An hour later I am in the sergeants' mess and being introduced to the 924 Troop training team. I know this will be a bit of a gauntlet run as they'll be sizing me up and will probably need quite a bit of winning over. I'm well aware that I'm impinging on their world and some may see me as an interloper – not only a civvy stranger but a media 'wanker' to boot.
There are seven in the team – one sergeant called Henry Quinn, but known to all as 'H', and seven corporals: Hamish Robb, Matt Adams, Jim Glanfield, Mick Beards, Sean Darnell and 'Wenners' Weclawek. They are friendly enough but I can see from their eyes that they need reassuring. They may think I am here to undermine them or expose them in some way. They could well have suspicions that I am an investigative journalist looking for sensation and controversy. I do my best to explain that I have no agenda and that I am here to learn. I tell them that I want to be able to show the public what it is like, not only to train to be an elite Royal Marines commando, but also to fight as one on the front line in a real blood-and-guts war. I explain that my method is to get as personally involved as possible with the training. I have no interest in standing on any sidelines. They seem to appreciate the sentiment but I can tell they need persuading that I am up to it. In fact, I need persuading that I am up to it!
It is approaching midday and I am on the platform of Lympstone railway station. This tiny station serves only the commando base and is built just outside the barbed-wire fence on its western edge right on the banks of the River Exe. I am with Corporal Weclawek, a drill leader wearing boots so highly shined they hurt the naked eye. Wenners, as everyone calls him, will be meeting the new recruits as they arrive and will be overseeing their first two weeks' training as baby marines. Thereafter he will be responsible for drilling them on the parade ground – good old-fashioned square-bashing.
'They won't know what hit them when they arrive,' says the shaven-headed, jovial corporal, who was once mentioned in dispatches for bravery in Iraq. 'This will be an alien world to them – like nothing they have ever experienced. They'll be in a state of shock for a few days – we call it the "shock of capture".'
'Can they leave if they want to?' I ask.
'Yes, there are various windows of opportunity for them to wrap their tits in – or "give up" in your language. We discourage them from making rash decisions too soon but some decide pretty quickly it's not for them. They've all been here already to do the PRMC [Potential Royal Marines Course – a two-day course for those aspiring to become a recruit and consists of various aptitude tests as well as testing physical challenges] so they have an inkling of what life is like – but only an inkling. Some of them may well be "rejoins" of course – guys who have already tried training but left for one reason or another. They often come back for a second go, especially if they were really young the first time round.'
'What proportion of this intake do you reckon will get through to the end?'
'No way of knowing really. But as a general rule of thumb I would reckon that out of fifty starting no more than ten to fifteen would finish as originals. Some will want out, some will not be up to scratch and others will get injured. But while some may leave the troop they will not necessarily leave training – some will be backtrooped to a later troop so they can redo an exercise they might have failed or we might put broken recruits into a remedial section called "Hunter Company" where we try to mend 'em.'
'Do you get many injuries?' I ask, wondering as much about my own welfare as that of the recruits.
'Yeah, we manage to break a fair few to be honest – broken legs are common – but then this isn't Girl Guide training, is it?'
I nod with hidden misgivings as we wander up and down the platform – Wenners' hobnail boots crunching on the crumbling concrete surface. In the far distance a train signals its approach with a blast on its two-tone siren, scaring a flock of low-swooping seagulls into the upper stratosphere. Seconds later it emerges out of the trees on the horizon and slowly trundles down the single track towards us. On its left-hand side is the commando base assault course: long ropes swaying ominously in the breeze, high brick walls, water-filled tank traps, monkey bars and all manner of dastardly obstacles. On the right-hand side is the wide expanse of the River Exe – brimful and sparkling in the summer sunshine.
'It's better if the recruits on the train are looking out on the river,' says Wenners. 'If they are looking out on the assault course they may well not get off the train.'
'The assault course looks horrendous,' I say.
