Commando

by Chris Terrill

  The gym sessions started off in a very straightforward way, consisting of general fitness routines with lots of circuits, press-ups, pull-ups and sit-ups – all very familiar to me from my boxing training and pretty much within my ability. But in the last few days we have been introduced to the thirty-foot climbing ropes, suspended from the ceiling in the sports hall, which will form the core of all future gym work. This is because, better than any other apparatus, they will prepare us for the gruelling assault courses that we will have to start training for from week ten – at least those of us who manage to pass the rigorous gym test, called 'Gym Pass-out', that we have to take in week nine. Among other things that test will require us to climb a thirty-foot rope, not once, but three times in quick succession.

  I hate the ropes with a vengeance. I am finding them very difficult because I simply cannot seem to master the technique. The problem is that when I try to climb I am depending much too much on my arm strength whereas the correct technique is to derive most of your upward movement by thrusting from the feet and legs. If you use mostly bicep power the arms tire very quickly and ultimately the grip fails, which is of course potentially very dangerous. This was proved to us all the other day when one of the recruits, John Hudson, a big, powerful Zimbabwean, hauled himself to near the top of the rope using mostly his arms. He suddenly lost strength as well as his grip and plummeted to the floor. Luckily he managed to maintain a partial hold with his hands, which certainly helped to break his fall and spare him serious injury to his legs, but he sustained very nasty rope burns to his palms which needed urgent medical attention.

  My ability on the ropes – or rather lack of ability – is my biggest worry so far. The younger guys are so much more supple and flexible than I am and are making much quicker progress. Up to now I have not managed to climb more than halfway up one of these blessed ropes, so at this rate, if I do not make a dramatic improvement, I will certainly fail the week nine Gym Pass-out and that will be the end of my bid for the Green Beret – finished almost before it has started.

  I told Dave Nicholson about the trouble I have been having on the ropes and he has kindly offered to spend some time going through the technique with me. He stressed that he is no expert, but obviously did the ropes during his own training, so that is why I am meeting him in the gym this evening.

  I walk into the sports complex and head not for the main hall where I do all the training with the recruits but to the vast weights room. The place is crammed with people, mostly CTC staff, pumping iron or beasting themselves on the running, cycling or rowing machines. I see Dave waiting for me by the training ropes – these are shorter than the thirty-foot ropes in the sports hall but at about eighteen foot they are quite high enough for me the way I am climbing.

  'OK, Chris,' he says. 'Climb up one of the ropes and let's see what you're doing wrong.'

  I walk up to a rope, reach as high as I can and pull myself up. I curl my right foot around the rope, attempt to grip it against my left foot and try to push upwards. Somehow I manage to struggle, in unseemly fashion, about three-quarters of the way up before giving up the ghost and coming back down.

  'As you say, Chris,' says Dave with raised eyebrows, 'it's all bloody arms. You may as well not be using your feet at all – they're just flapping around doing bugger all.'

  Dave takes the rope, hoists himself up with one pull of the arms and promptly grips the rope not only with his feet but also his knees.

  'That's the secret, Chris,' he says. 'You have to grip with the knees as well or the rope will just slip through your feet. Especially later when you're doing this outside on wet ropes with thirty pounds of weight on your body.'

  'Jesus, Dave, you're just trying to depress me now!'

  'Sorry,' he laughs as he lowers himself to the floor, 'but that's what you're going to have to do if you want to go for the Green Beret.'

  'I know,' I say morosely. 'The thing is, I know about grasping with the knees but as soon as I start climbing it all goes to pieces and I just rely on my arms again.'

  Jon Stratford, who was on the climbing wall, jogs over to us.

  'I was watching, Chris,' he says. 'You're too rigid on the rope. You have to curl up your body, get your knees right up to your chest and kick out hard. You took about six or seven shifts to get halfway so no wonder you got knackered. Watch me.'

