I laugh and greet the ever-smiling St Vincentian with a bear hug. 'It was great, Terry, but first of all I want to know about you. What's happening with the legs? Have you tried any more speed marching?'
'No, not yet,' he says with a shrug. 'They say I could have surgery for this compartment syndrome in my legs but it wouldn't definitely sort out the problem.'
'So, what are you going to do?'
'I'm going to leave, Chris,' he says quietly. 'I'm going to go back to Derby and then maybe I'll join the Royal Engineers or the REME like Theo.'
'Leave Lympstone? Are you sure, Terry?'
'Yes, mate. I'm going to leave – it's definite. I have to accept that I've got this problem with my calves and that it'll always stop me doing Royal Marine training, but I'll be fine in the army. I mean, I'm fit in everything else. Are you still going to go for the commando tests, Chris?'
'Well, I hope so. But I have to get through the Bottom Field Pass-out first.'
'Good luck with that, man!'
'Thanks. But when are you leaving?'
'Oh, not for a couple of weeks. There's a lot of admin to do and I still have to sort out my visa and stuff.'
09.30
I head back to my accommodation feeling desperately sad for Terry. He has tried so hard to get through training, and despite setbacks and self-doubts has persevered against all the odds. He's always managed to battle through by sheer force of personality and determination but has finally been defeated by a congenital condition he didn't know he had and which he can do nothing about. As I climb the stairs to my room I consider yet again the unforgiving nature of training at Lympstone. It helps many achieve their greatest ambitions of course, but it can cruelly shatter the dreams of others.
Partly because of Terry and partly because of my growing worries about the Bottom Field, I get back to my room feeling pretty dejected. Resorting to some displacement activity, I put some batteries on charge and start to unpack my bergen. I'm just pulling out my sleeping bag, and half a ton of Afghan sand with it, when there's a knock on my door. 'Come in,' I shout.
The door opens and in bounds Jane. 'Chris!' she shrieks in her broad Brummie brogue and gives me a kiss on the cheek. 'So glad you're safe.' Jane is instant morale; a walking, talking tonic. Although already full of tea I readily agree to having another cup with her, so we go up to the laundry room where she keeps the kettle. Jane hasn't lost her extraordinary ability to talk continuously without seeming to take a breath, but she's never boring, always funny and invariably outrageous. I sit on the washing machine, sip my tea and listen to all her latest hot gossip. For half an hour I forget my worries but then Jon Stratford returns my call.
'Chris, welcome back,' he says in his usual friendly way. 'You better come down to the Bottom Field in about an hour. We'll have a run-through and see what state you're in after Ghaners. How are you feeling?'
'Well, I've lost weight and a bit of strength, I think,' I say as dismissively as I can. 'But my cardiovascular fitness is still good, I reckon.'
'And your shoulder?'
'Well, I'll have to see. At least it's had a bit of a rest.'
'OK. We'll give you a test run to see what's what. Come down in fatigues, combat jacket and webbing with full weight.'
I tell Jane I have to get prepared for the assault course and confide in her that I'm not looking forward to it one little bit. She gives me an encouraging smile and a good-luck slap on the back.
God, how I hate the Bottom Field. There is nothing to recommend it at all – pure pain from beginning to end. A real 'honking hangout', as a Bootneck might say. It requires immense strength and stamina combined with elaborate technique and pure, bull-headed determination. Success on the Bottom Field depends on a willing body, a willing mind and a willing spirit. I'm not sure I have any of these at the moment.
10.30
I wander down to the Bottom Field and from a distance I see the dreaded obstacles – giant instruments of torture built into the thick sticky mud that covers the entire area. As I approach nearer I see the muscular shape of Jon Stratford waiting by the climbing ropes. To my dismay I see he's with Captain Sean Lerwill, the head of physical training at Lympstone. I'm worried enough doing this in front of Jon but having the boss there as well is going to put me under even more pressure. Run-through or not, if I do really badly Sean could decide that enough is enough and stop me from going any further. Right now I half wish I was back on top of the Shrine dodging bullets.
