Commando

by Chris Terrill

  The first person I phone is Laura, my assistant back in London. She is running my office and company, Uppercut Films, single-handedly and is proving an absolute rock in my absence. She is young and relatively inexperienced but incredibly committed, very able and fiercely loyal. I have planned that she should come down to Lympstone sometime soon to meet some of the recruits I am filming with. This is because I also want to start filming with their families and I need Laura to contact them and start organising trips to meet them. I also want her to build up relationships with the families so that she remains in contact with them once we have deployed to Afghanistan. The only problem I can foresee by bringing her to Lympstone is that, being extremely attractive, she might cause a mini sensation among the recruits and Bootnecks!

  'Hello, Laura,' I say into my mobile.

  'Hi,' she says. 'How is it down there?'

  We have a long talk and I tell her all about the characters I am meeting. I describe Terry John in detail as well as Orlando Rogers and Bertie Kerr. I also confide in her the problems I am having on the ropes.

  'Oh, you'll do it,' she says. 'I know you will.'

  'Hmmm, maybe,' I say, unconvinced. 'But if I don't it won't be the end of the world. The main thing is the filming.'

  'What's the food like?'

  'It's good, and plenty of it. We have four meals a day and in between everyone seems to fill up on chocolate and Hobnobs!'

  'Hobnobs? Right, I'm going to bake you a load of my special cookies which you can collect next time you're in London. I'll do enough for you to share with the training team but that Orlando guy mustn't eat them all!'

  The rest of the week is hectic. I continue to follow 924 Troop and monitor their progress, particularly their introduction to the weapon they will eventually carry as fully-fledged Royal Marines Commandos – the SA80 assault rifle. I also have the opportunity to spend time with Bertie Kerr and his batch of young officers as they go on a riot-control exercise. This is very dramatic and about as authentic as it could be short of being the real thing. The young officers attempt to provide the 'control' while a collection of other marines and sailors provide the 'riot' and they do not pull their punches. A number of scenarios are worked through and a number of tactics are employed to suppress viciously played-out uprisings, insurrections and demonstrations both by day and by night. Real charges are made by both sides, real punches are thrown, real kicks are kicked. The only things that are not real are the rocks being hurled because they are potatoes – but they are of the solid baking variety and when they find their mark cause substantial damage. By the end of the day there are a number of cracked teeth, split lips and one dislocated shoulder. Bertie Kerr got isolated by the baying crowd at one point, had his shield stolen and received a right good kicking, but loved every minute of it.

  'That was fantastic,' he says in one of the breaks between riots. 'It's good to let off steam like this but it's also important to have a sense of what it could be like. Most of our riot-control tactics were perfected in Northern Ireland and we can now transfer them to places like Basra. We don't yet need them in Afghanistan but you never know when we might.'

  It's good that I'm beginning to spend time with Bertie and the officers because not only is it giving me greater insights into the world of the Royal Marine but it could also give me another valuable opportunity to get out to Afghanistan. If Bertie is deployed to Helmand Province in December when he passes out, I may be able to go with him or join him out there when the recruits are having their Christmas break. This would give me some fantastic experience of operating in a war zone and prepare me for my eventual trip with those of 924 Troop who will be deployed in March after they have passed out. Dave Nicholson is already working on this possibility because it is not straightforward to get someone like me embedded into a front-line position, especially for the length of time I would want to be there which would be weeks and months rather than mere days.

  13 July

  I am back with 924 Troop to spend a couple of days and nights at a place called Woodbury Common – a large expanse of heathland a few miles from Lympstone. This is where recruits practise living under bivouacs and start getting used to cooking and eating military rations. We're on an exercise called Quick Cover and the name of the game is camouflage – an art commandos have to master if they are ever to infiltrate and survive behind enemy lines. Everyone cuts handfuls of gorse, grass and wild plants to stuff into their webbing, helmets, belts and boots in order to blend into the landscape. Some do better than others and conceal themselves to the point of invisibility. Others, however, get it completely wrong and, by choosing the wrong sort of vegetation to camouflage with, actually manage to make themselves stand out like beacons and therefore become perfect targets.

