This jaunt onto the Barossa Training Area had let us catch a glimpse of the terrain which would become all too familiar to us. Endurance runs, which were soon to figure largely in our lives, were all held here in this oasis of green, tucked away behind the Academy. This picturesque and ferociously undulating countryside so typical of rural England, is usually observed only through sweat-filled, weary eyes as we snake up and down it’s many hills and tracks. Such runs are the bread and butter of infantry soldiers, and the philosophy runs: “There is no use in advancing to battle (‘tabbing’) only to find yourself too exhausted to fight – or, in an officer’s case, lead – right at the end.” Fitness is the key, and the PT staff are there to make damned sure that we are up to the required standards, if not far above them.

I must commend the efforts of our catering staff, who are up even earlier than we are, preparing meals which would not seem out of place in a good restaurant. For us, these meals are a chance for a bit of in-flight refueling. Always with work to do, kit to prepare or lectures to attend, we seldom have the time to linger over our delicious “scoff”. Food piled high on plates disappears in a flash; if you’re quick enough with a fork, you might be one of those vying for second helpings at the serving hatch.

In keeping with the ideals of sound Christian leadership, attendance at church is very strongly encouraged. As a “left-footer”, I attend the Roman Catholic church as opposed to the cathedral-like Anglican chapel. The small size of the church means that its slumber potential is much reduced – the Sergeant Major watches all of us! – but the service is mercifully short, and we all adjourn to the Johnson’s Bar for coffee. The rousing hymns have awakened an appetite for singing among many and, from time to time, the resounding strains of “Guide me, O Thou Great Redeemer” can be heard floating down the corridors in perfect harmony.

The drill lessons, which had begun on the first day, began to take a frantic pace. It is customary for colour sergeants to lay bets on their platoons’ performance on the Week Five passing out parade, now just a few days away. Despite out platoon’s almost dedicated efforts, we were still lacking that certain je ne sais quoi and both we and our instructors knew it. It has been known for the Adjutant to fail a whole platoon even before they begin to march onto the parade square. What hope did we have? Glum faces soon hardened and took on a look of resolve – we had earned a long weekend off, and we were not going to put that in jeopardy at any cost. All afternoon, we practised in our own time, singly or in groups of three, marching up and down corridors and saluting lamp-posts. We would do this till our arms ached and our heels stung, and were finally self-confident enough to give tomorrow’s parade our best shot. No one got an early night that time. Boots always needed just that final going over, the last near-invisible bits of fluff still had to be removed from our Number One Blues Dress. The last lights went out just before dawn.

The Big Day arrived icy, cool and crisp; a light coating of mist wreathed the parade square in opalescent light. The first groups of officer cadets to run the gauntlet were already formed up and waiting to be marched on. Our turn would come soon enough, and our days of anxiety would be over – for better or worse. The absolutely last and final rehearsals complete, thirty-two men dressed in their finest stood rigidly to attention and felt butterflies in their stomachs. Our platoon commander, always possessed of a large stock of witty comments, recited a vulgar joke to calm the nerves and raise the spirits (fortunately there were no ladies present!) And so it was with an ear-to-ear grin that we bounced onto the parade square and to our inspection phase.

The Academy Adjutant, a most imposing figure, strode briskly down our lines handing out show parades like sweeties for such misdemeanours as “leaves on hat”, “dirt on jacket”, frustrating those who had been up all night to ensure their turnout would be immaculate. The ensuing parade, much against our colour sergeant’s predictions, went like clockwork. Admittedly, one of our party slipped on ice and fell flat on his back during the execution of an about turn, but the Adjutant exercised his discretion and pretended not to see through the fog.

To whoops of joy, we ran back to rooms and changed. A long weekend was already being planned and Monday’s first parade seemed years away. That evening in the bar, our first beers of the course were sunk, and we all got merrily drunk.