other professional ‘strutting his stuff ’ around the Academy, Pat had an awesome reputation within the Special Forces world.

The very first time we met, he was dressed in ill-fitting scruffy combat trousers and cheap desert boots with his last four digits of his Army number neatly stencilled on the heel. Like all off-duty Paras, he wore an ageing maroon T-shirt emblazoned with one of those rebellious slogans like ‘shoot them all and let God sort it out!’. ‘Ah, you must be Gaz! Marvellous!’ Shaking my hand and nearly breaking my fingers in the process, he was pleased I had volunteered for the job.

‘The OC is out on a run, but welcome aboard buddy. I would love to stop and chat but I’ve just received my divorce papers in the post. I’m running off to ask my girlfriend if she would like to get married today. If she behaves herself, she can take me up on the offer. Just in case she is crazy enough to say “yes”, I have booked the registry office in the Shot [Aldershot]! Hang around and meet the team, I won’t be long. Moneypenny will square you away!’

With a smile as large as a house, and dressed just a little smarter than when he left, he reappeared four hours later. ‘Well let’s hope this marriage lasts a bit longer than my first two!’ he yelled, whilst roaring with laughter.

Pat held court exceptionally well. He explained to the training team who had assembled to congratulate him that it was imperative he got this marriage off to a good start. So, soon after they left the registrar’s office, they rushed home to consummate their marriage.

Pat delivered an impromptu Benny Hill skit: ‘I asked Sara to try on my trousers. She squeezed into my army lightweights and waltzed around the flat pretending to be a soldier, barking orders and saluting like a crazed cadet. “That’s the last time you wear the trousers in this house,” I told her!’

Sara, a woman with a sharp, sarcastic wit and cut from the same crazy cloth as her new husband, was not one to shy from confrontation. She slipped off a pair of skimpy Ann Summers knickers, twirled them around her fingers and flung them at Pat.

‘Can you get into these?’ she asked. Two minutes of uncontrollable excitement and anticipation elapsed as Pat battled to ease the lacey lingerie over his huge thighs. ‘You’re having a laugh. I can’t get in them.’

‘No, you’re right,’ she shot back. ‘And you never will with that chauvinistic attitude! Best you buck your ideas up cupcake, or this marriage will be shorter than you!’ It was a sign of what to expect in the weeks ahead.

* * *

The smell of shoe polish and burnt beeswax mixed with the acidic aroma of industrial floor polish filled the air as the training team finalized their preparations for reception day. The central hub for Company planning and administration was at the far end of what would be the students’ accommodation. The first of three small offices belonged to the Company Sergeant Major, and was shared with the company clerk and the Company second-in-command. Pat had two volumes on his voice: loud and very loud! When he spoke, his voice penetrated every empty inch of the cellar accommodation. He could be heard relentlessly poking fun at the company clerk who sat at the adjacent desk in the small office.

‘Moneypenny! You tart, have you got all the attestations squared away for the reception?’

Corporal Davis mumbled quietly to himself before answering. He saw himself as much more than just a company clerk, more a soldier first and HR specialist second. If this perception was challenged, it offended him hugely. In his defence, he was forced to do every arduous task everyone else did, which was impressive for a company clerk. But despite this, life with Pat was never going to be easy for anyone who was not part of the airborne elite.

‘Yes Sir. I am all over it!’ he grunted, in a vain attempt to rebel against the oppressive relationship he had with Pat.

Pat would be quick to pick up on his despondent attitude, and played on it mercilessly. ‘What’s wrong Moneypenny, that time of the month is it?’

Davis wouldn’t respond, for fear of receiving more of Pat’s wayward attention. Collecting his paperwork, he left for the Indian Army Memorial Room to ready himself for the arrival of the first students. Meaningfully, he scuttled down the corridor, his heel tips angrily striking the polished floor. Filling the empty accommodation with the familiar metallic sound of hobnailed boots, Corporal Davis charged off in his own little rage. Moving as quickly as possible whilst carrying a box of stationery, Pat’s overtones chastised him for several minutes even after he was long gone.

The Directing Staff, commonly known as the ‘DS’, consisted of one major, three captains, one Company Sergeant Major and three Colour Sergeants. Collectively, we busied ourselves preparing ceremonial uniforms in the staff wing of the accommodation. The staff wing ran parallel to the students’ rooms, one of many wings in a maze of corridors, forming a classic herringbone shape of lodgings. With low ceilings covered by heavy-duty service pipes and wiring, it resembled the inner workings of a Chinese laundry rather than the historic elite Military Academy it professed to be. The cellar accommodation was meant to be temporary, but its miserable, damp, dungeon-like appearance gave it an oppressive atmosphere that played to the advantage of the course atmospherics. Ironically, it would be the site of much physical and mental torture, mainly self-inflicted but nonetheless just as miserable.

