by I got quite good at them.
As well as years of beating men at their own game SSgt Cox had been further hardened by her northern roots and Hull upbringing. She implemented a painfully strict reign and the first of her repressive rules was the banning of chocolate and mobile phones. The implication of doing this to a group of girls was catastrophic, and with the joy of texting and the serotonin release from a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut unattainable, morale quickly plummeted. This became further compounded when we realized that we were interned at the Academy for five long unremitting weeks until we could demonstrate the requisite standard of marching skill to‘pass off the square’ and would be allowed home for the first time.
Although not very tall in stature, SSgt Cox more than compensated for this with a powerful punch and terrifying pitch in her raised voice, which could make hounds whimper and hide. Her uniform was always pristine and immaculately pressed, her boots (though only about a size three) were polished to perfection, while her dark hair was always gelled flawlessly to her head, and wound up at the back into a firm bun, with never a stray hair free to flutter in the breeze. A career spent surrounded by men in the army had sharpened her tongue to a razor wit too and she could cut down any male who dared to stand in her path. And years of military marching had given her a masculine gait, with any trace of a feminine hip swish eliminated, leaving a boot-crashing stomp.
I was petrified of SSgt Cox. When whipped into a rage she was as terrifying as a baited bear, and in those first five weeks I gave her plenty of reason to become angered. She ruled our every waking and sleeping hour. In her presence the platoon maintained a fretful watch, desperately not wanting to incur her wrath and avoiding her attentive glare at all times. So like a lightly sleeping monster, we tiptoed carefully around her in the shadows, not wanting to draw attention nor awaken her from her moments of calm to be punished with yet more press-ups.
Even to speak to SSgt Cox you had to successfully get through a pantomime of staged formalities. If she was to be found in her office I would have to march up to the office doorway, arms straight and outstretched, shoulder high, coming to a halt exactly at the office entrance with a ‘check, one, two’, foot stamp, then freeze to attention. And then request politely, ‘Leave to enter, Staff Sergeant, please.’ Which sounds all rather straightforward, except it isn’t. I simply could not do it. I would muddle my halt, stamp with the wrong foot, gauge the distances wrongly or fluff my lines. Every time. The pressure was unbearable. And each timeSSgt Cox would send me back to try again, three, four, five, six times over.
‘Go back and try that again, Miss Goodley,’ she would say as I did a Michael Flatley hopping skip in her doorway.
‘Again, Miss Goodley.’ An irate undertone in her voice, as I swung an errant arm into the door frame.
‘No, Miss Goodley. Check, one, two.’ Her patience would be wearing thinner and her voice pitching higher with each of my attempts. Until finally she popped: ‘MISS GOODLEY, GET AWAY FROM ME AND DON’T COME BACK UNTIL YOU CAN SHAGGING WELL DO IT PROPERLY!’ she would scream in full falsetto, the veins in her forehead pulsating as she yelled in frustration at me.
Each time my burning question for her became less and less important as the humiliation of not being able to execute the simplest routine shamed me to the point of wanting the ground to swallow me whole. I had a university degree. I had been a City professional. I used to advise on the future of FTSE 100 companies and now I was being belittled and torn to shreds by a small woman from Hull.
And then eventually when the day came that I did get it right, I danced a celebratory jig, which unleashed her fury anyway, getting me into even more trouble. And more press-ups.
A typical day
As well as years of beating men at their own game SSgt Cox had been further hardened by her northern roots and Hull upbringing. She implemented a painfully strict reign and the first of her repressive rules was the banning of chocolate and mobile phones. The implication of doing this to a group of girls was catastrophic, and with the joy of texting and the serotonin release from a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut unattainable, morale quickly plummeted. This became further compounded when we realized that we were interned at the Academy for five long unremitting weeks until we could demonstrate the requisite standard of marching skill to‘pass off the square’ and would be allowed home for the first time.
Although not very tall in stature, SSgt Cox more than compensated for this with a powerful punch and terrifying pitch in her raised voice, which could make hounds whimper and hide. Her uniform was always pristine and immaculately pressed, her boots (though only about a size three) were polished to perfection, while her dark hair was always gelled flawlessly to her head, and wound up at the back into a firm bun, with never a stray hair free to flutter in the breeze. A career spent surrounded by men in the army had sharpened her tongue to a razor wit too and she could cut down any male who dared to stand in her path. And years of military marching had given her a masculine gait, with any trace of a feminine hip swish eliminated, leaving a boot-crashing stomp.
I was petrified of SSgt Cox. When whipped into a rage she was as terrifying as a baited bear, and in those first five weeks I gave her plenty of reason to become angered. She ruled our every waking and sleeping hour. In her presence the platoon maintained a fretful watch, desperately not wanting to incur her wrath and avoiding her attentive glare at all times. So like a lightly sleeping monster, we tiptoed carefully around her in the shadows, not wanting to draw attention nor awaken her from her moments of calm to be punished with yet more press-ups.
Even to speak to SSgt Cox you had to successfully get through a pantomime of staged formalities. If she was to be found in her office I would have to march up to the office doorway, arms straight and outstretched, shoulder high, coming to a halt exactly at the office entrance with a ‘check, one, two’, foot stamp, then freeze to attention. And then request politely, ‘Leave to enter, Staff Sergeant, please.’ Which sounds all rather straightforward, except it isn’t. I simply could not do it. I would muddle my halt, stamp with the wrong foot, gauge the distances wrongly or fluff my lines. Every time. The pressure was unbearable. And each timeSSgt Cox would send me back to try again, three, four, five, six times over.
‘Go back and try that again, Miss Goodley,’ she would say as I did a Michael Flatley hopping skip in her doorway.
‘Again, Miss Goodley.’ An irate undertone in her voice, as I swung an errant arm into the door frame.
‘No, Miss Goodley. Check, one, two.’ Her patience would be wearing thinner and her voice pitching higher with each of my attempts. Until finally she popped: ‘MISS GOODLEY, GET AWAY FROM ME AND DON’T COME BACK UNTIL YOU CAN SHAGGING WELL DO IT PROPERLY!’ she would scream in full falsetto, the veins in her forehead pulsating as she yelled in frustration at me.
Each time my burning question for her became less and less important as the humiliation of not being able to execute the simplest routine shamed me to the point of wanting the ground to swallow me whole. I had a university degree. I had been a City professional. I used to advise on the future of FTSE 100 companies and now I was being belittled and torn to shreds by a small woman from Hull.
And then eventually when the day came that I did get it right, I danced a celebratory jig, which unleashed her fury anyway, getting me into even more trouble. And more press-ups.
A typical day
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