As easy as riding a bike?

The Boxer is a serving British Army officer who floats around the Service like a butterfly and whose words can sting like a bee.

As the pips of the radio news marked 5am, Captain Tom Weeves inched slowly towards the main gate in his 2004-plate VW Polo. He’d been adjutant of the 3rd Battalion (there wasn’t actually a 1st or 2nd Battalion any more) for one year, three months, 18 days and 23 hours and was relishing the opportunity to do a ‘senior captain’s’ job that would demonstrate his worth to promote to major. As would subsequent demanding ‘senior captain’s’ jobs. In the meantime, everything that went on behind this particular stretch of wire was his business. Which is why he was immediately concerned by the sight of a young soldier shivering just outside of it.

“Are you cold, Dolly?”

“I am, sir,” replied Private Parton.

Noting Private Parton appeared to be wearing his entire 1157 clothing issue in a ‘Joey from Friends’ way and the somewhat dilapidated guard hut he had for shelter, Weeves drove into camp with the words “leave it with me” and a solemn promise to make the soldier’s future stints on stag more comfortable.

Later that morning, having asked the RSM to enhance Dolly’s subsequent 9 to 5s with a heater, he was stood at his stand-up desk when he sensed a familiar gait approaching the door. Major Gordon Best (who was known by everyone, including his mother, as George) had been welfare officer for six months having fought off strong competition from Sociology graduate Captain Cosmo Clark-Jones. Fortunately for Weeves (everyone called him ‘Weeves’ rather than Tom), George didn’t close the door when he came in, which normally meant a morning akin to watching The Jerry Springer Show, The Jeremy Kyle Show and Crimewatch simultaneously.

The welfare officer, as was traditional, came straight to the point. “You know that free money the CO said we had to spend by next week or we’d lose it? Well, I’ve chatted to the RSM and we’ve come up with a solution.”

“When you say ‘free money’ do you actually mean the Enhanced Commanding Officer’s Public Fund to enable the smooth running, efficiency and cohesion of the unit and the sum approved by the unit finance authoriser subject to financial regularity and propriety as laid down in JSP 770?,” Weeves suggested.

George nodded. “That’s the badger, Private Jordan suggested PlayStations and Xboxs in every room in the block but that didn’t sound very cohesive.”

Weeves involuntarily rolled his eyes as he watched 18 emails arrive in his and the CO’s inbox in as many seconds, all of which were marked ‘urgent’ or ‘answer required by 1200hrs today’.

George continued, oblivious to Weeves’ communication woes on the grounds he rarely troubled himself with the administrative angst of answering emails: “Sergeant Bowers has suggested we buy mountain bikes. He’s done all the admin and the boys and girls can take them out on the hills as adventure training.”

This sounded instantly preferable to ‘cash for consoles’ and as the Brigade had only given the Battalion eight days, including the weekend, to spend the money, despite the email chain showing they’d known about it for six weeks, Weeves was keen to ensure the soldiers benefited.

George handed over a thin pile of papers. “He’s done all the figures, got quotes from local companies and even filled in the form for the CO.”

“Brilliant,” said Weeves, making a mental note to congratulate Sergeant Bowers when he next saw him. Which wouldn’t be long given Bowers lived in a Service Family house immediately behind his own and could be spotted most mornings, in nothing but his threadbare pants, feeding his cats.

Weeves’ wait for a first sighting of the Battalion’s new transport being pedalled in anger took a little longer, however, and, when it did come six weeks later, was not as expected. Rather than clocking the top-of-the-range mountain bikes bound for an adrenalin-pumping circuit of the camp’s scenic surrounds, he witnessed two members of the QM’s department saddled up for a sedate cycle to the mess for a mid-morning coffee. Anxious to ensure the expensive bikes weren’t being used for ‘increasing the emoluments (whatever that meant) or personal entitlements of any person’, he asked the welfare officer what was happening.

“Funny story,” chuckled George, although it occurred to Weeves he was unlikely to find it amusing in any way. “It’s not been as easy as we’d thought. Turns out the boys and girls can’t just take the bikes out and use them. They need a qualified MIAS instructor, risk assessment, permission for TOPL... it’s a proper ball-ache to be honest.”

“Send Key Setting, Over?,” a perplexed Weeves responded, despite being someone who’d never used an unencrypted radio and didn’t actually know what BATCO or a key setting was.

“Mountain Bike Instructor Scheme and Training on Public Land,” explained George. “MIAS is a two-day course in Scotland, but they’re over-subscribed and the next one isn’t until March next year. And TOPL is the thing you need if you want to go out of camp and use the hills. Sergeant Bowers said annex A to chapter five of JSP 907 took hours to fill in and he’s still waiting for permission from the Holy Trinity to do the initial recce. Oh and the civvy in the transport office has told him he can’t use the minibus because CGS had informed him personally that the British Army needs to save money.”

Weeves was still trying to work out how Mountain Bike Instructor Scheme generated the acronym MIAS. Then the realisation hit him that despite thousands of pounds being spent on mountain bikes, in all good faith and with the best of intentions, they were now being ridden on tarmacked roads solely to ensure the portly riders could get first dibs on the posh biscuits. Demoralised, it dawned on Weeves there just wasn’t enough time in the day to fight all the bureaucratic battles. And he was doing 14-hour shifts as it was, much to the exasperation of his wife.

Determined to cheer himself up and in need of a small victory, he popped his head inside the RSM’s office and asked about the heater he’d requested for the guard room. “Yup, all done on the day you flagged it – the Provo Sergeant popped one in there.” Weeves liked the RSM, he was part of the reason he’d stayed in the Army. A thoroughly professional and decent man, the RSM was revered by the soldiers and Weeves enjoyed learning from him, even if it was just over a brew.

So, as he approached the gate on his way out of camp, Weeves was more than a little disheartened to see the soldier guarding the gate shivering and stamping her feet by the side of the road.

“Are you cold, Elvis?,” Weeves asked.

“Yes sir, I’m freezing,” replied Private Presley.

“Why don’t you go in the guard hut?”

“Because some Muppet has put a heater in there, it’s like a bloody sauna,” she replied.

Weeves smiled and shook his head. As he drove home he remembered what his first boss had told him: “Remember, you work for an organisation that drives with the lights on during the day and turns them off at night. Once you understand that, everything the Army does will make sense.”

The Boxer will return in the next edition of The British Army Review.