'Oh, it's worse than that,' says Wenners with a grin. 'Mind you, the recruits will probably grow to hate the river even more. If they ever fuck up royally – and they will – they'll get what we call the "mud run". When the tide is out the river isn't quite so pretty – just a bed of stinking mud. Do an hour running and crawling through that and you will NEVER want to do it again!'
The train draws up to the platform and stops. Moments later the doors open automatically and then slowly about twenty young men all wearing civilian clothes stagger out carrying or pulling large suitcases or trunks.
'Right, you lot!' shouts Wenners. 'Line up and stand to attention! Come on, I mean now, not next week – move!'
Doing very passable impersonations of frightened rabbits staring into car headlights the recruits line up along the platform. They look so young but then they are – just boys really. It strikes me they must be at least as nervous as I was yesterday and I wonder just how many thought twice about making their journey to Lympstone and, indeed, are still thinking twice about being here now. Wenners marches smartly to the beginning of the line and starts to check off names against his clipboard.
'Name?' he barks at the first young recruit.
'Slatter, sir.'
'Corporal,' Wenners corrects him immediately.
'Corporal,' splutters Slatter with a wince.
'You didn't think about shaving this morning?' asks Wenners.
'I did, sir . . . Corporal.'
'Well, I disagree massively. Try standing closer to the razor next time.'
Slatter opens and closes his mouth without saying anything. Sensibly he has thought better of arguing the toss.
'Anyway, Slatter, I will be showing you all how to shave properly later.'
Wenners moves on down the line scrutinising every recruit's face and general turnout. He finds fault with everyone.
'So you've come to commando training and you didn't think to have a haircut,' he says to one gangling, tall lad with ginger hair.
'I thought I could get a haircut here, Corporal.'
'Oh, you can – don't worry. I just thought that being a "ginge" you would want to have as little of it showing as possible – even in Civvy Street! You can't want to be seen in public with hair that colour surely?'
The tall, ginger lad says nothing, although all those within earshot giggle nervously.
'No laughing!' Wenners snaps. 'What do you think this is, a holiday camp? You are not here to enjoy yourselves – you are here to become Royal Marines Commandos. Understand?'
His question is greeted by silence.
'UNDERSTAND!?' he repeats more loudly.
'Yes, Corporal!' reply the recruits as one.
'Good. When I want you to enjoy yourselves I will give you permission.'
Wenners is clearly a disciplinarian but I sense that he is a bit of a joker too. While he would clearly not suffer fools gladly, I reckon he has his tongue in his cheek much of the time. Right now, though, the recruits are taking him at face value and look suitably terrified.
'Name?' he shouts at the next recruit in the line-up.
'John, Corporal,' answers a black lad with a smile as broad as his Caribbean accent.
'John? That had better be your last name or have you just given me your first name?'
'Er . . . Terry, Corporal,' says the lad, now looking confused.
'Terry? So your name is John Terry?'
'Yes, Corporal, I mean no, Corporal . . . my name is Terry John.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes, Corporal.'
'Hmmm. And where are you from, Recruit John?'
'St Vincent, Corporal.'
'St Vincent, eh? Island in the sun. Goodness, Recruit John, do you realise how cold it gets over here? Especially on Dartmoor in the winter?'
'No, Corporal.'
'You will! Ever seen snow?'
'No, never, Corporal.'
'Ha! You have a shock coming, Recruit John,' says Wenners with a huge grin. 'And that I have to see!'
As soon as Wenners has finished 'tenderising' the recruits he marches them down the platform and into the commando camp. I use the term 'marches' very loosely of course. A few are trying to keep some sort of step but most are failing dismally. Of course it does not help that they are all laden with bags and suitcases.
'Left, left, left, right, left,' shouts Wenners, trying valiantly to instil some order into the shambling, shuffling newcomers.
