First Man In: Leading from the Front

‘255700 Sapper Middleton reporting for duty.’

‘You’re wanted in the office, Middleton.’

I marched over to the office and found the commanding officer behind the desk, with his mugs, piles of paperwork and little flags.

I had barely banged out a salute before he said, ‘All right, Middleton, come in. We’re going to need you on the parade square in a couple of hours, to go through the drill.’

‘The drill, sir?’

He looked up at me. ‘Yes, Middleton, the drill. For the passing-out parade.’

The passing-out parade? OK. But everyone was going to be at the passing-out parade. Why had he asked only me to go through the drill?

‘You’ll be picking up your awards,’ he said, reading my thoughts. ‘So you’ll need to familiarise yourself with the ceremony.’

‘Awards, sir?’

‘Yes, Middleton. Best at physical training. Best all-round recruit. You know, I don’t remember anyone ever having won both before. So well done.’

I couldn’t help but let off the most enormous grin.

‘Have you given any thought to your next move?’ he asked me.

‘I have, sir,’ I said. ‘I want to join 9 Parachute Squadron.’

‘You want to jump out of planes,’ he said.

I smiled again.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very good, Middleton.’

9 Para. Airborne! I couldn’t believe it. The opportunity to join this legendary squadron, and wear a maroon beret, was a dream come true. All through training, whenever an instructor appeared wearing a maroon beret and parachute wings, everyone worshipped him. The Parachute Squadron were above the regular army. It gave you automatic respect. Actually, it was more than respect. It was godlike. Out of all the challenges I could have taken on next, none would be more thrilling than the ‘All Arms Parachute Course’, which is known as ‘P Company’. I’d never been happier, nor had more confidence in my ability to excel. I had absolutely no idea what was waiting for me.

LEADERSHIP LESSONS

Don’t let anyone else define who you are. People always make rapid judgements about what sort of person you are from their first impressions, and sometimes these first impressions will be negative. It’s so easy to take that on board and simply fall into the mould that other people put you in. Have the strength to realise what’s happening and ensure that you define yourself. Meet that negativity with positivity, every single time.

Always have a plan. And make sure that no part of that plan is ‘give up’. If I’d had to camp out for a week under a hedge outside Pirbright Camp and wash every day in a stream, then that’s what I would have done.

Keep that plan dynamic. Don’t be that stubborn leader who, for reasons of pride, refuses to change his plan when new information presents itself. You might think you’re asserting your leadership by sticking resolutely to your plan, but you’re undermining it. Your team will lose respect for you, and that’s the beginning of the end.

Fear of taking action is fear of the unknown. True leaders don’t underestimate the potential destructive power of what lies behind that door, but neither do they let that stop them bursting through it, as long as it’s done carefully and intelligently.

LESSON 2

MAKE YOUR ENEMY YOUR ENERGY (#ulink_431d7f48-007c-5b4f-adb8-8d649d568901)

And, just like that, I was back at the bottom of the pile. When I arrived at 9 Parachute Squadron I was made to feel as if the blue beret and awards I’d been presented with in front of my mother and stepfather at the passing-out parade at Pirbright had all the value of a stone in my shoe.

We’d been instructed to report to Rhine Barracks at Aldershot Garrison, which is popularly known as the ‘Home of the British Army’ or sometimes ‘Aldershot Military Town’. They call it a ‘town’ because it’s enormous. Tipping up there on a blustery morning I could hardly believe the extent of the place. I passed building after building, road after road, and parade squares and offices and flags on poles and rows and rows of blocks of accommodation that held enough beds for more than ten thousand people. The deeper I got into the complex, the more it felt as if I were being swallowed up by some great machine.

But I was also becoming part of that machine. Now that I’d passed Basic Training I was on my way. Before we could get onto P Company, up at the Catterick Garrison in North Yorkshire, I first had to pass what they called ‘Pre-Para’, a series of physical tests that would prove it was even worth my showing up. I was excited about this new challenge and looking forward to seeing my quarters, finding my little spot and settling in. I wasn’t expecting Claridge’s – I wasn’t even expecting Travelodge – but I knew this would be a bit of an upgrade from what we had to suffer as lowly sprogs down at Pirbright.

After a bit of a hunt, I found the special accommodation block that was kept for trainees. I pushed at the door and glanced inside. I was in the wrong place. I must have been. It was the smell that hit me first. Opening that door unleashed a funky, sour stink of damp and human dirt. Blinking through the foul pea-souper, I saw a concrete floor covered with stained and stinking mattresses and wooden lockers that had been smashed to bits. I knew that paratroopers had the reputation of being tough, grotty and contemptuous of comfort, but you wouldn’t let a stray dog sleep in there. I retreated quickly and loitered outside on the kerb until a uniformed man in his forties strode past.

‘Excuse me, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for the trainee accommodation.’

‘You’ve found it,’ he said, frowning at the place I’d just exited. ‘You a craphat?’

A craphat? I guessed I must have been. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Best go make yourself comfortable, then.’

