Commando

by Chris Terrill

  Another short sprint leads to a series of stepped scaffolding bars that we have to climb and then jump from. This is followed by a run to some low-level netting that we have to crawl under on our bellies. It is over sharp stones and gravel that cut the knees and hands. Next is a ghastly set of about fourteen monkey bars over a tank of water that we have to get across hand over hand. I find this particularly difficult as the strain on my shoulders is excruciating – particularly my left one which I think I've injured slightly on the ropes. The monkey bars are followed by a sprint and a climb to the top of a long zigzag wall, some eight foot high, which we have to run along before leaping into a gravel pit. By now I am breathing very hard and my running is slowing significantly.

  'Faster!' shouts one of the PTIs who are helping Jon oversee the obstacle run. 'You cannot afford to slow down on the sprints – that's where you make up your time!'

  I attempt to reinject some speed back into my legs but, now laden with lactic acid, they are feeling extremely heavy and uncomfortable. Next on the course is a climb to a rope that stretches between two scaffolding towers. This is the 'half regain' and necessitates crawling over the top of the rope before falling underneath it but keeping hold with the feet and the hands. Then, by a complicated technique that involves a lot of hooking on of arms and elbows and a violent swivelling of the body, we have to try and re-establish our positions on top of the rope. Once achieved, we continue to pull ourselves across the rope and then climb down the other side.

  Yet another sprint leads to a swinging wooden bridge that we have to clear in three leaps before heading uphill to climb first a five-foot wall and then a ten-foot gate. Fifty yards further on is a long stretch of dark tunnel which we have to crawl through on hands and knees before launching ourselves at a ten-foot wall that we pull ourselves over using a rope. We finish with one last frantic sprint to the line where Jon Stratford is standing with a stopwatch. Exhausted and with lungs screaming, we all fall to the ground and suck in oxygen with long, croaking gasps. That was short, sharp and utterly torturous. My time is four minutes and fifty-nine seconds – just one second to spare. But, I remind myself, I was carrying no weight. Eventually I have to do this just as fast or faster carrying thirty-two pounds on my back!

  After no more than a two-minute break we line up on the fireman's carry course.

  'I need you in twos,' says Jon. 'Choose someone of similar height and weight.'

  The recruits pair up appropriately so that each man will be carrying someone of roughly the same mass. Unfortunately, there are an even number of recruits so there is no one left for me to team up with. Jon notices immediately and shouts towards the training team.

  'Somebody join up with Chris.'

  To my horror Orlando steps forward and walks over to me with a wicked smile spread over his face.

  'You bastard,' I hiss. 'You weigh about the same as a rhinoceros.'

  'Stop dripping, Tomcat!' he laughs. 'You're training to be a commando, not a Girl Guide!'

  Orlando is the best part of sixteen stone whereas I am currently weighing in at no more than twelve and a half stone, so this is going to be a horrendous mismatch – something which Orlando clearly finds very amusing.

  'Standby,' shouts Jon.

  'All aboard!' says Orlando.

  Reluctantly I bend towards him and brace myself as he jumps front first on to my right shoulder. I straighten my body and put my arm round his massive legs in an attempt to stabilise the load.

  'Three, two, one . . . go!'

  I push off with my right leg and try to break into a run. Some hope! I stagger, stumble, totter, lurch and wobble up the course and with each step I feel I am sinking deeper and deeper into the mud. By the halfway mark I swear I can hear my spine creaking but it is drowned out by Orlando's constant chattering.

  'Go on, Tomcat! Dig in! Push off the legs! Pump those arms! Faster, Tomcat – faster!'

  I have practically slowed to a standstill but I am determined to finish even if it takes until midnight. It is a matter of personal pride now – I have to carry this man-monster over the line or die trying. The time limit of ninety seconds is long gone and I can see all the other recruits have finished and are ready to swap over for the return run but still I plod on. Finally, buckling at the knees, I fall over the finishing line ready to expire. Orlando jumps off my shoulders, picks me up like a rag doll, hurls me over his shoulder and bounds down the course, not so much like a rhinoceros but more like a leaping antelope. I hate him!

