Commando

by Chris Terrill

  The rest of the recruits head back to their accommodation block for a shower before supper. More depressed than ever, I head back to the officers' mess for a cup of tea and a good think about things.

  17.00

  I take my tea to one of the comfortable armchairs by the window that looks out onto the parade ground and the River Exe and I seriously consider my situation. I'm pleased for the rest of the lads that they've moved on to the Tarzan assault course but I'm now convinced that I'll never join them on it because, after today, I simply cannot imagine passing Bottom Field. I almost wish someone would just say, 'Don't worry, Chris, skip Bottom Field and just crack on with Tarzan.' Actually the Tarzan course, as technical as it clearly is, doesn't look as physically demanding as the Bottom Field. Sure, it involves working aloft, but I've never had a problem with heights and, apart from poor old Utting buggering up the chasm leap and his leg with it, the obstacles actually look quite fun – if you can ever apply a word like 'fun' to commando training.

  But I know, of course, that I would never be allowed to skip Bottom Field. And rightly so. First of all it is all about health and safety and the progressive nature of this training. You can only advance by passing 'criteria' tests, which prepare you for what is to come. That is why we've had to pass the gym tests, battle swimming tests, various speed-marching distances and the twelve-mile yomp up to this point. And I have to admit that I could see from watching the lads today the importance of being able to execute a full regain. There are a number of places on the Tarzan course where, if you came adrift, you would need to regain immediately or plummet to the ground and, as Jon Stratford pointed out, that could result in broken bones at the very least.

  There is another reason why I would not be allowed to skip Bottom Field and why, in the final analysis, I would not want to take any short cuts myself. The path to the Green Beret is strictly prescribed by tradition. Every Royal Marines Commando has had to pass exactly the same four commando tests since their inception in 1942. There can be no exemptions or exceptions to the rule otherwise the iconic Green Beret would be immediately devalued and its power as a symbol of excellence diminished. By winning the right to wear one, a commando knows he has something in common with all other Green Berets across the generations.

  It is true that honorary Green Berets have been awarded to civilians who have not had to complete the commando tests. Sir Jimmy Savile for example, a great friend and favourite of the Royal Marines, is a proud owner of an honorary Green Beret, but nobody insisted that he had to do thirty-two weeks' training to get it or that he would have to pass all four commando tests. He was deemed to have been such a valued supporter of the corps that he won the right to become part of the family and wear the headgear. It's different for me because I've had the rare opportunity of doing all the physical training with 924 Troop from day one and it was always my intention to take it as far as I possibly could. By the same token, it was made clear to me from the beginning that, if I was to be afforded the privilege of being given the training, I should expect no quarter in the consequent challenges.

  If I fail the Bottom Field it will be the end of the road for me – I know that and now expect it. Were I a regular recruit, rather than a middle-aged film-making 'infiltrator', I would be sent into Hunter Company for my shoulder to be fixed and in order to receive remedial training for the ropes and the full regain. I will not be afforded that luxury, and quite rightly, because I am not, in the end, going to be a serving Royal Marine. I am not here primarily to pass commando tests but to make films and that is what I must continue to do to the best of my ability. My practice, as an anthropologist, to participate in the community I am studying or observing, must have limits and maybe I have to accept that I have now reached that limit here at Lympstone.

  I finish my tea and my contemplations. As I get up to go I glance over to the massive oil painting hung at one end of the officers' mess. It is a magnificent landscape of Dartmoor that brilliantly catches its savage beauty. At its centre is the dark, imposing outline of a gigantic granite tor half veiled by a ragged curtain of driving rain. Running up the steep and thorn-carpeted slopes are several camouflaged and determined-looking recruits in full fighting order and commando cap comforters. The painting is called The Thirty-Miler and portrays the final and arguably the hardest of the four commando tests. I end up staring at the painting for some time and try to console myself that it is now unlikely that I will have to suffer the pain of the thirty-miler myself. It is, of course, cold comfort.