  Jon takes the rope in both hands, pulls himself up, wraps the rope around and between his legs, brings his knees almost up to his chin, leans back and kicks out hard. He propels himself up the rope effortlessly – barely three shifts and he is at the top.

  'Yup,' says Dave. 'That's the way to do it.'

  Jon lets himself down hand over hand just as fluidly as he went up. 'Don't worry, Chris,' he says, smiling at my hangdog expression. 'These things are all about practice. See that sign over there?'

  I look over at a wooden sign hanging just beneath the gym clock, which says in big gold letters 'IT WILL COME'.

  'You have to believe that, Chris,' says Jon.

  'And you have to believe in yourself as well,' adds Dave. 'Determination, mate!'

  'Yes,' I say, 'one of the commando qualities – like cheerfulness in the face of bloody rope climbing!'

  Over the next few days I continue to train with the recruits and also practise on the ropes every evening in the gym. I make some limited progress with my technique but I know I am still nowhere near the standard I would need to be for the Gym Pass-out. I can eventually reach the top of the fifteen-foot training ropes but ultimately I will be required to climb double that height three times in a row. It seems like an impossibility.

  The troop is beginning to struggle as well. Not on the ropes so much but in just about every other area. Their turnout, drill, timing and general discipline are winning them repeated punishments – mostly extra cleaning duties but also many extra press-ups and something called 'burpee bastards'. To do one of these you have to put your hands on the ground, kick your legs out, bring them back immediately to your chest and then leap into the air as high as you can shouting 'Bastard'. These are usually meted out in tens or twenties and are absolutely exhausting. I tried some just for the hell of it.

  4 July

  09.30

  The troop congregate in one of the lecture theatres for one of many introductory talks they are getting from senior officers. Today they are being addressed by a Captain Watson on the structure of the corps and many of the recruits are looking forward to it – not because they have any particular interest in the subject but because they will be able to sit down for an hour and may be able to grab a bit of kip. The Nods, existing on no more than four or five hours' sleep a night, are living up to their nickname and 'nodding off' at any opportunity.

  Captain Watson's lecture looks like the perfect occasion for a snooze and as the officer takes his position at the lectern the recruits settle back into their chairs.

  'Right, lads, pay attention,' says Captain Watson somewhat hopefully as he surveys the exhausted young men in front of him. 'If you feel like you're going to sleep, stand up – because what I have to say is important and I want to make sure you all hear it.'

  The recruits, unmoved by the plea, settle deeper into their chairs. They have noticed a slide projector is in place which is even better news because it means the lights are going to go down. Knowing they are about to be shrouded in darkness the eyelids are already starting to flicker.

  'Lympstone is not a reflection of what the Royal Marines is all about,' says Captain Watson, forging on regardless. 'This thirty-two weeks is all about transforming you into the sorts of men we need in the corps. You could end up in any one of the three units that form the brigade – 45 Commando based in Arbroath, 42 Commando based in Plymouth, or 40 Commando based in Taunton . . .'

  At first it looks like Captain Watson is going to lose his entire audience but then, against the odds, he starts to win their attention and their interest.

  'Post-9/11, the attack on the Twin Towers, when the big p
ush started against al-Qaeda, the Royal Marines were the first British troops on the ground in Afghanistan. The Americans had already tried to go in but couldn't at first get up into the mountains and when they did they simply couldn't operate there. The Royal Marines, trained in mountain warfare, were in their element in Afghanistan and were immediately able to take the fight to the Taliban. As you know the paras are out there at the moment but the Royal Marines are returning in September, just a few months from now, and so by the time you pass out, it is highly likely that you will go straight out there.'

  Everyone is now listening intently with eyes wide open.

  'Chaps, you don't know how lucky you are,' Captain Watson continues enthusiastically. 'You will be getting the chance to put your training into practice almost immediately – seeking out and destroying the enemy. You are joining up at one of the best times for a fighting marine and you will be guaranteed in your first two or three years to visit lots of countries, be involved in lots of ops and win lots of medals. Just remember, your thirty-two weeks here are just something you have to get through and you get this great reward at the end of it. So it's all good stuff and something to look forward to . . .'