  Finally, we all attempt the dreaded full regain over the tank of freezing water. I have already managed a half regain so I am reasonably happy about the technique involved in pivoting the body back on the rope. This time, however, we have to effect the regain from a much more difficult position: hanging from the rope by the hands only.

  The recruits have mixed results. Some are naturals and execute the exercise with impressive agility – crawling rapidly across the rope to the halfway point, letting their legs fall and then, using the natural bounce of the rope, immediately reattach by hooking the feet back on. A lithe swivel of the body sees them back on top of the rope and then, after a brief pause to establish balance, they continue their crawl to the other side. Others, however, make it to the halfway point but then, after letting go with their legs, are unable to kick up high enough to hook the feet back on the rope. They try swinging backwards and forwards to gain enough momentum to get the feet high enough but this is so energy sapping on the arms that they invariably lose their grip and plummet unceremoniously into the water below.

  My turn comes and as I pull myself across the rope I look down at the lapping water and wonder what the outcome of my efforts will be. Will I swing down, bounce with the rope and gracefully re-establish myself on top like an Olympic gymnast, or lose my grip and fall like a stone into the murky tank?

  Half an hour later I walk into my accommodation block and down the corridor towards my room. Jane is washing down the boards and looks up as I approach.

  'Chris, you're drenched,' she gasps. 'You look like a drowned rat. Whatever happened?'

  'Tried to be a double-hard bastard commando,' I say. 'But failed . . . miserably.'

  5

  Bye-Bye, Bertie

  The nature of the training for the recruits is changing dramatically and so is its impact on them. Everything is escalating in terms of its tactical relevance as well as its emotional and physical demands on the individual. The physical instruction, for example, which impinges more directly on me, is fundamentally different now and much more geared to attaining battle fitness rather than just basic personal fitness. This aspect of the training has never really been recreational, though in the early days some of the sessions in the gym and the swimming pool were more akin to the sort of sports training that many of us would have been used to in Civvy Street. Now, however, we are moving into a mode of fitness training that none of us would have experienced before and which is incontrovertibly military in nature – designed to give us the physical abilities that would allow us to perform as front-line commandos. Inevitably, this involves not just boosting our muscle and lung power but also essentially increasing our mental and emotional toughness, our ability to overcome pain and discomfort and our will to succeed against the odds. I have said before that I felt my experience as a long-distance runner would give me an initial advantage of attitude over some of the young recruits because I was used to contending with and overcoming pain – but that's no longer the case. All the lads have now acquired that same attitude and even I am in new and uncharted territory in terms of what is being demanded of us. I've noticed a dramatic change in my body shape and my fitness levels but I'm also noticing many niggles, joint pains and muscle strains. This is the natural result of the intensity of training I'm subjecting myself to, but also, in no small part, my age. I just pray that my bones continue to absorb the impact and my muscles continue to rise to the challenges.

  17 October

  07.55

  This
morning we have an important physical criteria test – the four-mile speed march, something each of us must pass to be allowed to proceed with training. Eventually, in the commando tests, we will have to do a nine-mile speed march, so the four-miler is an important gauge of our abilities to date. We've had a few practices at lesser distances since the initial introduction at Okehampton when Terry Callow tripped and busted his knee, but none of us has done four miles before. Any of the recruits failing today's four-miler will be allowed one retake tomorrow but if they still fail they will be ejected from 924 Troop and put into Hunter Company for remedial training – everyone's greatest fear.

  We line up at the starting point just across the road from the commando camp. Today we are carrying full fighting order weighing thirty-two pounds plus a ten-pound weapon – the SA80 assault rifle. As I'm a non-combatant I am not allowed a weapon so I've slung a ten-pound tripod in a black canvas case over my shoulder instead.