  Corporal Jim Glanfield is not impressed, especially when it takes twice as long as it should for half the recruits to complete their camouflaging.

  'You people have no fucking sense of urgency,' he screams. 'You just seem to love doing press-ups, don't you? OK, I can oblige – front support place!'

  This is an order we are now familiar with. The entire troop, laden with webbing and SA80 assault rifles, falls to the ground and adopts the press-up position.

  'Give me twenty!'

  The recruits pump out twenty press-ups – their penalty for being too slow and by no means the first time they have had to pay for it this morning.

  'They may be crap,' says Hamish Robb with a smirk, 'but they're going to end up with forearms and biceps like Popeye by the end of training.'

  'Get to your feet!' shouts Jim Glanfield. 'Right, from now on I want you to move like fucking greased weasel shit! D'you hear?'

  'Yes, Corporal!' shout the recruits, looking very sorry for themselves.

  I leave the hapless gathering for a moment to fetch another battery for my camera. I have left my equipment bag in the training team tent but as I walk in to collect it I am stopped dead in my tracks by a sight that nothing could have prepared me for. It is Orlando, not in the uniform of a Royal Marines Commando lieutenant, but in a pair of crutchless leather chaps, a see-through black satin thong and a blue leatherette peaked cap.

  'Hello, Chris,' he says cheerfully and as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

  'Hello, Orlando,' I say hesitantly. 'Is there something you want to tell me?'

  'What?' he says absent-mindedly as he sticks a big Mexican moustache to his upper lip. 'Oh, you mean the rig. I'm a gay biker.'

  'Oh really? I thought you liked to describe yourself as a "steely-eyed dealer of death and destruction". Are you going undercover?'

  'No. It's a bit of a laugh but part of the Nods' training. In a minute Sergeant Quinn is going to lecture them on how to read a landscape, teaching them to look out for anything that sticks out or looks out of the ordinary – like straight lines or ordered arrangements.'

  'Or gay bikers?' I suggest.

  'Exactly. As they start to search the landscape for telltale signs of human presence, I'm going to walk right across their field of vision. I hope to God they spot me and reckon I'm out of the ordinary. It's just a laugh but it'll make them remember the lesson.'

  'I reckon that's just your excuse to dress up like a gay biker, boss,' says Matt Adams who has just walked into the tent.

  'Ah well, yes. It does have that advantage of course,' says Orlando, puckering his lips at the corporal.

  Minutes later Orlando puts on a gigantic pair of sunglasses and steps out of the tent.

  I join the recruits for their lecture and wait to watch their reactions to Orlando as he struts across the near foreground like someone out of a gay pride march in San Francisco.

  The recruits notice him almost immediately but stand there open-mouthed. They all seem to think a genuine gay biker has wandered onto Woodbury Common and certainly have no suspicion that they are watching their esteemed troop commander. Seemingly oblivious of the recruit troop, Orlando just keeps walking and eventually disappears. Nothing more is said and the recruits are
left to work it out for themselves – or not . . .

  Overall, things are not going that well for 924 Troop at the moment. A total of ten people have now decided to leave which has brought the troop strength down to forty. Orlando, as troop commander, has the responsibility of getting as many of the recruits through training as possible so is not best pleased at the relatively large number of early casualties.

  'The troop is particularly young,' he says. 'They don't all have the maturity needed to see them through this sort of training. This is a man's world and some of them are still boys.'

  'They've just made a bad call,' I say. 'Better they realise that earlier rather than later.'

  'Well, often you find people leave, go back to Civvy Street and then come back in a couple of years when they're a bit more mature.'

  'People leaving can't be good for troop morale.'

  'No, it can get the men down, especially when they've bonded together. Some of these guys will never have got so close to other people in their lives, apart from their families, so to suddenly find your best mate has gone can be a bit of a kick in the goolies. On the other hand we don't want to hang on to people that drag down the overall standard of the troop because that is bad for morale as well.'