As we proceed through the camp we pass several other troops of marching recruits clearly at very different stages of their thirty-two weeks' training. Some are in battledress, carrying weapons, some are in fatigues carrying heavy rucksacks. Some are marching smartly at walking pace and others are marching at double time – in other words running but keeping strict pace and step. The first batch of 924 Troop watch in amazement and do their best to stumble on.
Wenners points out various things as he marches the recruits to their accommodation: the church, the gym, the parade ground, study blocks, the galley and the armoury.
'On the right,' he shouts at one point, 'is the camp shop where you can buy extra rations. We will be feeding you four times a day to the tune of five thousand calories but most of you will want and need more. This is where you get 'em.'
Further on, Wenners brings the recruits to a halt by a line of military ambulances parked outside a large brick building.
'Listen up, men. This is the medical centre and sick bay. Most of you, if not all of you, will be paying a visit here at some point. Some of you may well end up spending a lot of time here . . .'
Eventually, we reach the Foundation Block where 924 Troop will spend their first two weeks. The new recruits drag their cases inside and set about finding themselves a bed in the large communal dormitory.
Two hours later the rest of 924 Troop have all arrived – a total of fifty recruits. Everyone is given a military haircut – a 'number one' all over – whether they need one or not and then they are all marched over to a lecture theatre where they are to take the Royal Marines oath.
First, however, they are addressed by Colour Sergeant Laird Webster.
'Right, lads, listen up. The next two weeks are designed to change you from civvies into military students. We are going to teach you personal administration and timing – being at the right place at the right time. Some of you will miss home. That's normal but remember home is still there – it hasn't vanished. Look out for one another and look after each other – that is the marine way. No alcohol or food is to be brought into the Foundation Block and no mobile phones. And over the next few days you will be given oodles and oodles of kit. Look after it . . .'
I look over the assembled recruits that comprise 924 Troop – fifty young men, now freshly shorn and still in a state of semi-shock.
The colour sergeant continues in very measured tones. 'In a minute the company commander, Major Mattin, will come in to address you and hear you take the oath. When he arrives you will sit – not stand – to attention. That means you sit upright and look straight ahead until you are told "at ease". OK, let's try it . . . Shun!'
Fifty recruits sit bolt upright almost as one.
'Good. Not difficult, is it? Just make sure you all sit up together. You there, you were a bit late. React on the order, OK?
'Yes, Colour Sergeant!' says Terry John with his customary smile.
'Right, before the oath I have an important question for you so listen very carefully to what I am about to say. Once you agree to take the oath you are here for at least four weeks. After four weeks you can if you want opt out. After that you have the option to leave for the first six months but after that you are here for the duration unless of course we ask you to leave. Any rejoins, however, have no opt-out rights at all – you are here for thirty-two weeks. So, here is the question. Does anybody here, apart from rejoins, already think they have made the wrong decision and would rather leave now? If you do, speak up now7 because this is your chance to leave immediately with no hard feelings . . .'
The troop sit in silence and statue-still. Colour Sergeant Webster surveys the fifty recruits with a darting, gimlet eye that is soon drawn to one boy in a pale blue shirt who has raised his right arm.
'I would like to leave, Colour Sergeant,' he says calmly but resolutely.
'Right. Follow me, lad, and well done. That took guts.'
Colour Sergeant Webster leads the boy in a blue shirt out of the lecture theatre. Wenners leans over and whispers in my ear, 'One down – forty-nine to go!' As I look at the assembled recruits, wondering just how many of them are going to make it through the thirty-two weeks, Major Mattin enters from the other side of the room. He is accompanied by Orlando Rogers and the rest of the training team. Obediently the recruits sit to attention. Terry John is, if anything, slightly too quick off the mark this time.
'At ease,' says Major Mattin gently as he walks up close to his forty-nine protégés. 'Welcome to Lympstone. You are now officially the most junior members of the Royal Marines Corp. It was a bold decision on your part to join up but an excellent decision. Expect an exciting, varied and challenging career but prepare now for the longest and most exacting training in the world. All of you will wear the Globe and Laurel crest on your berets from day one – be proud of it because it represents 342 years of a very proud history.'
