Commando
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Map of Kijaki
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1 The Shock of Capture
Chapter 2 Cheerfulness in the Face of Adversity
Chapter 3 Trap or Die!
Chapter 4 Rabbit Stew
Picture Section 1
Chapter 5 Bye-Bye, Bertie
Chapter 6 Afghan-Bound
Chapter 7 Christmas in Kijaki
Chapter 8 Operation Sparrow Hawk
Chapter 9 Assault at Dawn
Picture Section 2
Chapter 10 The Full Regain
Chapter 11 Bid for the Green Beret
Chapter 12 'Royal Marines, to your Duties!'
Epilogue
COMMANDO
Also by Chris Terrill
Shipmates
COMMANDO
CHRIS TERRILL
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ISBN 9781407007908
Version 1.0
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Published by Century 2007
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Copyright © Chris Terrill 2007
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First published in Great Britain in 2007 by
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ISBN: 9781407007908
Version 1.0
To all Bootnecks
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
Theodore Roosevelt
Map of Kijaki
Acknowledgements
My relationship with the Royal Marines Commandos emanates from the close association I have been lucky enough to develop with the Royal Navy over the last dozen or so years. Since 1995 I have made a total of twelve full-length TV documentaries and written two books about the navy. These have not been shiny PR or recruitment projects but far-ranging, warts-and-all portraits of the Senior Service, both in training and on active service. My main concentration has continually been the service's most vital resource: its people – from commodores, captains and commanders to stokers, gunners and cooks. What I have shown on television and written about has not always been to the particular liking of the 'top brass', but the great thing about the Royal Navy – more, I think, than the other two services – is that they are grown up enough to recognise that not only are they accountable to the public, but also that honest, balanced reportage and documentation, even if it does expose the occasional excrescence, is even better PR than regular PR.
Up to the summer of 2006, however, the Royal Marines were only ever an aside, a footnote or a secondary storyline in the heavily seaborne narratives of my films and books. The Royal Marines were evident on the ships I sailed in and, indeed, often crucial to their strategic roles – particularly in the Adriatic during the Yugoslavian war, in the Gulf in the aftermath of the second Iraq war and even in Sri Lanka during humanitarian operations following the Boxing Day tsunami of 2004. Nevertheless, my main focus was invariably on the dark blue navy rather than the khaki navy. This was not down to my own preference or prejudice – far from it. Always fascinated by the culture of the Royal Marines Commandos I met on various warships and shore bases, I never had the time to invest in penetrating the very particular and extremely tight communities that they often seemed to form. It was not that they were aloof, indeed almost to a man they were friendly and outgoing, but there was an aura about them. Something that seemed to mark them out as different from other men.
It was when I spent an extended period on the gigantic assault ship HMS Bulwark that I got to know a number of Royal Marines better than I had before – notably Corporal 'Rocky' Baisley, Corporal (now Sergeant) 'Merv' Oakley and Lieutenant Colonel Russell Paul. It was they who really motivated me to find out more about the special world of the navy's very own amphibious infantry, its highly trained and fearsome sea-soldiers – some of the toughest hombres on the planet.
I set about trying to find a way of prising the lid off this tightly sealed world and have Captain Brian Warren, then head of the Directorate of Public Relations (Navy), and Captain Mike Davies-Marks, his successor, to thank for helping me start the long and exhausting process. Brian's good offices won me a meeting with many high-ranking Royal Marines officers who listened patiently to my pitch and, in the end, suggested they might grant me access to the corps if I came up with that most precious of things – a decent TV commission that would give me time to get to know and understand just how Royal Marines tick. They were not interested in a quick, hit-and-run film but a comprehensive series that would provide real insights. So far so good.
I phoned Jim Allen, head of factual television at Granada TV, whom I recently worked with on a documentary I made on, of all people, Charlotte Church. Charlotte, bless her, is a world away from the Royal Marines of course, but I had enjoyed working with Jim. He struck me as not only a very instinctive sort of bloke and someone who would take a risk for something he believed in, but also as a man of unwavering integrity. He was, as I suspected, fascinated by the possibilities that access to the Royal Marines could open up and approached the factual department of ITV. Jim's enthusiasm was infectious and it was not long before Alison Sharman (Director of Factual) and Geoff Anderson (Controller of Current Affairs and Documentaries) offered us a commission – a prime-time eight-part series. This was the magic key I needed and I was now able to open the door to the world of the Royal Marines Commandos – at least the outer door. Once inside, I found there were many other doors that I had to get through, but now at least I started meeting people who were there to assist and facilitate. Captain Mark Latham was immensely helpful in first introducing me to the commando training centre at Lympstone. Thereafter, Brigadier (now Major General) Garry Robison, Brigadier Andy Salmon, Colonel Dave Stewart and Lieutenant Colonel Dave Kassapian were n
ever anything but fully supportive and unfailingly encouraging in my bid to comprehend life as a Royal Marines Commando. Major Dave Nicholson drew the short straw by being allocated as my project supervisor (I have always imagined it must have been a punishment for some serious transgression!). As my 'minder' I was fearful at first that our relationship might become strained because I needed space and freedom to do my work. Yet Dave was nothing but supremely professional, obliging and accommodating, and I am pleased to say that, after a year working together, I count him very much as a friend (except when he beats me at squash).