  'Are you worried about the troop, Orlando?'

  'Not really,' he says. 'But they're not pulling together at the moment. They're all doing their own thing and are not even thinking of working as a team. That is the Bootneck way, you see – always look after your oppo. You help him and he helps you – with everything from pressing and polishing right through to watching each other's back on boozy runs ashore to covering and protecting each other on the front line.'

  'How do you instil something like that if it doesn't come naturally?'

  'We have our ways, Chris. Watch and learn, mate!'

  15 July

  I have driven back to London for the weekend. I want to touch base with Laura at the office but I also want to go to my boxing gym – the Fitzroy Lodge in south London. It is a special place for me and full of special people that have been an important part of my world for years. The Fitzroy is a small but thriving gym built under railway arches near Lambeth Palace on the Thames. It is run by Mick Carney MBE – a real character and known by everyone in the boxing world on both sides of the Atlantic. A plain-speaking chain-smoker, Mick is as gruff as he is popular and it's always good to see him. He, like everyone else at the gym, knows what I'm doing and is very supportive of my attempt to win a Green Beret.

  I go into the changing room and see all the old familiar faces getting ready for a bit of sparring. Every Saturday morning we come together, knock six bells out of each other and then go down to a local cafe for a spot of breakfast. It is ritualistic as well as being addictive and I have been missing coming here since I moved down to Lympstone so it's a treat to be here today. One of my best friends boxes here – has done for years – an extraordinary guy called Glenn Charles. He is a giant of a man – not only in stature but also personality – and, even at forty-nine years old, can beat most of us up with one hand. Certainly he normally dispatches me very quickly, but he does the same to many of the young Turks as well which makes me feel a bit better.

  'Wotcha, Chris,' he barks in his cockney twang. 'How's the marines?'

  'Good, thanks. It's amazing living on camp and getting to know all the lads.'

  'How's it goin' on the ropes? You told me on the phone it was a bit of a nightmare.'

  'Still is, Glenn. Can't crack it yet.'

  'Well, you need to keep at it, mate,' he says as he wraps his knuckles with tape. 'Don't let a bit of old rope stop you.'

  'Chris,' says Giles, a Metropolitan Police marksman, 'I used to do a bit of rope climbing and I rigged up a rope at home. Glenn mentioned you were having a bit of trouble with the ropes so I've brought it in. Mick says we can put it up in the gym so you can practise here as well.'

  'Thanks, Giles. That's really thoughtful,' I say, genuinely touched.

  'We all want you to get that Green Beret, mate,' says Glenn. 'You're representing the Fitzroy Lodge, remember?'

  'That's right,' says Paul Wallman, another regular Saturday boxer and an A & E doctor at the Royal Free Hospital. 'And I want you to let me know about any injuries you get, OK?'

  'Thanks, Paul,' I say. 'But I wouldn't want to bother you –'

  'You won't be bothering me, Chris. I insist you keep me informed. I know what you'll be putting yourself through and Glenn's right – we're all rooting for you. Think of us as part of Team Terrill!'

  This is typical of the Fitzroy, which is why I love the place so much. In many ways it reminds me of the marines – especially the way everybody looks after their oppos. Maybe 924 Troop need to come and spend some time here.

  I have a happy morning thumping and being thumped. There is nothing more satisfying than landing a clean right hook or a swingeing uppercut sweetly onto its fleshy or bony target – even if it does belong to one of your friends. Well, they're trying to do exactly the same to me, after all. After sparring I try to do a bit of climbing on the rope Giles brought along, but my biceps are shot after throwing some twenty rounds' worth of punches. It is good to know the rope is here, however, because now, even on the odd weekend back in London, I'll be able to keep up the practice. In the back of my mind, though, I'm still worried that any amount of practice is not going to make any difference. I am beginning to think that I am simply not made for climbing ropes.