  18.00

  I drop into the gym to see Jon Stratford to find out if he has an exact date for my Bottom Field test. I find him preparing to use the climbing wall.

  'Hi, Chris. What did you think of the Tarzan acquaint this afternoon?' he asks.

  'It was great to watch but would have been better to have been doing it,' I say. 'What happened to Utting – anything broken?'

  'No, nothing broken, but there's a bad sprain so he's in Hunter till he gets better.'

  'So, 924 continues to shrink.'

  'Yes, it does seem cursed,' says Jon as he prepares to climb. 'Anyway, Chris, I've you booked in to do Bottom Field Pass-out on 19 January – that's Friday week.'

  'Thanks, Jon. But even if I get through that, will it give me enough time to catch up on the Tarzan course?'

  'It'll be tight but don't think about Tarzan now. Just concentrate on getting yourself ready for the 19th. Don't think about anything else. OK?'

  'Don't worry, there's nothing else on my mind right now. I'm even dreaming about the bloody Bottom Field. Nightmares obviously.'

  Jon smiles sympathetically. 'You'll get your strength back pretty quickly,' he says. 'And the fact that you've lost weight means you have less to haul up the ropes.' I know he's trying to be encouraging but I can tell he's concerned about my chances. He's put a lot of work into training me up so I certainly owe it to him to give it the best effort I can. If I'm going to fail I must at least go down fighting.

  For the next seven days I try to work on my strength and technique in the gym. Every evening between six and eight I put myself through a punishing regime of rope climbing and upper-body weight exercises. I follow with a fast-pace 5,000 metres on the running machine, always aiming to come in under seventeen and a half minutes, and then finish with two sets of a hundred sit-ups and four sets of ten pull-ups. Jon may be right about finding it easier on the ropes and the regain if I'm carrying a bit less body weight but right now I just feel plain weak so I also concentrate on eating as much as I can. I know I need the calories and now, of course, a vital part of my diet are painkillers for my shoulder – two ibuprofen and two paracetamol four times a day with meals.

  Every time the recruits have a session on the Tarzan course I go down to watch so that at least I can become vicariously familiar with the techniques. I continuously run the course in my mind imagining every obstacle and every changeover but, of course, these virtual run-throughs in my head are no substitute for the real thing.

  It is an exhausting week physically and mentally. I push myself as hard as I can but in the back of my mind I always feel that I'm just going through the motions and that all the effort is probably futile. Every night I go to bed despondent and dejected.

  On Friday evening I drive back to London to spend a weekend at home. I want to catch up with friends and I think a break from military surroundings will help calm my nerves for the test the following week.

  13 January

  09.00

  It's not often I get a Saturday in London so I take the opportunity of going down to my boxing gym – the Fitzroy Lodge. I could do with a few rounds of sparring to vent my frustrations but mainly I want to see the guys. They're always so encouraging about my commando training and invariably manage to instil me with new confidence. Now, of course, they want to hear all about my time in Afghanistan. I 'spin a few dits' in the changing room and give Mick, the proprietor, a photo of myself standing next to a heavy machine gun in Kijaki wearing a Fitzroy L
odge T-shirt.

  After an hour of sparring I go for a sweat in the sauna with my pal Glenn.

  'What's up, Chris? You look preoccupied, mate,' he says immediately.

  'I don't think I'm going to make it, Glenn. I'm knackered after Afghanistan and I just don't think I'm going to get any further with the training. I've got this horrendous test on next week and I reckon I'm going to come a cropper.'

  Glenn listens carefully to what I tell him about the Bottom Field and the Tarzan assault course.

  'Well,' he says thoughtfully, 'it's only my opinion but I reckon you're selling yourself short. The one thing you have that the recruits don't have is the experience of dealing with pain. After years of sport – rugby, running, boxing – you've learned how to ride the pain and the hurt. All of us older blokes here at the gym are the same. We might not be as rubbery and flexible as we used to be but we have it up here . . .' Glenn points to his head. 'And in here . . .' He points to his heart.