Paul Mattin is a man of great character and is a widely respected Royal Marines officer. As a mountain leader he is trained in personal survival skills in the most extreme physical conditions so he is a very tough hombre indeed. He is fiercely proud of Royal Marines traditions but he is also a man with a big heart and has the ability to relate to all ranks – even raw recruits.
'Trust the training team, fellas. They are here for you so don't kick against them. This is a disciplined environment and a man's world – so don't snivel – but be assured we do not tolerate racism, harassment or bullying. Bullying should not occur but if it does we deal with it fast and firmly. You will be treated with respect. If you are shouted at there is a good reason for it. Some of you will waver over the next few days. If you see your new comrades wobbling, get around them. Our aim is to pass you out. Let us do that.'
Mattin is speaking genuinely. He desperately wants every recruit in the room to pass out, though he knows in his heart and from experience that not all will. Some will not come up to standard, some will think better of it and others will get injured, but right now Mattin takes the view that every recruit has a chance that nobody else should second-guess. I consider my own position in all this. In some ways I am just a fifty-five-year-old intruder but in another way I am a recruit just like my younger counterparts. I am sure I will be in a position to encourage some of the others should they struggle. I just hope they will be there for me when I hit a wall as I feel I am bound to do.
'OK, fellas,' says Paul Mattin. 'Time to read the oath.'
Everybody stands and reads from the words now on a huge screen in front of them: ' "I swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs and successors and that I will in duty-bound honour faithfully defend Her Majesty, her heirs and successors in person and dignity against all enemies, and will serve and obey all orders of Her Majesty, her heirs and successors and of generals and officers set over me. So help me God." '
Orlando Rogers steps forward. Gone is the youthful exuberance with which he greeted me this morning. Gone is the cheeky glint in a mischievous eye. He is deadly serious as he address
es his troop.
'I am Lieutenant Rogers and I am your troop commander. This is your training team. Each and every one of you will find your time here difficult at some point. We are here to help you succeed. There is no finer soldier in the world as a Royal Marine and you now have the chance to become one. Grasp that chance, fellas. You wall not regret it. All you require is determination – we will provide the rest.'
It seems to me that the recruits are now beginning to hold themselves just a little bit higher. Their faces are more animated. Their pulses, I suspect, are beginning to race a little faster. Their inner motivation has been kick-started, though it may take a few more kicks before they are fully fired up. They are now, as Paul Mattin said, the most junior members of the world-famous Royal Marines family and are a small step on their path to the coveted Green Beret but they still have a mighty long way to go – with many twists and many turns. Again, I ponder, how many will stay the course?
After the oath we all go to the galley for some much needed sustenance. We join a long queue of uniformed recruits at various stages of their training. They are edging forward impatiently towards hotplates of sizzling steaks, pizzas, sausages and pies as well as steaming containers of pasta, chips and vegetables. Everyone is piling as much food onto their plates as they possibly can. These guys are hungry! Even though this is supper it will not be the last meal of the day. Later tonight, at nine o'clock, everyone will have a second supper called 'nine o'clockers'. Clearly, it is important to cram as many calories into recruits as possible because of the incredibly physical nature of their training. Though judging by the lean and chiselled looks nobody puts on weight. Some of 924 Troop, by contrast, still look a little pasty and are maybe carrying a few extra pounds – but not for long I suspect. I weigh in at around thirteen stone at the moment – pretty much my fighting weight and one I try to maintain for my boxing and rugby – but I reckon I'll be doing well to maintain that weight here. As I consider the unwanted prospect of shedding too many pounds I take a beef-and-onion pie to add to my steak and a baked potato to add to my chips. I then help myself to a double helping of apple crumble and custard.
Commando Page 3