  After a full English breakfast at Pedoni's Café, which boasts the best and prettiest waitresses in south London, I head for the office where I have arranged to meet Laura. She has come in specially to go through a few papers but more importantly to give me three huge Tupperware containers packed with her special home-made oat cookies.

  'That one is for you,' she says. 'That one is for the training team and that one is for Terry John and all the boys in his room!'

  'Fantastic, Laura,' I say. 'But these will last less than two minutes. You haven't seen the way marines eat.'

  'Don't worry, I can make loads more.'

  I hand her a box of about twenty tapes I have shot as she will start to log the material in preparation for eventual editing.

  'You'll get to know some of the people I've told you about,' I say. 'And then if you come down you'll be able to recognise everybody.'

  'What do you mean "if" I come down?'

  'OK, when you come down – but the Bootnecks will be all over you . . .'

  'Don't worry, I can look after myself,' she laughs.

  16 July

  06.00

  I am back at Lympstone to find that one of the troop has been picked up for bad timekeeping so the whole troop is being punished by being given an early-morning kit inspection on the 'one fails – all suffer' principle. Everybody has laid out their kit outside the accommodation block and every item is being minutely inspected by the training team and it is not going well. One by one the recruits are found wanting, whether it be for a missing item, rust on their bayonets or a just badly presented kit. The entire troop fail except for one man – Terry John.

  Sergeant Quinn addresses the miserable-looking troop in his own inimitable way.

  'Men,' he shouts, 'you are fucking letting yourselves down, you are fucking letting me down and you are fucking letting the team down! It fucking stops here or else you will all be fucking sent home! I've got better fucking things to do with my fucking time than doing fucking early-morning inspections! It doesn't fucking amuse me, fellas. Do you understand?'

  'Yes, Sergeant!' they respond as one.

  'Right. Get out of my fucking sight. Dismiss!'

  The recruits return to their rooms to put their kit back in the cupboards and everyone knows that they will not have heard the last of this.

  'We're going to get it in the neck now,' says Jordan Slatter.

  'You bet we are,' says James Williams. 'They're going to go for the bloody jugular now.'

  'What do you think they'll do?' says Terr
y John.

  'Don't know, mate,' says Lee Smith. 'But you're gonna get it as well even though you passed. Sorry!'

  Everybody knows they are going to suffer for that kit inspection in no uncertain way, but no one knows how, when or where. The sword of Damocles is swinging and could fall at any time.

  17 July

  13.00

  The entire troop has been told to line up outside their accommodation dressed in CS95s. Orlando strides out and, without any explanation, shouts their marching orders.

  'Troop – right turn! Troop, by the right – quick march!'

  I follow on behind as we head down to the Lympstone railway station. Once there we cross the tracks and congregate on the pebbled shore of the River Exe. The tide is out so the river has become one huge mudflat extending a good half-mile across. We immediately notice that there are scattered figures standing in the mud some hundreds of yards away. The troop is lined up in two ranks with their backs to the river.

  'Listen up, 924 Troop,' barks Orlando, looking sterner than I have ever seen him. Gone is the 'gay biker', gone is the joker, gone is the carefree woman trapper. Right now Orlando is looking very serious and sombre and holding a rugby ball.

  'You all need a good kick up the bum and you're going to get it,' he snaps at the hapless troop. 'Normally, we take you into the mud to give you a bit of fun and play a bit of rugby.' He pauses while he kicks the ball as far as he can over the railway lines and back into the base. 'That is not going to happen today, fellas, because you have not earned it – but you're still going into the mud.' He pauses again and looks up and down the lines of wide-eyed and worried recruits. 'Soon you will be taken to your physical limits and you are not going to like it. That is the point. I am simply not prepared to send people like you to the front line in Afghanistan where you will be fighting alongside my friends and colleagues. It would be embarrassing and it would be dangerous. You are not up to it and you are not even showing us that you want to be up to it. After today you may change your attitudes. If not, we don't want you in the Royal Marines. Troop – about turn!'