I soon learned that all the Paras called us ‘craphats’ because, to them, that’s all we were. Trainees were seen as too lowly to even speak to. Unless they were doing us some kind of damage, the Paras would not even acknowledge our presence, literally looking through us as if we were invisible. To those guys you were Airborne – or you were shit. And we were definitely shit. And they let us know we were shit by the way they behaved around us, and by thrashing us as hard as they could, in the field and in the gym, every single day of training.

These days the Pre-Para course is led by formally trained, specialist instructors who make sure everything is done correctly, with proper warm-ups and breaks and an eye for the health and safety of the guys. But 1998 was a different era. Back then the whole thing was led in-house by two random lance corporals who’d just happened to have been selected for the task, and probably reluctantly. It seemed as if there were no rules or regulations or standards of care for us craphats that they took seriously – or even knew. This made for a very particular atmosphere that hung over the entire course. It felt dangerous, unstable. Lost in the maze of the Aldershot Military Town, you believed that nobody knew who you were, where you were, or cared what was happening to you, and that the lance corporals could do whatever they wanted to you.

It was those same lance corporals who decided if you were good enough to be sent up to Catterick for the P Company course. If they thought, for whatever reason, that you weren’t ready to make the leap, you’d just have to keep going on Pre-Para … and keep going … and keep going … and keep on fucking going, while praying with every morsel of faith you could find inside you that they’d put you in for the next course. If things went really badly, you’d be ‘RTU’d’, or ‘Returned to Unit’. Getting RTU’d meant they didn’t want you in their squadron at all. They’d seen what you had, and had come to the conclusion that there was no point in your persevering with Pre-Para. For me, that would have meant settling for being just an ordinary engineer. There was no way I was going to allow that to happen.

I might have been lighter in build than most of the other lads, and I certainly wasn’t as tall, but I was confident I’d make it through – and quickly. My achievements at Pirbright meant nothing here in Aldershot, but that didn’t matter. The fact remained that I’d smashed it. It would be a first-time pass for me. I wasn’t deluded, and I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. It might even be the hardest thing I’d ever done. But the simple truth was I’d never failed at anything physical that had been thrown at me in my life. Couple that with my massive desire to achieve, and there was no way I was going to be hanging around here for long. I’d never wanted anything as badly as this. Every glimpse I’d grabbed of a full-blooded Para, on that first morning at the barracks, had felt like stealing a glimpse of God. To be able to wear the maroon beret and wings that would identify me as a member of the notorious ‘Airborne’ would feel like the ultimate achievement.

By the time I’d got myself settled in the tramp’s nest that was our accommodation, some of the other lads had started drifting in. There were about five new boys who’d turned up that day, all just as hungry as me. The guy sitting on the mattress next to me, it turned out, had been there for a few weeks already.

‘Neil Cranston,’ he said, introducing himself in a thick Brummy accent. He was a funny-looking lad, with a massive, bouldery head and a tiny face stuck in its middle. His ears looked like a bulldog had been at them, and there was a deep crevasse in the middle of his chin that had a strip of gingery brown hair inside it where his razor couldn’t reach.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘Anthony Middleton.’ I raised my hand for him to shake, but for some reason Cranston pretended he hadn’t seen it. I rubbed it awkwardly on my trousers.

‘So tomorrow morning we’re going to have to be outside at 6 a.m. sharp, OK?’ he said. ‘Green T-shirt, DPM (disruptive pattern material, aka camouflage gear) bottoms and your bergen (backpack) filled to forty pounds. There are scales over there in the corner, next to the bin. You’ll want to check your weight once you’ve packed.’

‘Great. Thanks, Neil,’ I said. ‘Cheers for letting me know, mate. So what’s it like here?’ I flashed him a smile. ‘Anything on the room service worth checking out?’

‘And don’t forget your water bottle,’ he said, completely ignoring my friendly attempt at bonding. ‘Fill it right up. He’ll be checking it too, so give it a good run under the tap, yeah?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thanks, man. Appreciate it.’

He stood up and walked off. Not the warmest of blokes, I thought, but at least I was now clued in.

The next morning found me out of bed at 5 a.m., present and correct outside at 6 a.m., kit on, bergen packed, water bottle filled all the way up. All the craphats were lined up in formation on a small patch of concrete that was being used as a makeshift parade square. In front of us stood a lance corporal who looked as wide as he was tall.

‘To join this squadron you’ve got to be the best of the best,’ he said. ‘Every fucker wants to get into 9 Para Squadron, and they want to get in for a reason.’

My gaze drifted to his maroon beret. I felt my body tense in anticipation of the extreme exertion I was about to put it through.

‘So if any of you new lads have tipped up here today with the idea that we’re about to accept any old shit, you’re sorely mistaken. We will begin with a basic fitness test. We’ll be doing a mile-and-a-half run and you’d better fucking keep up.’

A run? This was perfect. My legs fizzed with energy. I was a pent-up racehorse. All I wanted to do was launch into the run and show this guy what I had.