Jon warms me up – getting the pulse rate up and stretching the muscles. Then he brings me to the thirty-foot ropes. 'Stand by,' he shouts. I choose one of the thick, rain-sodden ropes, reach up as high as I can to grasp it with both hands and await the order.
'To the top – climb!'
I pull myself up so that my chest is level with my hands, grip the rope between my legs and feet, kick out and begin the long climb. I try to make myself push from my legs rather than pull with my arms but I know immediately that my rhythm is out and that I'm depending far too much on my biceps. Five shifts later and twenty-five feet above the ground, my arms are burning with lactic acid and I'm still five-foot short of my target – the silver tape wrapped round the very top of the rope. I have to get both hands on the tape to pass. I grit my teeth and try to find some extra strength to pull myself up but to no avail. My left shoulder is throbbing like hell and I cannot find another inch let alone another five feet.
'OK, Chris. To the ground!' shouts Jon. He knows there's a danger that if I keep trying to struggle upwards, I may lose my grip and either slide down the rope burning the skin off my hands, like Recruit Hudson did some months ago, or just plummet to the gravel below and break my legs. I lower myself down gingerly, cursing as I do so. This is already a nightmare.
Jon says nothing but gives me two minutes to get my breath back and then starts me on the assault course.
'Three, two, one – go!'
I try to put the ropes out of my mind and determine to give the course my best shot. I leap the flooded tank trap just clearing the water, I hurl myself at the six-foot wall and just manage to pull myself over. It all goes reasonably well until I get to the monkey bars – fourteen of them over a tank of freezing water – that I have to swing from, hand over hand, to get to the other side. I get over halfway but then I feel it again in my left shoulder – an agonising pain shooting right down through my bicep and I feel my grip slipping. I will myself on and somehow make it to the other side, but I know my time is slow and I think I'm breathing far too deeply for this stage in the course. I push myself over the remaining seven obstacles but I can feel myself slowing all the time. I crash through the finishing line in a time of five minutes forty seconds – forty seconds over the maximum time allowance. That is two out of two tests I would have failed if this was the real thing.
Next is the fearsome fireman's carry – a 200-yard sprint carrying a man on my back with both of us carrying the mandatory thirty-one pounds of webbing and weapon. Jon Stratford pulls on his webbing and steps forward. I lift him onto my back and wait for Sean Lerwill to count me down.
'Ready? Three, two, one – go!'
I break into a sprint and cover the first twenty yards quite quickly but then the wet, sticky mud deepens and I begin to slow. At the same time my legs start to seize up and by fifty yards my run has become a sluggish, jerking walk. My lungs are burning and I am gasping for air. Jon, on my back, and Sean, at my side, are both screaming encouragement but it is all I can do to drag myself and all that I am carrying over the finishing line. I am eleven seconds over the ninety-second allowance. Three out of three fails and I reckon it's about to get even worse because next is my nemesis – the dreaded full regain.
I climb the metal ladder to a fifty-foot rope that stretches across the infamous Lympstone tank about twenty feet below. I lay myself down on top of the rope and, with little conviction and next to no determination, start to pull myself towards the middle. I then reluctantly swing down beneath the rope by lettin
g go with my feet and holding on only with my hands. Now, using the natural bounce of my body, I try to hook my feet back on the rope prior to trying to regain my position on top of it. But I miss and fall back. I start to swing my body to and fro to gather momentum for another attempt to hook the rope with my feet but I already know I'm defeated. My grip is slipping. I make one half-hearted attempt to kick upwards but to no avail. My fingers lose all strength and I splash into the freezing tank of stinking water. Again. I always end up in this bloody tank. With everything I'm wearing and carrying now waterlogged I begin the long, hard swim to the edge of the tank. It is all I can do not to drown – though, the way I'm feeling right now, I'm beginning to think that might be my best option. I am distraught and deeply embarrassed.
Jon and Sean pull me out of the tank but words fail me. I know this was only a run-through and not a proper test but it has done nothing for my confidence. This was the worst possible display, especially in front of Sean. Above all, though, I feel I've let Jon down.
'Sorry, Jon,' I say finally. 'That was pathetic.'
'No need to apologise, Chris,' he says. 'You have lost strength clearly but also two weeks on the front line is bloody draining. You looked exhausted before you started.'
