Sergeant Major

Sergeant Major. He could be heard ten miles away when he roared. He must have watched a lot of B movie war films in order to get to this level of professionalism.
He was a panic – he was spic and span, neat as a pin, small and tidy and strutted around the square like a peacock, carrying a long stick under his arm, which was parallel to the ground – as in very parallel. The square was his property and he looked like had been born there.
In his mind he was the next best thing to Napoleon Bonaparte without the long great coat and the funny hat.
This was his tour-de-force, his moment of glory, his reason for living, his entrée; it was everything he ever dreamt about. He’d blind you with the shine, the panache, the presence, the perfection. He had turned his role into a flawless work of art and spent his two weeks strutting around on his stage, feeding his Ego and overawing his captive audience. He was getting his rocks off and was hilarious. He was on a permanent high.
During the year most of us would attend parades, events, training and exercises, which we didn’t get paid for, but the Peacock only appeared on rare occasions, when there was a large audience of senior people and dignitaries who would admire his prowess and feed his eternal Ego. He was an early 1960s junkie, freaking out on the buzz and needing a large audience for his trip.
I’m not sure what he did outside of his FCA life. He could have delivered milk and if he did I’m sure he would have been faster than ‘Ernie, the fastest milk cart in the West’. He was aloof and was rarely seen in other parts of the barracks, unlike the other NCOs and some of the officers. A sergeant major is the most senior non-commissioned officer in an army and is held in very high esteem. They are the kings of the parade ground. Our sergeant major, unlike us, wasn’t breathing in ordinary air but high-octane oxygen, and only made his appearances on the square where the great unwashed would genuflect when we were close to his almighty presence.