  I look at the faces of the recruits. Some are looking serious and thoughtful, though many are nodding – not sleepily this time but in excited affirmation of their will to become Royal Marines Commandos. Far from being an excuse for a bit of shut-eye this lecture has proved to be a wake-up call.

  Half an hour later everyone is back in their accommodation and talking excitedly about the prospects of seeing action in less than a year. I think this is the first time many of the recruits have actually considered the reality of the situation they're facing. Adam Collins is looking at the newspaper cuttings pinned to the troop noticeboard, with headlines proclaiming the latest attacks on Taliban positions as well as stark announcements of British fatalities.

  'It's a bit eerie reading things like this,' he says. 'These guys are getting killed out there and you suddenly think, Jesus! That's what we're going to be doing when we've finished.'

  He points at a headline pronouncing that 'THE RISK FROM AL-QAEDA IS GREATER THAN EVER' and another that reads 'WE FACE DEFEAT IN AFGHANISTAN, ARMY CHIEFS WARN BLAIR'.

  'I think some guys are still playing at this like it's a game, but this is real, isn't it?'

  'It certainly is, Adam,' I say.

  'Hmmm. Well, if anything it inspires me more to get on with training and get out there – it looks like they need our help. At least we know we're going to see some action though. It would be crap to pass out and just be doing guard duties somewhere. We'll be in the thick of it, win a few medals, have a few stories to tell and hopefully come back with all our limbs.'

  Terry John is in his new 'grot', organising his cupboard ready for an evening inspection.

  'Hello, Chris,' he says. 'What did you make of that lecture?'

  'It makes you think, doesn't it, Terry?' I say.

  'Yes it does.' He looks thoughtful. 'I'm not really a gun-oriented person – I've never been exposed to a weapon before so I'm not sure how I'm gonna feel –'

  'Terry!' screeches Jordan Slatter. 'What the fuck are you talking about? You're going out to Afghanistan where you'll have to fire at real people cos they'll be fucking firing at you, mate.'

  'Not everyone,' Terry protests. 'I will kill someone who is trying to kill me but I won't kill innocent people.'

  'Well, none of us will do that, Terry,' says Joe Hogan.

  'I know,' says Terry. 'But sometimes you don't know who the innocent ones are, do you? They're all mixed up.'

  'Mate, just shoot the guy shooting at you,' says James Williams.

  I go along to the troop office to see Orlando and the rest of the training team who, now the recruits have come out of the Foundation Block, are on full training duties. I still have to get to know most of the team and am already a little worried that, according to Orlando, they all want to take me on a run ashore to 'induct' me. I have been on boozy runs ashore with the navy before now and I can only expect that the Bootneck version is an even more bloody affair.

  'Chris,' shouts Orlando as I walk into the office. 'Welcome to the office – no Nods allowed in here except by invitation but consider this your own, mate.'

  'Thanks, Orlando. I'm honoured!'

  'Hot wet?' says Hamish Robb, one of the corporals, in a broad Scottish accent.

  'Coffee please.'

  'How do you take it?'

  'Milk no sugar please,' I say.

  'Ah, that would be a "Julie Andrews" then?'

  'Sorry?' I look at him bemused.

  'You want milk and no sugar. That means white and no sugar. We call that white/none, or "white nun" – hence "Julie Andrews"!'

  'Ah, obvious when you know.'

  'You like it mega sweet, don't you, boss?' Hamish asks Orlando.

  'Yes, pour in a small sugar plantation please.'

  Hamish heaves five heaped spoonloads of best granulated into Orlando's mug. The rest of the training team then join us in the office for 'hot wets' and biscuits.

  'Help yourself to a Hobnob, Chris,' says Matt Adams. 'A marine's biscuit.'

  'Why's that?' I ask as I take a Hobnob and dip it into my 'Julie Andrews'.