Sean is just as supportive but also points out, as if I didn't already know, that I must pass Bottom Field to be allowed to proceed.
'Aim to go for the test at the end of next week,' he says. 'Jon will book you in for a morning when I'm free, OK?'
'Come and find me later, Chris,' says Jon. 'I'll check the diary and give you a date.'
Two weeks to prepare for the real thing. I feel like I need two months to get into the right sort of shape. I trudge back to my room caked with mud, dripping with water and laden with worry. Head down, I avoid the gaze of anyone I pass. This is a walk of shame and the telltale trail of water I leave behind me is the surefire sign I have just been in the tank – ergo failed the full regain.
15.00
After stopping off at the sickbay to pick up some painkillers for my shoulder, I join up with 924 Troop as they report to Jon Stratford at the Tarzan assault course. Here they're going to be acquainted with a whole new series of aerial obstacles that will require everybody to learn some very specific techniques – techniques that are designed not only to allow the recruits to get over the course as fast as possible but also to protect them from serious injury or worse. These obstacles are not for the faint-hearted or for anyone with a fear of heights. The first obstacle, for example, is portentously dubbed 'The Death Slide' – and that apparently is the easiest of all of them . . .
'Listen up, lads,' shouts Jon Stratford, who is surrounded by half a dozen PTIs. 'This is the famous Tarzan course you've heard about, thought about and worried about since the day you got here. Your time has come!'
The troop look at each other nervously. Only James Williams, Mark Blight and Michael Urhegyi look anything like raring to go – the rest are eyeing up the obstacles in front of them with suspicion and not a little concern. Poor Joe Hogan is nursing an injury to his right foot and is clearly still feeling it despite the painkillers he's been living on for the last week.
'It might look difficult,' says Jon, 'but, like everything else, it's easy when you know how, so pay attention. If you don't get it right you could come to some serious grief. . .' He pauses to let his words sink in. 'Broken bones have happened – mostly feet, ankles, legs and arms, but backs can go too as well as necks so listen and watch very carefully.' Again, he pauses to make sure everybody is taking in what he is saying. 'That is why,' he continues, 'we never ever do the Tarzan course without an ambulance in attendance.' He points to the field behind us just as a military ambulance pulls up and takes position. For some this may be a comforting sight. For others it is nothing less than ominous and ill-omened.
'Remember,' says Jon, 'when it comes to the commando tests you will be required to complete the Tarzan assault course and then sprint straight down to the Bottom Field to complete that as well. But first things first. Let's now show you how Tarzan is done!'
At this point another PTI steps forward to demonstrate the techniques required on the fearsome-looking obstacles in front of us. He climbs a series of ladders up a seventy-foot metal-framed tower – this takes him to the start of the aforementioned 'death slide'. A long rope stretches from the top of the tower to the ground at an angle of about forty-five degrees and this is, of course, the way down. The PTI holds a short length of rope looped at both ends. This he puts over the descending rope and then, placing a hand through each loop, holds on as tightly as he can. On a count of three he leaps into thin air, hangs on his short running rope and uses gravity to slide him earthwards. At first he keeps his legs curled up to his chest but as he gains momentum he kicks out, straightens his body and accelerates dramatically down the death slide. At the bottom the rope levels out about ten feet off the ground and the incoming slider, violently halted by another PTI holding onto a brake rope, dismounts and drops to the ground. He immediately sprints for the second obstacle. This involves climbing a gantry, grabbing a long rope and then swinging, Tarzan-like, into some upright cargo netting some twenty feet away. Once on the netting he climbs towards the top as fast as he can and then manoeuvres his feet onto a wire tightrope about fifty feet long and about forty feet off the ground. Then, holding onto a parallel wire above his head, he begins to slide his feet sideways along the tightrope. He is clearly concentrating hard to maintain balance while maximising speed of movement, and we all gasp as he wobbles spectacularly when a gust of wind catches him off balance. There is no safety net and we all realise that if anyone fell from that height the waiting ambulance might be too late . . .
'When you do this, lads,' says Jon Stratford, 'don't look down. Look straight ahead towards the horizon and go as fast as you can. You can't hang around on any of these obstacles cos, as always, you're against the clock.'
