You ‘orrible little man

The point of military drill is stunningly simple: someone shouts an order and you comply, immediately and efficiently. If you don’t, in peacetime, a scary person calls you very un-PC things and throws a stick at you. In war? Well, you’ll probably get shot or something.  The army, however, hates waste, so invented the concept of ‘concurrent activity’ (also known as being fucked about when you could be having a ciggie and a brew). Eventually someone thought why not combine instilling discipline with perennial military obsessions: polishing things, dressing up in silly uniforms and impressing tourists?

Bullshit, drill pigs and lumpy jumpers

Because the British army is the best army in the world, it follows it’s also best at polishing things, marching about in silly uniforms and impressing tourists. Although there’s plenty of competition out there, especially on the silly uniform front (I’m looking at you, Greece), the Brits still win. The London District Garrison Sarn’t Major, in charge of drill and ceremonial, is part-PT Barnum, part-Sauron and part-Andrew Lloyd Webber when it comes to organising pomp and circumstance. And like everything else in Britain, ostensibly a load of posh blokes with names like Tarquin are in charge, when really there’s a salt-of-the-earth NCO behind the scenes making sure everything works. And he’s called Gary or Dave, and he’s harder than you, Sir.

I left you in this position…

Carrying out foot drill is (a) completely ridiculous, yet (b) terrifying at the same time. The evil geniuses behind this paradox are, of course, drill sergeants (known affectionately in the British army as ‘drill pigs’). I’m sure the modern army is more fluffily inclusive, but in days of yore no drill session would be complete without the foul-mouthed insults of which only a drill pig is capable. I’m sure many readers will have been threatened with having a pace-stick rammed between their ears so the drill pig could (ahem) ride them like a moped, or have their sexual preferences questioned if they don’t swing their arms just-so. And the first time I drilled on the same square as female soldiers? The drill pig howled “you all look the same to me, so remember – the lady soldiers are the ones with lumpy jumpers!”

Iron discipline, soap starlets & Rock Apes

Discipline is central to drill. The drill pig wants you to become an unthinking machine, an automaton, responding to verbal commands that sound NOTHING like English (for example, ‘left-right, left-right’ in drill pig becomes ‘lufts-dites, lufts-dites’ and God help the soldier who laughs). When it works, it’s deeply impressive. Even a scabby ex-reservist like me, who hated drill with a fiery passion, feels a frisson of tribal pride when I see the Changing of the Guard or the Ceremony of the Keys.

Which brings me to the unlikely subject of the RAF Regiment. Being an army website, this is where we’d usually indulge in some light banter, suggesting the RAF’s ferocious Rock Apes were in some way inferior. Inappropriate jokes about the ‘Short Range Desert Group’ might find their way onto the page, even. But NO. Not here. I have witnessed, first hand, the steely-eyed magnificence of the RAF’s masters of drill and ceremony, the Queens Colour Squadron. I take my hat off to them, except I don’t have one. But if I did, it would be on the floor right now, along with my dignity and career prospects.

Imagine the scene – London’s Royal Tournament. Younger readers might not remember the Tournament, which was a horse show put on by the Household Division to justify their existence  martial extravaganza at Earl’s Court. Oh, and the Navy would do that thing where they’d dangle artillery on ropes. Anyhow, most people only went for the bit at the end, when squaddies would roar around in armoured cars and fire blanks into the audience, although it also attracted weirdos obsessed with horses and bagpipes. Most squaddies went to set up impressive unit bars (think indoor tents from the TV series ‘Vikings’), drink heavily and shag Wrens. Those were the days, weren’t they?

Circa 1992 (I think, I was almost certainly pissed) I was working on the Tournament intelligence cell. This involved sitting with a bored policeman from Kensington nick and trying to work out where the IRA might park a van with a mortar hidden in the back.

Wandering around Earl’s Court, I saw the QCS formed up and waiting to perform their drill display. No two ways about it – the lads looked sharp, bayonets and boots gleaming, gimlet-eyed warriors all, eyes locked straight ahead. If any of them had moved out of turn, you’d have suffered flesh wounds from hyper-starched trouser creases

Enter Daniella Westbrook of Eastenders fame (if it wasn’t the lovely Ms. Westbrook, I apologize, but I’m 99.9% certain it was, anyhow you looked ravishing whoever you were). Wearing a spray-on mini-dress and spike heels, she sashayed in front of the Rocks, smiling flirtatiously. She looked smoulderingly hot, as if the Gods of War had conjured up a siren to distract the young myrmidons and test their resolve! I stopped and gawped, but I was a scruffy Int Corps STAB lance corporal and therefore invisible. But the QCS? Not a single one moved a muscle (if you were one of the Rocks and remember this incident, please get in touch, it was a moment of supreme military discipline. How’d you do it? Bromide in your tea?).

America: Nearly-as-good-as-the-British

As befits the home of Hollywood, the United States brings swagger and insouciance to any military occasion, not to mention their famous jogging-while-singing routine. They also have terrifying drill instructors who manage the remarkable feat of being scary while dressed as park rangers, such as the much-loved (and recently departed) R. Lee Ermey.

As a not wildly relevant aside, in 1987 or 1988 (I can’t remember exactly, as I was probably drunk again) I did basic infantry training at Bassingbourn, where they filmed Full Metal Jacket (Stanley Kubrick, the director, famously refused to fly so filmed a Vietnam war epic in, er, Cambridgeshire and Wanstead). I think the assault course from the movie was still there, although I’m happy to report nobody shot the directing staff like Pte. Pile.