On a day-to-day basis I was working with one particular troop of recruits, so I depended from day one on the support of their company commander, Paul Matin, and of their training team: Lieutenant Orlando Rogers, Sergeant 'H' Quinn, Corporal Hamish Robb, Corporal (now Lieutenant) Matt Adams, Corporal Mick Beards, Corporal Sean Darnell, Corporal Jim Glanfield, Corporal 'Wenners' Weclawek, Corporal Lawrence Goodall and Corporal Jon Stratford. These men I also now count as my friends and can never thank them enough, not only for their constant support and encouragement but also for the hundreds of 'hot wets' they brewed for me in all weathers and conditions and some memorable fried-egg sandwiches that fed the soul as well as the belly.
As far as gaining access to the young officer batch, I am indebted to Major (now Lieutenant Colonel) Mark Seawright, Captain Guss Hodson, Major Karl Gray and Captain (now Major) Richard Mears.
In Afghanistan, my thanks go to Brigadier Jerry Thomas, Commander 3 Commando, for allowing me into his brigade. I am indebted also to Lieutenant Colonel Matt Holmes, Commanding Officer of 42 Commando, for his faith in the project and his support through my time in Helmand Province. I am also grateful to Major Marty Collins for welcoming me into the bosom of M Company out in Kijaki at one of the most challenging times for the Royal Marines anywhere on the front line.
At Granada Television, I received the most expert and patient support from Jane Smith, Yvonne James, Hazel McKean and Giovanna Milia. From the ITV publicity department Melissa Loughran was tireless in her efforts to support the project, as was Matt Dutton.
At Uppercut Films I leaned heavily on the support, encouragement and professional expertise of my talented film editors and very good friends, Julie Buckland and Jamie Hayes. I am also forever grateful to my long-suffering assistant Laura Woodley, who never failed to keep smiling even at the most pressured of times. When lesser women would have turned to drink Laura just cracked on and baked us all more cookies.
At the Fitzroy Lodge, my boxing club and second home, I also received unstinting encouragement and support from some of the biggest hearted men I know.
At Random House, my publishers, I received wonderful support from Oliver Johnson who encouraged my writing from the start. His own insights and advice were invaluable throughout as was his unerring patience. I must also thank Katherine Fry for her eagle-eyed editing skills.
Above all, though, I would like to thank the officers and men of the Royal Marines who welcomed me into their numbers so open-heartedly in Britain and in Afghanistan. More specifically, my gratitude goes to the recruits of 924 Troop at Lympstone and the men of 11 Troop of M Company, 42 Commando. I thank all of them for helping to give me the most exciting year of my life.
Chris Terrill, London
Prologue
Bootneck Camp
'Crack! Crack! Crack!'
'Incoming! Take cover!' shouts the young lieutenant. I hurl myself to the ground as enemy tracer bullets scar the sky right over our position.
'Downhill, lads – on your belt buckles!'
We have to get into dead ground immediately or the Taliban will pick us off one by one on this exposed hillside. And they are here in numbers –judging from the firepower bearing down on us there must be at least a hundred of them against just twenty of us.
The sharp, continuous 'crack' of the enemy AK47s has turned into the ominous 'whoosh' sound as their bullets get closer and start to shred the air around our heads. I drag my body over the rocky, Afghan ground, desperately trying to stay as low and as flat as I can. I feel the jagged rocks cutting into me – slicing through the skin of my knees and elbows. It is agonising but I have no choice. Taliban bullets are now ricocheting off the rocks around us and it is only a matter of time before they find their mark.
'Get ready to make a run for it, lads – down to that ridge!' shouts the sergeant next to me, doing his best to return fire.
I look up and see that about a hundred yards away there is a gulley offering cover – if only we can get there.
'OK – let's go!'
I get up and start to run downhill with the red tracer bullets streaking past me on both sides. With my back to the enemy I feel truly vulnerable and expect to feel hot lead rip into my back at any moment . . .
Six months earlier
'What the hell am I letting myself in for?' I think to myself as I hurtle westward down the fast lane of the M4. 'I've done some crazy things in my time. But this?'
'In three hundred yards turn left,' says Myrtle brightly.
Myrtle is the name I have given the unflappable and seemingly omniscient female who speaks to me from my satellite navigation screen. I love Myrtle. She never shouts, argues or gets moody, always accepts my choice of radio station and, of course, here is a woman who can read a map – perfectly.
Obediently, I signal left and move over to the slow lane, although inwardly, and quite unknown to Myrtle, I am considering an alternative route because I am getting cold feet about this journey. 'I could turn round at the next junction and go back to London,' I think. 'Back to my flat, my friends, my comfort zone.'
