One of my boyhood mentors, a sportsman of the old school called David Hopley, wrote an effusive and largely undeserved report about me a long time ago.
I had served for a little over two years in the Life Guards when I was recommended for a commission. I had to present two references to the Regular Commissions Board, one from my commanding officer, the other from a trustworthy civilian.
David was not only a Master of foxhounds and Master of hounds, he was also a vicar, so the ‘trustworthy’ box was ticked in triplicate. His note of approbation that I was of the correct calibre to command men failed to highlight any leadership abilities or virtues I might possess.
Instead he extolled upon my proficiency in whipping-in to a pack of mink hounds, keeping up with beagles, casting a fly and shooting with a modicum of accuracy and safety. Bizarrely, the board seemed to agree with his assessment.
The military has long been aware that the ability to shoot your own dinner can readily be transferred into an adeptness in killing the enemy. A rider that has the pluck and tenacity to follow a pack in full flight across country can become a cavalryman pursuing French cuirassiers.
If your fieldcraft is sufficient to confound the ever alert senses of a Highland stag, the stalker can turn rifleman, bringing unseen and unexpected death to the enemy as a sniper. The beagler who runs all day through heavy plough only need to remove his hunting coat and discard his whip to transform into an infanteer. Though few people go beagling carrying a bergen bag the size of a family hatchback while hefting a machine gun.
The wildfowler will find kindred spirits in the artillery — what with the mud, target acquisition and partial deafness courtesy of loud bangs from big bores, theirs is a happy marriage.
Tales of derring-do with a sporting twist are a regular occurrence in regimental histories.
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