“Get onnnnn… PARADE!”
Barry Stones ear was a finely tuned instrument, as a piano tuner can spot discord in that instrument that layman cannot, so too could RSM Stone on the drill square. Robertson was a fraction slow coming to attention, and the regimental sergeant majors head snapped toward the Buckingham Palace detachment. The next three words out of his mouth flowing into one.
“ASYOUWERE!”
The men regained their former positions under his harsh glare. The pace stick had found its way into his right hand, and like an extension of his arm it was pointing unerringly at the centre of the detachment. “Buck yer ideas up, whoever you are… or I’ll JAIL yer!”
He fixed them with a look before replacing the pace-stick beneath the left arm once more.
Out in the street a middle aged American couple apparently assumed this was a Vegas style piece of pantomime for their benefit and laughed delightedly. There was only one thing in the world Barry Stone detested more than an idle soldier, and that was civilian’s. He wasn’t discriminatory; he didn’t care what colour, creed or nationality they were, he regarded them all with equal contempt as lower forms of simian life.
As he opened his mouth to give the command once more, the tourists hooted and cheered, tossing a handful of change over the railings which caused the RSMs teeth to snap closed without issuing the command. He stepped off quickly toward the railings that separated the military world from the civilian, pointing his pace stick accusingly.
“You, you people there!” Mr American tourist looked around, to identify the object of the RSMs attention and then grinned in realisation and pointed to himself, Mr and Mrs Middle America where about to be the audience participation feature.
“Yes you… ” The RSM affirmed. “… the dopey looking pair!” He stopped a foot from the railings and leant forward at the waist. “Do you see any program sellers about?… do I look like I’m carrying an Equity Card?”
Mrs American registered the unfriendly tone and glanced uncertainly at her husband, both their smiles were wavering.
Spittle flew as the RSM asked his final question.
“And do I look like a shagging pole dancer?” Both tourists hurriedly shook their heads.
“You people are annoying me and interfering with my guard mount… I’ve got two free cells and two candidates to fill 'em… now get yer scaly arses out of my sight before I stick you where you’ll get stripy suntans as souvenirs to take home to Stupidville!”
Most, if not all the Guardsmen of the detachments heard the RSM, and though rigidly stood to attention their shoulders were shaking, and curb chains were being bitten in an effort not to give voice to the laughter that was threatening. On the far side of the square Major Manson was straining to hear what was being said, and frowned when the couple hurried away. If the RSM had said anything that was of an embarrassment to the major, he’d have him bust down to buckshee Guardsman by fair means or foul.
Regimental Sergeant Major Stone marched back to his former spot, halted and turned about.
“Get onnnnn… PARADE!”
The parade continued without further incident, the detachments moved into open order and the Corporals dressed the ranks before falling back in, and the RSM turned smartly about, saluting Major Manson and declaring the Guard ready for inspection.
Major Manson stopped four men before reaching the centre rank of the Buckingham Palace detachment, declaring a watermark on a toecap constituted ‘dirty boots’, a recent finger mark on a curb chain was ‘filthy’, and two sets of brass belt buckles were ‘disgusting’. The ‘Picquet Sergeant’ dutifully recorded all the details with a
“Yes sir, Guardsman Warren dirty brasses, sir!” and so forth. Eventually he came to Guardsman Robertson, he of the sallow complexion and bloodshot eyes. Robertson’s kit was in good order, thanks to his Oppo that is, but he just looked like death warmed up.
Robertson had been taking deep breaths before the major arrived in front of him, and in order not to breathe 100 proof breath on the man he now held it. Major Manson looked him up and down before taking in his almost grey complexion and eyes that looked like twin piss-holes in the snow.
“Are you ill man?”
“No sir.” Robertson whispered, barely audibly.
The major leant forward.
“What… what, speak up man!”
Robertson replied more firmly this time.
“No sir, I’m fine sir.”
The majors nose twitched and then his eyes widened in realisation. “RSM, this man is drunk!”
Barry Stone already knew about the young man’s condition as he had asked the two full sergeants of the detachments at breakfast in the Sgt's Mess if there were any problems he should know about. Despite his ferocious reputation, Barry Stone wasn’t a total martinet, which was the public persona that went with his job. He had himself as a young Guardsman been in a similar condition as Robertson on a couple of occasions. If he replaced him then he would have to charge him, better to let him take his chances and learn from the experience. Mounting guard and standing on sentry was a miserable way to sober up. He now pulled Robertson’s weapon from him, passing it to the Picquet Sergeant before pulling off Robertson’s Bearskin, and handing that across too.
“Man in Readiness!” he shouted out, summoning that soldier from the edge of the square.
“Picquet Corporal, get this specimen off my square!” he barked.
As Robertson was doubled off the square toward the Guardroom he passed the Man in Readiness who was marching forward to occupy the empty file.
“I’ll see you when yer get out of nick, ya bastard!” the married man muttered just loud enough for Robertson to catch.
The guard mount carried on, the New Guard joined the Old in front of Buckingham Palace, the band and drums played their days selection of music as the sentries were replaced outside of the boxes at ‘Jimmy’s’ and ‘Buck House’. Virtually unchanged in format since Victorian times the guards were changed at Horse Guards, Windsor Castle, Edinburgh Castle and the Tower of London at the same time as the two London palaces.
To the majority of the onlookers it was a quaint old ceremony staged daily for the tourist industry, they neither knew, nor probably cared, that these were front line troops carrying out ceremonial duties, and that they really did have a ‘day job’.
London is a mixture of the old and new buildings that have developed over the centuries. At one end of the scale Pre Roman remains of a city gate built by King Lud lie under late 1800’s buildings at Ludgate. Crossing the river the river in Greenwich the other end of the scale is the former Millennium Dome, now called the ‘O2’.
Herman Goring's landscaping of the city in the forties gave birth to the 1960’s era inner city estates that replaced the prefabricated dwellings the victims of the Luftwaffe had resided in for twenty odd years. That was in the ‘You’ve never had it so good’ age of swinging London. Those estates are now the centres of drug related crime in the inner city. Running through one such estate is a red brick elevated railway line. The spaces between its hundreds of arches have been rented out by the rail line to many diverse businesses. Most were honest whilst some could best be described as sailing close to the wind, and a few were outright criminal concerns.