  'Listen up, fellas,' says Orlando. 'Dig in today. You have to pass this if you don't want to be backtrooped. You have forty minutes to complete four miles as a group. Keep together, keep the pace, keep the step and keep the faith. If there are any casualties along the way – sprained ankles, bust toes or anything – we'll put you in the wagon. A Land Rover will be following us all the way round – but you don't want to end up in that because it means you'll have failed. Yes, you'll get one more crack at it tomorrow but don't depend on that because you'll be knackered from today.'

  The recruits breathe in hard, summoning their inner resolution.

  'Smash it today, fellas,' says Orlando, punching the air. 'When it starts to hurt – and it will – think your way through it. Imagine you're in Afghanistan behind enemy lines and you're having to rendezvous with a helicopter to pick you up. You have just forty minutes to get there because the chopper's not going to hang around. Beast yourselves, fellas. One day this could be for real – think about it.'

  Led by Jon Stratford, we set off, as usual, at a fast walk but soon break into a run. I find that once you've established a rhythm in speed marching it's relatively straightforward to keep going. It does hurt and it takes time to get used to all the extra weight you have to carry but, of all the physical challenges, this is the one that, so far, I feel most comfortable with as it is not dissimilar in its physical and psychological demands to long-distance running.

  The first two miles aren't too bad as we alternate reasonably comfortably between fast walking up the hills and the typical shuffling run down the hills and on the flat. Once into the third mile, however, some of the recruits begin to falter. Gaps start to open up in the files as some begin to fall off the pace. I look back and see Terry John in some distress at the back of the troop. He is struggling and the contorted expression on his face betrays the pain he must be feeling in his legs and body. I fall back to accompany and encourage him.

  'Come on, Terry,' I say. 'What's the problem?'

  'My legs are hurting,' he pants. 'It feels like cramp but all over.'

  He is running very stiffly and clearly in great discomfort.

  'Try to run through it, Terry. Get your rhythm back and you'll find it easier.'

  After a while he seems to pick up the pace again and manages to catch up with the troop. He still looks like he's suffering but at the same time trying to think his way through the pain.

  'Well done, Terry,' I say as I pick up my own pace and take my position back in the troop.

  Everybody digs deep for the last mile. Exhaustion is overtaking all of us and even the gentlest of inclines feel like we are having to scale the steepest of mountain slopes, but we keep going, encouraged by the knowledge that we're nearing the end of the torment. Eventually, we cross the line in about thirty-eight minutes. The physical relief of stopping is immense and the emotional relief of having succeeded is very sweet.

  'Where's Terry?' says James Williams, looking round.

  'He started losing it about half a mile back,' says Joe Hogan. 'The company commander was with him trying to urge him on.'

  I hadn't noticed Terry falling back again as I was concentrating so hard on my own performance. Some of us ditch our webbing and run back down the course to give Terry some encouragement. We find him some hundred yards away, doing his best to run but staggering badly. Paul Mattin, the company commander, is with him doing all he can to motivate him.

  'Come on, Recruit John,' he's shouting. 'Just another hundred yards and you're there.'

  'Come on, Terry,' we yell. 'You can do it, mate!'

  If he picks up speed now he could just about make it in time but he looks absolutely spent. I cannot understand it because Terry is extremely fit, and as hard as the speed march is, it is not by any stretch of the imagination as exacting or demanding as some of the other things we do – like the Bottom Field assault course, for example. I try to run alongside him and get him into some sort of rhythm again by counting out the steps.

  'One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!'

  'I can't feel my legs, Chris!' he whispers. 'They won't work!'

  'It's just numbness, Terry,' I say. 'Think of your family back in St Vincent willing you on. Think of your mum, Terry. Do it for her . . .'

  'Mamma!' he cries out. 'Mamma!'

  He grits his teeth hard and stares unblinkingly in front of him and gradually manages to raise his knees a little higher. His stride lengthens and his speed increases.

  Everybody is shouting and screaming as he turns the corner into the finishing stretch. He throws himself over the line and falls on his knees utterly exhausted and drained. We all look round to Jon Stratford who is looking at his watch.

