As for my own career in the O.T.C., my father expected me to be turned out as smartly as a Guardsman, with such details as puttees finishing not more than one half inch beyond the top of the fibula. The incident that probably gave him most satisfaction and most annoyance was when I was in summer camp and the parade was inspected without warning by a colonel in the Coldstream Guards. It happened that I had not had time to clean my brass that day, and I expected to be in trouble. To my surprise, the colonel complimented me on the smartness of my turnout and my father was as pleased with the fact
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