With the arrival of the students imminent, there was much personal preparation in its final stages. In the DS corridor, the atmosphere was full of light-hearted banter mixed with the jangling of swords, clinking of medals and crunching of hobnailed boots. I called out to Pat, who was now three doors away in his changing room: ‘What time do you think they’ll start arriving Sir?’

‘Well, the smart ones will turn up with five minutes to spare, but those that believe the garbage printed in the glossy brochure we sent them are probably here already. Mummy and Daddy included.’

Major Gordon Gray, the Officer Commanding Rowallan Company – known to all as the OC – was quick to identify Pat’s condescending tones: ‘Sergeant Major! Surely you’re not suggesting that we have deliberately misled anyone are you?’

Identifying the OC’s thinly veiled sarcasm, the corridor erupted into laughter. As OC, Major Gray was charged with setting the standards we would all be invited to achieve. Not just those of fitness and commitment, but also of morality and integrity. Without mercy, the OC was bombarded with comments berating his lame attempt to defend the glossy brochure sent to all students ahead of their arrival.

‘Misled did you say? Bollocks! Out and out lied is what we’ve done. Best work of fiction since that old dude wrote the Bible,’ giggled Pat.

‘I thought that was the whole idea of it!’ shouted Captain Dunn, the appointed Commander of No. 2 Platoon and the officer to whom I would be subordinate. Glancing at Captain Dunn, who was chuckling to himself in his room opposite mine, it was clear he had a mischievous streak. Peering from behind his door, he winked and offered a wry smile whilst simultaneously polishing his medals. Fishing for more banter, he patrolled the corridor to see if anyone would take the bait. Young, tall and athletic, Captain Dunn was bubbling with excitement. His broad shoulders and huge arms blocked the light as he ambled across the corridor and stood in my doorway.

‘I’m serious, Colour!’ A huge grin was fixed on his face. ‘Ten years ago, they sent me that very same brochure two weeks before the course started. I remember thinking, “how exciting”. I couldn’t wait to start at Rowallan, it looked great fun. It was full of pictures of adventure training, climbing, canoeing, hill walking and people having fun. Mind you, at 19 you are very gullible. The brochure is pure propaganda! It is no surprise that they keep it under lock and key. Worst of all, there is a happy-looking Saudi prince on the back cover looking like a million dollars. I recall thinking if that dude could do it, I could. Little did I know that overseas students are not allowed to do the course, and the prince never once set foot near Rowallan.’

Pat urged the team to leave their rooms and assemble at the entrance of the accommodation. Talking to no one specifically, he walked around rattling off instructions to ensure we understood our duties. One by one, the DS gathered just inside the swinging doors for one final check. More in the pursuit of vanity, loosely disguised as professional pride, we jostled around the long mirror at the entrance for one final check. With ties straightened, buttons squared and belts pulled tight, Pat gave an approving nod to depart. Swords and pace sticks to hand, the complete training team weaved their way through the labyrinth of corridors leading to the Grand Entrance. It was just before 1000hrs on Monday, 3rd January.

The portico of Old College stands alone as a global symbol of elitism. Six huge fluted pillars grace the forward edge of the wide white stone stairs. Imposing and impressive in equal measure, this iconic entrance is accessible to only the most privileged people on the planet. Designed by John Sanders in 1808 and guarded by six brass cannons that saw action at Waterloo, just the sight of the building stirs an emotional sense of pride deep in the soul. The ten steps leading to the heavy oak doors droop in the centre, worn-down by the hoofs of the Academy Adjutant’s grey charger. Famously, the horse ascends the stairs at the conclusion of every Sovereign’s Parade, a tradition that was started by Captain Frederick Browning. Legend has it that in 1924, whilst he was the Academy Adjutant, Captain Browning was so angry at the poor performance of officer cadets during the parade that he charged up the stairs after the cadets on his horse to issue a fierce rebuke. He would later go on to make the rank of lieutenant general and command 1 Airborne Corps during the Second World War. If ever there was a sight capable of intimidating someone and inspiring at the same moment, watching the Academy Adjutant follow cadets up the stairs was it. In nearly every painting of Sandhurst, or any journal of military leadership, the Grand Entrance features. You get the privilege of walking these steps twice in a lifetime: once on the day you arrive, and once on the day you finish.

It was just short of 1100hrs before the first of the forty-six listed students arrived. Clutching four bags and an ironing board, a slightly overweight individual stumbled up the steps to the reception area. Pat stood watching at the top of the steps, impatiently tapping his pace stick on the floor and scouring for parents. Robotically, his head flicked left to right repeatedly before stopping and fixing a cold stare on the first arrival. Seizing the moment, Pat heckled him between fits of laughter: ‘Have you come dressed as a hippy surfing clown? You do know this is the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst and not Thorpe Park?’