  I nod my head in silence and in gratitude. Glenn has an amazing ability to inspire. That's why he is such a good boxing coach and such a good friend.

  'And anyway,' he continues, 'there's no shame in failure – you can already be proud of what you've achieved. We're all proud of you here. Just go for it, mate. Give it your best shot.'

  I feel invigorated by my sparring session and my talk with Glenn. Back in the changing room Paul, my doctor friend, has a look at my shoulder and strongly suggests I get some physiotherapy before I return to Lympstone.

  14.15

  I have managed to book a session with Barry Walsh, my physio, who has dealt with many of my sporting injuries over the years. He gives my shoulder some agonising deep-tissue massage and manages to loosen it a little. But, as good as he is, he cannot perform a miracle, which is what I feel I need.

  'If you were coming to me as an athlete like you normally do,' he says, 'I would tell you to take time out. Rest up and give it time to heal. The rotator cuff is inflamed and there could be some damage to the bicep tendon. But you're coming to me as a commando in training and you have to push on. Nevertheless, be careful because you could do yourself permanent damage.'

  Barry is right of course. I have been a competitive athlete for years and have had to deal with many injuries – mostly muscular ones that simply needed rest. It was always frustrating to miss rugby matches or running competitions, but I accepted that rest was the best medicine and usually knew instinctively when my body had healed. I have seldom had to resort to doctors or hospitals for treatment.

  One exception that I remember very well was when I took part in the London to Brighton road run – an ultra marathon of fifty-five miles that took eight hours of constant running to complete. It was not until the next morning that I realised I had a problem when I woke to find my left ankle had blown up like a balloon. I could hardly walk so my girlfriend at the time suggested I phone the local hospital at Lewisham for advice as they had a phone-in service. I did so.

  'Hello, Minor Casualties,' said the friendly voice of a Caribbean nurse. 'Can I help you?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'My left ankle has swollen to twice its size.'

  'And what do you think caused that, sir?' she enquired.

  'Well,' I replied, 'yesterday I ran from London to Brighton.'

  There was a telling pause as the nurse considered this information. 'Sir,' she said eventually, 'this is the Minor Casualties Department not Psychiatry!'

  If she thought I was mad then I wonder what on earth she

  would make of me now . . .

  15.15

  Barry straps up my shoulder, shows me some exercises I should do to keep the shoulder from seizing up and wishes me good luck for the 19th. I then drop in at the office where I have arranged to meet Laura. I want to see her to say hello but also to give her all the film I shot in Afghanistan so she can log it ready for editing.

  As soon as I walk in she gives me a big welcome back hug followed by three large Tupperware containers full of freshly baked oat cookies and apple cakes.

  'I don't know what the Royal Marines would do without you,' I say to her with a laugh.

  'I worry about you all,' she says. 'Have any more gone from 924 Troop?'

  'Yes, Utting did his leg in. He's in Hunter.'

  'Oh, what a shame. But at least he's not in Afghanistan. I hated you being over there and I can't stand Bertie still being there. How is he?'

  'Fine. He's doing really well and he has a great troop of guys.'

  I tell Laura all about the extraordinary Christmas I spent in Kijaki, Operation Sparrow Hawk and all about Sasula, the eleven-year-old gun-toting marbles enthusiast. I describe the rocky landscape, the wild camels and the turquoise waters of the reservoir held back by the dam.

  'It sounds beautiful,' she says. 'Well, I'll see it all on the tapes when I start to log them.'

  'There may be one or two things you won't like so much,' I say, thinking of the dawn assault on the Shrine.

  'Yes, I know,' she says quietly.

  14 January

  14.40

  Iam at my flat and preparing to get on the road to return to Lympstone when my phone rings. It is Bertie Kerr's mother, Lou, who sounds upset. She had just heard from Bertie who called to tell her about his most recent action just the day before. 'He and 11Troop stormed an enemy compound,' she tells me hesitantly. 'But the Taliban were waiting and opened fire. One member of the troop was killed.'