Sentinels and Silent Drill

Nonetheless, when they’re not screaming insults, singing and beating each other up in character-building hazing sessions, the Yank military is perfectly adept at drill and ceremonial. The honour guards at Arlington National Cemetery are epic, especially when tearing disrespectful civilians a new one. The ‘Sentinels’ who guard the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier come from the army’s 3^rd Infantry Regiment, smart as any British Guardsman (once you get over the whole sunglasses thing) and take their duties very, very seriously.

Ironically for a nation best known for being very, very loud, one of the most outstanding American drill displays is… silent. I give you the United States Marine Corps Silent Drill Platoon, who provide ceremonial displays for the Corps.

Equipped with WW2-era Garand rifles (fitted with bayonets), the team carry out a silent display of gratuitously complicated drill movements. The only noise is the slap of hands on wood (oo-er), and even a British drill pig would grudgingly respect the precision. The display includes a weapon inspection by the NCOs, of the sort familiar to anyone who’s queued outside an armscote so an armourer can spot a microscopic speck of dust on an totally inaccessible part of your rifle.

Yeah, fair play, even a drill-averse, clumsy slob like me thinks this is pretty cool…

Israel – Not overly troubled with drill

We all know the Israelis are ferocious, don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-of-‘em warriors, and ‘Don’t Mess with the Zohan’ is really a documentary. The citizen-soldiers of the IDF are famously scruffy – a British officer once told me he thought the IDF barracks he visited resembled ‘a municipal dump’, where squaddies rolled out of their pits more or less when they felt like it. Despite the lack of flash uniforms, the male soldiers seem happy enough. If you’re wondering why, Google ‘Girls of the IDF’.

Take, for example, a typical IDF passing-out parade. For most British soldiers, this is a big deal – you’d have spent weeks polishing stuff and marching about in preparation. There’ll be a band, a weak-chinned general you’ve never heard of and a goat called Bob, wearing a ceremonial tabard celebrating a battle in the Sudan in 1873. And afterwards? Curry and cooking lager.

But the IDF? As this video shows, the drill seems to be (1) Pull on your crumpled lightweights. (2) Plonk a beret you found somewhere on the back of your head. (3) Salute a bit while listening to early 90s rock guitar music. (4) Get given a rifle. (5) Bust some moves then head down to the beach with the hot IDF chicks.

Tell me you ain’t just a little bit jealous.

India & Pakistan: Get a room, why don’t you?

Despite the two nations existing in a state of near-permanent war, it’s obvious the Pakistani and Indian armies are seriously hot for each other. Take these border guard displays – easily the most blatant example of mano-a-mano sexual tension I’ve seen since the volleyball scene in Top Gun.

All that pea-cocking and eye-contact, those crazy moves? You can’t kid me, it’s like an army theme night at Heaven in Charing Cross. Hey, I’m the most Gay-friendly Punk Military Historian you’re gonna meet – world peace hinging on some otherwise sexually-repressed guys getting it on? Let’s make it happen!

The Spanish Legion – The regiment where Disco never died

Disco never died – its fans simply moved to Malaga, joining the most funky, bare-chested, Brut 33-scented combat unit in military history: The Spanish Legion! With its special quick-march, love of upbeat music, open-chested uniforms and lothario style, the Legion is less military formation than 70s outpost of Iberian machismo. Please watch this video and tell me it ain’t the best thing since the Hai Karate aftershave adverts?

Forget the French Foreign Legion, with its slow-marching skinheads singing dirges about death and sacrifice, the Spanish version (which has very few foreigners) is more Ibiza than cutting about in the Sahara, with its members adopting the nifty title ‘Legionnaire Knights’.

Sadly, all this fun has consequences – last year the Legion admitted some of its disco-killers were suffering from weight problems, placing them on a mandatory diet.  I presume this will involve extra dancing like John Travolta in Playas las Americas, and not clambering over silly assault courses.

The Goose-Step: The Bad Guy’s favourite drill move

George Orwell famously said the goose-step was only for ‘countries where the population were too scared to laugh at the military’. And, to this day, it’s the favoured march of places where Amnesty International are unlikely to hold a non-binary, gluten-free meet-and-greet. Invented, of course, by Ze Germans in the 18^th Century, the goose-step has become synonymous with Nazis and John Cleese.

Why is the goose-step so popular with dictatorships? There are a number of theories. For starters, Ze Germans trained lots of African and Central American countries (Chilean troops still wear German-style ceremonial uniforms), with their militaries adopting the style. Secondly, its been pointed out that goose-stepping is a highly-disciplined style of forced-marching, unnatural and even unnerving to look at. Given martial spectacle is a key component of dictatorships (especially tinpot ones), it makes sense. Lastly, and possibly most importantly, goose-stepping takes a shit-load of practice. It’s something you can keep your army busy practicing when they’re not subjugating the population.

Conclusion

The perfect military ceremony, therefore, would be planned by the British army’s Garrison Sarn’t Major while a bloke called Rupert fronted the whole thing wearing a feathered hat. It would involve rugged Yanks in sunglasses singing cadences, followed by a full-on disco spectacular involving the Spanish, Pakistanis and Indians (performing a sick dance-off to ‘Lady Marmalade’ performed by the Massed Bands of the Household Division). The climax would be a display of synchronised bikini go-go dancing by girls of the IDF’s elite beach-party commando, trying to and distract the otherwise stony-faced Queens Colour Squadron. Afterwards there would be burgers, tandoori scoff, hummus, tapas and shitloads of international beer. There would be no goose-stepping whatsoever. Sod NATO, that’s what I call alliance-building.

I know, I should go into showbiz. If the GSM wants to ping me an email, I’ll show him my plan…