The demonstrator then moves effortlessly from the tightrope to a single rope, some fifty foot long and also a good forty foot high, running parallel to the ground. Lying across the top of the rope he moves fast along it, using the same technique as we've been taught on the full-regain rope, pulling with his arms and pushing with one leg. The other leg hangs down to provide balance.
'You're used to this technique already,' says Jon. 'So you have no excuse – go like the clappers. If you come off there should be no dramas –just do a full regain. You all know how to do that.' I suck my teeth in frustration, knowing I am the only man here never to have achieved a full regain.
Once at the other end of the rope the PTI literally hops onto two parallel ropes stretched side by side about eighteen inches apart. With one leg on each rope he then crawls at pace to the other end. Here he jumps onto a wire ladder bridge stretching over to another high gantry. Using hand wires above his head, he makes his way, as sure-footed as a mountain goat, to a rigid platform on another high tower. Now he slides backwards down yet another rope to a lower gantry. From here he runs, at first slowly but gathering pace, along a narrow plank about twenty feet off the ground. At the end of the plank he hurls himself across a 'chasm' towards a cargo net. He attaches onto the netting by punching a fist right through one of the holes and then hooking the arm to catch the rope.
'Don't hesitate when you do this one,' bellows Jon. 'Work up to a sprint, leap, then drive the arm through the netting. Make sure you make a fist out of your hand or else you're going to snap fingers. And if you hesitate when you leap you will either fall or you will try and kick into the netting which is the best way I can think of busting a leg.'
The demonstrator then climbs upwards over the top of the netting and down the other side all the way to the ground – about thirty feet. He then sprints towards and up an inclined platform, leaps to grab a hanging rope and then, using the consequent swing, clears a massive log and lands with two feet on the ground.
'OK,' says Jon, 'that's the end of the Tarzan course, lads. It's all about technique and being co
nfident at working at heights. You have to be able to complete the course in under five minutes and you know what they say – practice makes perfect . . .'
The troop shuffle uneasily on their collective feet. They know what's corning.
'Right, line up at the death slide. Go!'
Everybody rushes to the bottom of the death slide. There they line up and, grabbing the short length of rope they need to slide with, they start to climb up the tower. Then, one by one, under the watchful eye of a PTI who counts them down, they leap into space and start hurtling earthwards. James Williams steps forward. 'Three, two, one – go!' He kicks off, brings his knees to his chest, then seconds later straightens up and lets gravity do the rest. Georgie Sparks follows. 'Three, two, one – go!' Mike Urhegyi is next, 'Three, two, one – go!' then Dan Clifford, Joe Hogan, Greg Utting . . . I count each one down with envy. There are no refusals and they all get airborne, but as they accelerate downwards different faces tell different stories – some look teeth-grittingly excited while others look eye-bulgingly terrified. Once at the bottom everyone carries on to the next obstacles and at every point a PTI is there to shout orders, advice and encouragement. I can do nothing but step back and watch the guys learning all these very specialised techniques. I would give anything to be up there with them, because they're now pulling ahead of me very significantly and I know it will be incredibly tough catching up – even if I do crack that bloody Bottom Field next week, which I'm beginning to accept is very unlikely.
The guys go round the course twice in loose order – that is without webbing and weapon – and then Jon Stratford gives them a breather before sending them round yet again. This time they do it in full fighting order – that is with webbing and weapon weighing thirty-one pounds. As they lead off again from the death slide and proceed over the other obstacles I can see they're much more confident and also that there is already a great improvement in their techniques. I walk up to the spectacular chasm leap to watch everybody hurling themselves into the cargo netting and get there just in time to see Greg Utting starting his run. Just as he has been told, he starts at walking pace, builds up to a jog and then a sprint. On the last step he soars into the air but instead of punching his arm through the netting he panics and impacts feet first. He cries out in agony as he clutches desperately for a handhold. Two PTIs run to the bottom of the cargo net in case he falls. Slowly and agonisingly he lowers himself down where leaning on the shoulders of the PTIs he limps towards the waiting ambulance which rushes him to sickbay. It looks like 924 Troop has lost yet another of the originals.
Commando Page 22
