Today was the turn of the Coldstream Guards to provide the ‘Queens Guard’, and the curious civvies watched the men in Bearskin caps, grey greatcoats, white buff kit and best boots formed up in two detachments with the Band and the Corps of Drums in attendance.
How the Guards came about their headgear and the red plume worn on the right by this particular regiment would have offended the politically correct sensibilities of many in the crowd. Had they been in Belgium, at a place called Waterloo, late in the afternoon of the 18th June 1815, they would have seen a unit of French soldiers wearing the Bearskin hats but with white plumes in them. Napoleon’s French Imperial Guard were his elite troops, made up of veterans who had proved their courage in battle whilst serving with other regiments. The Imperial Guard had never been defeated until Napoleon sent them up a grassy slope that afternoon against their opposite numbers, the British Guards regiments. Some wrote later that the French Imperial Guard fled the field, but those authors’ slighted brave men in so doing. The Frenchmen did not drop their arms and run, but backed away, back down the slope they had fought their way up. In a fighting withdrawal they gave ground, stepping on the bodies of the hundreds of their comrades who had fallen on the way up. The British Guards fixed bayonets and went after them, discarding their Shako’s, the common headgear of the British infantry. They replaced them with the bearskins of those they slew, trophies of war and a symbol that they had done what no others had been able to achieve. To prevent ‘friendly fire’ incidents in the heat of battle they removed the white French plumes and altered the colour with the one dye available in that place. The British troops turned them red by dipping them in the blood of the fallen, and there was a lot of that item about that day, roughly 48,500 from both sides in fact.
Today on the square at Wellington Barracks the young men of the Buckingham Palace and St James Palace guard detachments were drawn up awaiting the presence of the regimental sergeant major with various levels of dread.
One such soldier who had every reason to fear the worst of the RSMs wrath was Guardsman Robertson, he had gone out ‘on the beer’ to a club on the Old Kent Road the previous night, arriving back in barracks at 4am the worst for wear, his clothing grubby from falling over more than a few times. Robertson had only gotten past the guardroom safely due to a mate being ‘on stag’, on sentry duty, at the time. Word of his condition had made the rounds after reveille and was not well received by one individual, the soldier designated as one of the two Men-in-Readiness, who would have to take the place of anyone who failed inspection. The soldier in question was a married man, and tonight was his wife’s birthday so he told Robertson his fortune should he not survive the inspection.
To add to the young man’s woes; the Captain of the Guard, the officer who would be inspecting the New Guard was Major Manson, who was not known for being an easy going individual. The major made a point of finding fault, even where no fault existed; it was a trait that hardly endeared him to his men, who considered him an out and out bastard.
The sergeant for the Buckingham Palace New Guard had turned the air blue when he learnt about Robertson, but after bending his ear he stuck the errant soldier in the centre rank, and hopefully out of sight. Robinson looked like death warmed up and stank like a distillery, but his mate Aldridge, mucked in to get him ready. Robertson had been in a hurry to get his kit done the night before, cutting corners as he went. He hadn’t wrapped his brasses in cling film to keep the air off the metal once he’s cleaned them, and he had used a popular kitchen floor application on his boots, applying it with a piece of cotton wool. Aldridge had cursed him when he looked at the brasses, and hurriedly buffed them up, but when he got his mates best boots from out of the man’s locker he’d slapped Robertson across the back of the head.
“You wanker… you put that crap on yer toe caps and didn’t even wait for it to dry!” The clean yellow rag lain across the boots to keep the dust off had stuck fast to the surface. A quick examination of Robertson’s ‘Seconds’ the drill boots worn for practice and rehearsals revealed that they were far below the high standard required for a Queens Guard. Shaking his head he went to his locker for his own ‘Best Boots’, they were good enough to get his mate through the inspection before the guard was mounted.
Regimental Sergeant Major Barry Stone left his office and paused outside. ‘Baz the Raz’ was one of the names he was known by amongst the Guardsmen but they would never have dared to have called him that to his face. The second name became obvious whenever the RSM was out and about, armed with his Pace-Stick.
RSM Stone worried the burnished brass curb chain that held the Bearskin in place, not as a chinstrap would, but resting between chin and bottom lip at the middle. Once he was satisfied that it was sitting correctly he then opened his pace-stick and set off, marching purposefully toward the square. Not merely a symbol of office, the pace-stick is a measuring tool, a wooden and brass tipped pair of compasses that required not inconsiderable dexterity by the user. An audible tick tick tick tick gave advanced warning that ‘The Bomb’ was about, as he rotated the pace stick at the heavy infantry quick marching pace of 180 paces to the minute.
The handle and hilt of the sword on his left hip protruded from an aperture in the greatcoat, and only the silver tip of the scabbard extending beyond the bottom of the greatcoat could be seen of the rest of it. Pausing beside the square he closed the pace stick, noting the presence of five soldiers at its edge, the Picquet Sergeant and Picquet Corporal plus the Corporal and Guardsmen In Readiness.
At six foot six inches tall and barrel chested, Barry Stone was an imposing figure, the archetypal sergeant major from head to toe. As he stepped onto the square his bearing became even more martial, if such a thing were possible. Transferring the pace-stick to below his left armpit he stepped off, marching to a position in front of the detachments. As he passed the band he nodded to the Drum Major, an old friend from the Depot days at Pirbright.
"We’ll have some Prussian Glory on the way out the gate today Drummy.”
RSM Stone slammed to a halt in front of the parade and delivered his usual few words of cheerful and friendly encouragement before starting the business of replacing the Old Guard with the New. His voice carried beyond the square to the watching public in the street; there was nothing fatherly in its tone.
“Right… listen in people.” The men were stood easy, which meant no talking anyway.
“I want hard work from all of you… no fidgeting, no faffing about… and above all no idleness!” He looked along the ranks as he spoke; his stare reinforcing in the Guardsmen the knowledge of all that incurring the ire of the RSM entailed.
His voice raised several octaves and the last words were delivered in rapid fire.
“Work hard, the Markers… and set the tone of the parade!” After a last look along the ranks he glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the Captain of the Queens Guard, Major Manson, and the young 2nd lieutenant who would be the Ensign were waiting nearby.
He peeled back the top of a white glove to check his watch for the time and then straightened up.
“Right… stand at ease, stand easy everywhere… here we go, brace up on my next word of command.”
Taking a half pace forward with his left foot, bending his right knee and driving his right boot in next to the left with a solid crash into the surface of the parade square.
“Markers!”
The barked command made the watching members of the public in the street jump involuntarily. A Lance Sergeant from each detachment came to attention and marched quickly forward at two hundred paces to the minute. After fifteen paces they halted, and the RSM ‘spoke’ again, drawing out the first part of the command, and snapping out the second in a voice that carried across the park and the noise of the traffic.