I did, however, pass into the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, an institution which turned out officers for the Royal Engineers, Royal Artillery and Royal Signals. Nearly all the instruction was aimed at making the cadet a horseman because the horse, although it had proved useless in France, still ruled supreme in army circles - and a skillful gunner. We did not indeed drill with 8-pounder guns - that exercise had been recently stopped - but we learnt which fuses to put into our shells for firing shrapnel or High Explosive, knowledge that served me in no way later in life. We rode horses, which I detested, and talked horses, a stultifying topic, and when we moved off with our bicycles from the shop (RMA)grounds to the Riding Schools at the Gunner Depot at Woolwich we did so in half-sections. That archaic drill has been dead for forty years and more. Whereas the infantry and my own Corps, the Signals moved in fours (also a dead system, which gave way to threes) the gunners moved off, even when on their feet, as for instance on church parades, in sections. "Section Right" they would order, "Quick," or it may have been "Walk March!" and each group of four would wheel to the right, the second rank behind it and we simpler souls would gasp in admiration.
All the drill was different and strange to the modern eye as the drill of the archers at Crecy, but we found it easy, especially as we were drilled at the Shop by Sergeants and above from the guards. These Warrant Officers and NCO inspectors, whether on foot or mounted, whether from the infantry to drill or from the gunners for riding. were the soul of tact and always called us "Sir". "Bugger me blue, Sir," a riding sergeant of the Royal Artillery would say in a pained voice as one fell off a horse, "Who gave you leave to dismount?" The riding instructors, terrifying when mounted, were charming and friendly on their feet and they looked quite small. On their horses they were enormous and yielded incredible power. Annoy them in the riding school and they would order menacingly "Ride, Quit, and Cross Stirrups - Ride, Trot!" and I, for one, would feel and, so I was frequently told, look like a sack of potatoes.
All the drill was different and strange to the modern eye as the drill of the archers at Crecy, but we found it easy, especially as we were drilled at the Shop by Sergeants and above from the guards. These Warrant Officers and NCO inspectors, whether on foot or mounted, whether from the infantry to drill or from the gunners for riding. were the soul of tact and always called us "Sir". "Bugger me blue, Sir," a riding sergeant of the Royal Artillery would say in a pained voice as one fell off a horse, "Who gave you leave to dismount?" The riding instructors, terrifying when mounted, were charming and friendly on their feet and they looked quite small. On their horses they were enormous and yielded incredible power. Annoy them in the riding school and they would order menacingly "Ride, Quit, and Cross Stirrups - Ride, Trot!" and I, for one, would feel and, so I was frequently told, look like a sack of potatoes.
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