By far and away the best email I have received in the last week was the one from my regimental association asking me to present the architecture of my own obituary, so that, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, the finest regiment in the British army can be ready to relate the news to a breathless and bereaved nation.
Obviously, I would rather receive this kind of communication from The Times, and even more disappointingly, I have subsequently discovered that everyone else was asked, as well. Key dates seemed to be the gist of what they wanted, plus things like rank achieved, achievements and, intriguingly, whether our other halves have ‘any public service of note’ to report. Oh, and a list of all those medals.
I love all this, just as I love the fact that they were only asking for it, as they have ‘mislaid’ the last lot we wrote.
For my own part, it gives me the opportunity to re-present myself in the most favourable possible light. The issue that I wish to disguise, I suppose, is that I moved through my nine year army career much like an air bubble moves through the oil of a cold deep fat fryer, in that I went vaguely in the right direction (upwards), extremely slowly, until the point that I de-constructed before I got to the top, and just added to the general flavour and smell of the place. It is hard to put that concept onto a spreadsheet, which is what was provided.
I had the fortune, as I see it, to join a startlingly ambitious bunch at a time when some of its most ambitious ever entrants joined as well. There are, I think, eight full ranks between the level I achieved, (Captain), and the heights scaled by a fellow young officer who has just retired from running the whole show. You couldn’t put a shred of paper between us in terms of ambition, but he seemed to have shaded it over me in those other rather peripheral things like competence, ability, work ethic and communication skills.
Nonetheless, I completed the form in the small hours of this morning, whilst I was watching the peerless Joe Root blunt the Aussie attack in Brisbane, and I have to say that it was rather good, and that it utterly disproves the concept that you cannot polish a turd. Oh yes, you absolutely can, and I did. When I pressed the ‘send’ button, I was aware that it would be almost impossible for a reader who hadn’t actually served with me to understand why it hadn’t been me, rather than Nick, who went to the top.
Right at the end, they had a little paragraph inviting us, not in so many words, to write down the thing of which we were proudest, that little gem for which we would most like to be remembered. Scratching my head in the early morning light, I couldn’t really think of anything specific, other than the fact that I and my friends generally never got found out.
So I just wrote something about the privilege of being part of a band of brothers that has lasted half a lifetime.
And that just happens to be true. Deep fat fryer, or not, they were stunningly good times.
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