From the duties of a section commander, we progressed up a level to platoon commander: a subaltern’s bread and butter. When commissioned, an officer will never command at section level, but a thorough appreciation of what his corporals have to do will make the commander think twice when tasking them. As we were very much at a learning stage, rather than trust us with the reins of a platoon attack, the platoon commander was the “Real McCoy”; the section commanders were likewise Colour Sergeants. Our platoon was to initiate a company attack and to take out one of the enemy sections. Rob Pavey and I, as runner and signaller respectively, had the best vantage point as the scenario unfolded. We trailed at the PC’s heels wherever he went, the simile of the College Commander and his faithful pair of dogs brought smiles.

We learnt to make the best of scarce cover, and slithered snakelike down scarcely perceptible ditches in order to get into a position of observation. The attack was, unsurprisingly, text-book stuff, the only eyebrow-raiser being the Gurkhas’ counter-attack, which had been rumoured. We resisted them and managed to capture some prisoners-of-war. When the dust finally settled, Pavey and I had not fired a single shot in anger and, guiltily, we helped out in cleaning other peoples’ rifles.

All week long, the platoon had been looking forward to going to a charity comedy show in the Churchill Hall. We’d bought our tickets and arranged our free time. However, for some it was not to be: people were pinged for command appointments for the coming exercise, and orders do not write themselves. As I sat at my desk, deciding what my “Tasks: specified and implied” entailed, I couldn’t help but wonder what I was missing out on.