The expression on the young man’s face spoke volumes. Shocked and offended, confusion gave way to resignation. Showing sympathy, I held the large oak door open as the young lad juggled his baggage and pushed by me.

‘Ha! Marvellous; bloody marvellous! That will be a string vest offence, the first of the year, Gaz!’ laughed Pat.

‘What? What do you mean string vest offence?’ I asked. Pat pointed his pace stick at me before inviting the rest of the DS to explain.

He was not short of takers. Captain Dunn struggled to contain his laughter, and Paddy began to nod wisely with approval before everyone voiced an explanation. The string vest was a badge of dishonour. It was awarded to an instructor or member of staff for violation of Row-Co code of practice. Only worn during physical fitness periods, it indicated to the world that one of the strict codes of conduct enforced upon the Rowallan Company instructor had been breached. The concept was designed to humiliate and coerce the instructor to adhere to the stringent code of tough love. Such embarrassment encouraged the kind of teaching environment that gave Rowallan its reputation.

‘Live by the sword, die by the sword!’ someone chirped from the far end of the cold, grey-stoned corridor. The vest made you look a complete prat, but worse still, the owner continued to wear it until someone else committed a ‘string vest offence’.

Although a staff code of conduct didn’t exist on paper, and therefore it was unreasonable for me to have been aware of it, my plea with Pat for clemency on day one went unheard. How did anyone know what would constitute a violation and what didn’t? I tried to summon support from Paddy, who was the appointed Colour Sergeant of No. 1 Platoon, and his Platoon Commander Captain Watts. But both had been with Rowallan for two terms and were quietly pleased not to be the first to wear the string vest at the start of the course. Surely the OC would help?

‘Sir, this is unfair. How can it be allowed? We can’t discredit staff with a made-up code of conduct. It took me a year to train for this job, added to the selection course which has a 75 per cent failure rate; what flawed logic has you humiliating the DS like this? This is not the time to discover that there is some sort of Masonic-like set of rules for me to adhere to! What are the rules and where are they written down?’

My frustration was evident.

‘Well, Colour, it’s like this. At Rowallan we do things very different to the rest of the Academy.’

Before the OC could continue, Captain Dunn interrupted him mid-flow:

‘We don’t have the luxury of time here. Nor do we have space in our lives for the fancy frills the normal cadets get. The students need to see your dark side, and we have to ensure it’s always on display. You need to cram twenty years of hardship into three months. They need to sample the worst we have to offer. It’s a tough gig and the only way to achieve this is to keep the pressure on everyone. That includes you and me, the Sergeant Major, the OC, the store-man and the clerk; everyone. The Row-Co Colour Sergeant must be feared. A cold-hearted, uncompromising, mace-wielding psychopathic type of character. No airs or graces, just ruthless. It’s quite simple really, you don’t need it written down. The string vest is the tool we use to prevent your human side accidentally slipping out. No one likes wearing it; you will learn it’s an effective tool of motivation. It will eventually make sense.’

‘Mace-wielding nutter! That being the case, how should they see you, sir?’ I asked.

‘Oh you know, approachable, caring and interested,’ he replied. ‘The sort of person you would like your sister to marry. A knowledgeable surrogate father figure, if you like. Or as I see it, just an all-round good egg.’

Major Gray shook his head in disbelief at what Captain Dunn had just blurted out, before shooting him down in flames: ‘James, what a load of rubbish! You’re no more an all-round good egg than I am an Olympic athlete. Colour, I shouldn’t listen to him. You will figure it out as the course goes on.’

Reception had become busy. Upon arrival, a student was given a name tag, displaying only his surname, before being ushered into a long grey slate stone corridor while his paperwork was completed. More often than not, a student would arrive with his parents. A well-rehearsed drill would see one of the three captains greet the mother and father and escort them into the impressive Indian Army Memorial Room. Parents were served – with polite conversation and reassurance – tea, coffee and sticky cakes. Simultaneously, the Colour Sergeant would marshal the student into the corridor of no return. The high ceilings and historical military art adorning the walls induced an atmosphere more akin to a museum than a busy military academy. Occasionally, the silence would be shattered with the shrill of orders being barked out by the DS: ‘Stand still! Stop fidgeting! Shut up! Face your front! Do nothing until I tell you to.’

My opposite number, Paddy, constantly patrolled the corridor, waiting to accumulate enough students to move onto the next phase of reception.

Paddy was a Colour Sergeant in the Foot Guards. Six foot two and hard as nails, he had the meticulo...