  'Exactly because of what you're doing now,' says Matt. 'Peter Kay, the comedian, said most biscuits get too soggy too quickly and were useless for dunking. All except the tough old Hobnob which he called the marine of the biscuit world!'

  I spend an hour chatting to the corporals, their sergeant, 'H' Quinn, and Orlando. They are a great bunch and I feel much more comfortable with them than I thought I would. My initial fears of being treated as an outsider are dissipating fast. Everyone is incredibly welcoming and seems very keen to help me absorb into the community.

  'Right,' says Orlando, 'we need to get Chris out on the town for a run ashore. When is good for everyone?'

  'Ah yes,' says Hamish, rubbing his hands. 'If you want to be one of us you need to come on a run ashore, Chris. I can't do this Friday or the next but what about the one after that – the 21st?'

  Everyone seems to think that is a good day, so my induction is set. A broad but fixed smile masks my apprehension. Drinking has never been my strong suit but I know that will be no excuse with a group of Bootnecks on the binge. Oh well.

  On my way back to my own accommodation I pass two recruits from another troop who salute me smartly and say, 'Good morning, sir.'

  'Oh, you don't have to salute me,' I say quickly. 'I'm a civvy.'

  They look at me perplexed. I am clearly not a recruit by dint of age but being in uniform I am almost indistinguishable from a real marine officer apart from the fact that I have no headwear and, on close inspection, anyone could see I have no rank insignia. Still baffled, the recruits walk on. I walk on as well, considering my place at Lympstone and my ambiguous identity. I am an outsider, and always will be; nevertheless, I am beginning to blur the boundaries between my status as a civilian and my temporarily adopted identity as a quasi Bootneck. That is good. It is the first step towards the sort of integration I want to acquire – for professional reasons as well as personal. Deep down, I have been thinking more and more that I should probably have chosen a military career when I was a young man. For all sort of reasons, I did not, but I now have a chance to play out that long-lost opportunity.

  15.00

  I meet 924 Troop in the sports hall. We are not rope climbing this afternoon but having an introduction to unarmed combat with Jon Stratford. Everyone is looking a little nervous as they have heard from other recruit troops that Corporal Stratford uses Nods as guinea pigs in his demonstrations.

  'Listen up,' Jon shouts as he strides into the sports hall. 'Everyone round the floor mats – move!'

  In a flash 924 Troop form a square around some matting in the middle of the hall.

  'OK. Squat!'

  The troop squat in one concerted movement.

  'There are times on operations when you may have
to attack the enemy or defend yourself with your hands. You may have lost your weapon or run out of ammunition but you still have plenty of other weapons at your disposal. Like these!' holding up his hands. 'And these!' pointing to his feet. 'These!' indicating his elbows. 'And these!' bringing up a knee. 'Right. Smith, out here!'

  Lee Smith, looking very dubious, comes to the middle of the mat. Jon Stratford gets him to kneel down in front of him.

  'There are many vulnerable points on the body which you need to learn. For example, the throat.' He grasps Lee's throat with one hand. 'Dig your fingers around the windpipe and pull in one smooth action. The result? You rip it out, which probably means death – but that's the business we're in.'

  Lee Smith retains his windpipe but his eyes are noticeably starting to water.

  'OK. The bollocks,' shouts Jon, grabbing at Lee's groin. 'Take a firm grip on the dangly bits and pull. Rip off the testicles and rip off the penis.' He then adds, with breathtaking understatement, 'This should give you the upper hand!'

  Lee Smith's tackle is still thankfully intact but his eyes are now streaming.

  18.30

  My mobile phone has no signal in my room and no one is allowed to use mobiles openly on camp so I drive out of the main gate and head down to the service station on the M5. This has become my sanctuary – somewhere I can escape to for the occasional break from the khaki world of Lympstone. Most of the training staff go home at night but I am permanently 'aboard', so every couple of days I treat myself to an hour at the service station where I can catch up on phone calls and get a coffee and a bun as well as supplement my own rations with all sorts of goodies from the Marks & Spencer here.