'Turn left,' chirrups Myrtle, oblivious to the turmoil in my head.
Again, I do as I am told and come off the M4 at exit 20, but at the top of a short hill I approach a crossroads – in every sense of the word. 'At the junction turn left,' says Myrtle with her usual conviction, but I hesitate ... In front of me is a road sign showing two arrows pointing in opposite directions. One arrow points left to the M5 which leads to the south-west and the precise destination I programmed into Myrtle's virtual psyche when we left home this morning – a place called Lympstone in Devon. The other arrow points back to the M4, and back the way I have just come.
I have been planning this move to Lympstone for months, but now that I am finally on my way I confess that the prospect of arriving there has been steadily encroaching on my sense of •well-being. You know how worries inflate and distort themselves? Well, for the last few days the thought of Lympstone has been looming at me darkly, prompting considerable concerns about just what I am going to find there; from all the rumours I have heard it is likely to be nothing but pain, hardship and unutterable bleakness. The wretched place is now lodged in my imagination as a sort of 'terra incognito', like you see on those ancient maps of uncharted territory where it is always suggested ominously 'There be dragons!'
The arrow pointing the other way to the M4 would of course return me to London, my home and my hearth – all that is safe, familiar and devoid of anything remotely dragon-like.
Left – right? Right – left?
'Turn left,' says Myrtle again impassively. She has worked out the optimum route to Lympstone, the precise distance as well as the expected time of arrival, and clearly has no intention of going back to London. As I wrestle with my demons and try to consider my options, Myrtle's gentle insistence sways the balance of my mind, at least partially deflating my worries. For the time being anyway.
'OK, Myrtle, we'll do it your way,' I say out loud as I turn left. Whenever I am about to start a new adventure or launch myself on a new challenge I always try to talk myself out of it. Bizarre really because I love adventure, have permanently itchy feet and seldom feel comfortable in a comfort zone anyway. Misgivings apart, I know deep down that I am heading for the experience of a lifetime. I change up through the gears and accelerate down the M5 towards the West Country, a beckoning orange sun and whatever terrible dragons may be
secretly lurking. Myrtle says nothing. I have done her bidding. We are back on track.
So what is it about this place called Lympstone that has been preying on my mind? When I looked it up at home on my AA Road Users Atlas of Great Britain it looked innocent enough. There it was plainly marked between Exeter and Exmouth and set delightfully in the midst of rural Devon – the chocolate-box county, home to clotted-cream teas, thatched cottages and winding country lanes. Nothing remotely scary about any of that, of course. Lympstone, however, has a claim to fame not marked on road maps. A claim to fame no other Devon village can boast, no other village in Britain come to that. It is a place of almost mythic status which has witnessed the making and breaking of brave and strong men for over half a century, and all for one purpose – to produce the best fighting soldiers in the world. This is because since 1941 it has been home to the Royal Marines Commando Training Centre – revered and feared by all who enter its legendary portals.
That is where I am going to live for the next thirty-two weeks and where I am due to train with a troop of new recruits in order to gain an insider's perspective on the extraordinary world of the 'Bootneck' – the name by which all Royal Marines refer to themselves and have done for the last three hundred years. The term derives its origins from the leather stock worn round the neck inside the collar of a marine's tunic. These were worn as a defence against press-ganged sailors who it was feared would try to cut the marines' throats as they lay asleep. One of the main duties of a marine was to protect officers from aggrieved seamen. I am not ultimately going to become a Bootneck, of course, because my job is to watch, observe, film and write about what I see, but to do that I made the decision – possibly a very rash one – that I needed to go through pretty much what the recruits go through as well. This was made doubly rash by the fact that I am no spring chicken. I am fifty-four years old – nearly triple the average age of a Royal Marine recruit – but as a marathon runner and triathlete who still plays a bit of rugby and spars in the boxing ring I was keen to test my ageing metal against the newly forged steel of our nation's youth. The authorities at Lympstone have agreed to let me have a bash as long as I keep up with the training. They've said that they can make no allowances for me and that I will have to pass all the tests at every stage if I am to carry on. As soon as I fail any of what they call the 'criteria' tests, I will have to continue as an observer on the sidelines. It is progressive training which builds in intensity over time. Finally, after about thirty weeks, it culminates in the infamous commando tests – four diabolical physical challenges that every marine has had to pass since their inception in 1941. And when I say 'diabolical' that is exactly what I mean, because from all I have heard about them they must have been designed by the Devil himself– on one of his moodier days. (These tests – the six-mile endurance run, the nine-mile speed march, the Tarzan assault course and the thirty-mile route march – are only attempted by commandos, not the regular army or navy.) It is only by passing these tests that a recruit becomes a Royal Marine and wins the right to wear the coveted Green Beret. This is the military equivalent of the Olympic laurel wreath and, frankly, a prize beyond my present imagining or ambition. For the moment it will be a triumph just getting myself to the training base – once I have done that I will just take each day as it comes.