  My heart jumps – I am bound to know him. 'Who was it?' I ask.

  'A chap called Tom Curry.'

  'Vinders' – the strapping marine whose birthday we celebrated on New Year's Day and who knocked down a mud-brick wall single-handedly with a shoulder charge. I didn't know him well but he made a distinct impression on me and I cannot believe he's gone. When Vinders was killed, Bertie told his mother, he was typically at the front of the attack, closing with the enemy and defending his comrades who were close by. The rest of 11 Troop carried on fighting till they had won the day even though they were also battling their own tears of grief. They had lost one of their own – Thomas Curry – barely twenty-one years old. 'Bertie wanted to cry too,' his mother confides in me, 'but knew he couldn't – he had to keep his tears for later. That's quite something for a twenty-three-year-old to come to terms with, isn't it?'

  Yes, I think, and for Bertie the loss of Vinders would have been the greatest test of his leadership skills to date. The lads of 11 Troop need him now as never before. And he needs them.

  Suddenly, I am not thinking about myself any more. My worries have instantly been put into stark perspective and I leave for Lympstone preoccupied with thoughts of mortality, grief and bereavement, and not my temporarily injured shoulder.

  As I drive the now familiar route to Devon I cannot get Vinders out of my mind. I keep thinking of his family and his new fiancée and what hell they must be going through now. I then start to think of Vinders doing the commando tests as he would have done only about a year ago. I imagine him launching himself at the Bottom Field, leaping the walls, crawling under the netting, swinging under the monkey bars and then finally hanging from the rope over the tank and achieving a full regain in one fluid and agile action. It may just be the emotion of the moment but I am suddenly filled with a new resolve and from somewhere I feel an invigorating surge of self-belief.

  19 January

  08.40

  The day has come. This is it – a veritable point of no return. My final attempt at the cursed Bottom Field.

  'Good luck, Chris,' says Jane as I walk down the corridor in fighting order. She gives me her winning smile and a promise to have the kettle on when I get back.

  'Thanks, Jane,' I say weakly. I can hardly speak I am so nervous.

  I walk slowly down to the gym where I meet Jon Stratford and Sean Lerwill and then together we head for the field. After the usual two-minute warm-up Jon orders me without further ceremony to one of the thirty-foot ropes. I reach up, grasp the rope and await his next command.

&nbs
p; 'To the top – climb!'

  I pull myself up with a jerk, entwine the rope around my feet and kick out furiously. One shift. Two shifts. Three shifts. I push hard with my legs, trying as I must to spare my arms too much of the effort. Four shifts. Five shifts. I do not allow myself to look up – I don't want to know how much further I have to go. I just concentrate on where I am on the rope and the next shift upwards. I start to feel a stitch in my abdomen brought on by the constant curling and uncurling, my thighs are burning and my forearms and biceps are tightening. I am approaching the point of diminishing returns as each shift gets shorter and shorter and I am not sure how many more I can achieve before my grasp fails. I kick out once more as hard as I can and this time glimpse up expecting to see about six or seven feet more to climb. But I am wrong. I am only one foot away from the all-important silver tape. One last shift will get me there but my boots are beginning to slip on the damp rope. I strengthen my grip, bring my knees to my waist, re-establish a foothold and straighten my legs. I edge near enough to get my left hand on the tape.

  'Go on, Chris,' shouts Jon Stratford. 'Get that other hand on!'

  Urging myself on with all the swear words I know and a few I have never heard before, I throw my right arm upwards and just manage to grip the silver tape. 'Yes, Staff!' I shout with relief.

  'Come down. Under control,' shouts Jon.

  Hand over hand, I lower myself down to the ground. My arms are on fire and I am breathing deeply but I have done it – I have climbed the thirty-foot rope with full weight.