  'Forty-one minutes and twenty seconds.'

  Terry has failed. Despite that courageous run at the end he did not achieve the required time. He will have one more go tomorrow morning to keep his place in 924 Troop.

  An hour later I'm sitting with Terry on his bed back at the accommodation. He's recovered a little and is even smiling again.

  'I just hit a wall,' he says. 'I think I panicked and didn't keep my discipline. My breathing was all over the place and so my legs didn't get oxygen. I'll be fine tomorrow – especially as I won't have to run in a big troop. It's just me and Johnny Bulze, who also didn't pass today.'

  'OK, Terry,' I say, 'I'll run with you tomorrow as well, and I think some of the lads want to come and give you support.'

  'Thanks, Chris, I'm sure it'll be fine but it would be good to have some extra company. I have to pass. Failure is not an option because, now, after all this time, I'm certain about wanting to be a Royal Marine. It's my dream again.'

  'And all the doubts you've had?'

  'All part of the process. I had to battle through them and I'm stronger for having overcome them. No, I must pass tomorrow because I don't want to be backtrooped. I don't want to leave 924 Troop. This is my new family.'

  18 October

  07.00

  It is raining as I line up with Terry back on the start line of the four-mile speed march. We are joined by John Bulze who also has to rerun the course and four other recruits who are here to shout support. Jon Stratford and 'H' Quinn are in charge of the rerun and Matt Adams is driving the safety wagon.

  We start at a brisk marching pace to get the lungs going and after around two hundred yards break into a run. Terry is looking good, and, running side by side with Johnny Bulze, is keeping a strict rhythm. His knees are high and his stride is long. We come to the first of the hills and decelerate into a fast walk as we lean into the slope and work our way up. At the top of the hill we break once more into a run on Jon's order. Still Terry is looking good, although Bulze seems to be edging slightly ahead.

  'Keep up, John!' shouts 'H'. 'Stay together!'

  Ten minutes later Terry is suddenly struggling again. His legs have inexplicably stiffened and Bulze has opened up a gap of at least thirty yards. Jon Stratford is staying with Bulze as he has to determine the pace from the front. 'H' has fallen back to try and keep Terry moving forw
ard.

  'Come on, John,' says the plain-speaking sergeant. 'Don't slow up or you'll be in that fucking wagon!'

  Terry tries to respond but, once again, is having to battle hard against mounting physical distress. Half a mile later the gap between Terry and Bulze is two hundred yards and growing.

  'Focus on each stride, Terry,' I say. 'Don't worry about anything else –just one stride at a time.'

  I try to encourage him but I don't really know what to say because I don't really understand what the problem is. Is it mental or is it physical? Something strange is happening to stop Terry getting through these speed runs and right now things are not looking good for him.

  'Start running now, John,' shouts 'H', 'or it's all over.'

  Terry throws his body forward and pumps his arms in an attempt to get his legs working and manages to break back into a run – but only for about ten yards. He then starts to walk again on leaden legs over which he seems to have next to no control.

  'Right, that's it,' shouts 'H'. 'In the wagon, John!'

  'No, Sergeant!' cries Terry, hitting his legs with his fists. 'I can do it!'

  'In the wagon, John! Now!'

  Terry stops momentarily then, refusing to accept the inevitable, tries to walk forward again, but now he can hardly stand.

  'John,' screams 'H', 'get in that wagon now or I will throw you in!'

  Terry turns and stumbles to the Land Rover coming up behind. As soon as it stops he climbs into the back and I climb in with him. For a moment Terry says nothing and just stares blankly into space but then he breaks down and starts to sob uncontrollably. His world has fallen apart and after weeks and months of struggling with all manner of inner demons and self-doubts about wanting to be a Royal Marine he has failed on something as prosaic as a speed march – and just when he seems to have found an inner strength and motivation to take him through the rest of training and up to the commando tests.