Commando

by Chris Terrill

  Joe Hogan from Staines, planning his wedding, is also looking strong but his feet, like James Williams's, are beginning to play up and he recently dislocated his thumb doing unarmed combat training.

  Michael Urhegyi, the boxer from Manchester, and also a rejoin, has had a disaster. Although his physicality has never been in any doubt and he looked a certainty for the commando tests he has nevertheless been backtrooped. This was because, while on exercise, he dropped a live grenade after pulling out the pin and, even though he recovered well and averted danger, the training team want to make sure he's learned his lesson by putting him through the field exercise again. He's understandably upset because, like everyone else, he wanted to finish as an original member of 924 Troop but he's admirably philosophical about events.

  'I buggered up – pure and simple,' he tells me. 'I reckon I did well to react to the situation and get rid of the grenade in good time but I dropped the bloody thing in the first place, didn't I? One thing is for sure though – I'll never drop another!'

  Finally, everyone is having to say goodbye to Terry John, the one-man morale factory who battled so hard to stay in training despite serious injury as well as a conspicuously uncertain beginning. Terry is returning to Derby to live with his sponsors, Julie and Ossie, where he'll consider his options for the future. He wants time to think things through but reckons he'll probably apply to the Royal Engineers in the fullness of time.

  'I know it's time to leave now,' he confides in me as he packs his things. 'But I've found a second family here and will miss the guys a lot. In my heart I'll always be 924. Wherever I go I'll never forget the troop and the training team. And when any of them go out to Afghanistan I'll pray for their safety and for them to come home OK.'

  I wish him good luck and tell him that Laura and I will come and see him in Derby.

  'Yeah, mate. Come and see me – that would be lovely. But, Chris, you go hard on the commando tests, OK? And let me know how it goes.'

  'Oh, don't worry, Terry,' I say. 'I'll let you know . . .'

  Apart from keeping up with the members of 924 Troop I have to concentrate on trying to heal my injuries or at least keeping the pain and swelling at bay. I regularly apply ice to my shoulder and my finger and I also increase my intake of painkillers – the cocktail of ibuprofen and paracetamol that has formed part of my diet for weeks. The trouble is I keep forgetting to take these pills with food, with the result that I start to suffer serious gut ache as the active ingredients of the drugs start to eat away at my stomach lining. When I start to cough up blood I immediately reduce my intake but have to deal with a consequent increase in pain. It's a strange thing to say but after thirty weeks of almost uninterrupted training, I have never felt so fit in my entire life – and neither have I ever felt so injured.

  During this period leading up to the tests, I take a day out and drive to Worthing in Sussex to see my long-suffering parents. I speak to them as often as I can on the phone but I rarely get down to see them which I feel guilty about. I get so preoccupied and self-absorbed with my various adventures and diversions that I know I can be guilty sometimes of neglecting those close to me. Certainly I can hardly wonder at so many previous girlfriends thinking better of spending a life with me or, more accurately, a life without me, as I've always been prone to rushing off at a moment's notice to exercise my ridiculous energies on some mad escapade. My parents, on the other hand, who love me unconditionally, as they do my two sisters, Rosalind and Debbie, have always put up with my particular brand of insanity and mostly encouraged my exploits. I say 'mostly' because I know they found it very difficult to cope with my going to Afghanistan at Christmas.

  I spend a relaxing day with them and tell them a little more of what happened in Afghanistan. I still don't want them to know everything that happened because I have to go back in a few weeks and I don't want them to worry more than they have to.

  As far as the commando tests are concerned I'm not sure they fully realise what I'm letting myself in for and again I don't go into too much detail. I don't want them to worry too much about those either – not so much because of any inherent dangers or risk of injuries (they've had to deal with legions of those after years of rugby) but because I don't want them to know how desperately important the tests have become to me. If they did they would worry terribly about me having to come to terms with the pain of defeat and failure which I know, in my heart of hearts, is still the most likely outcome. So I play down the tests in a flippant que sera sera sort of way, although I suspect they know me well enough to realise that I'm unlikely to be happy with whatever fate has in store for me unless it directly coincides with my own hopes and dreams.

  16 February

  It is the eve of the commando tests and it is also my birthday. I am fifty-five today. To be honest, I've never set much store by my own birthdays and never broadcast that they're imminent because I hate the ritual attention. I see a certain significance in this one, however, precisely because I'm on the verge of attempting something designed for the physiologies and psychologies of considerably younger men.

  So, what does it feel like to be fifty-five? A lot like being forty-five actually, even thirty-five. I've always kept fit as a matter of course – not as a conscious attempt to stay young but simply to keep my body in shape for my beloved sports. I have always hated the way people – especially men – seem to give up on their bodies and physical abilities so early. I mean, people don't generally choose to let their minds atrophy (except certain football supporters and people who watch reality television of course). So, why not apply the same thinking to the body, its general fitness and well-being? The body and mind are integral after all. They feed each other in natural symbiosis. Certainly, I know that if my body is fit my mind is that much sharper.

  Having said all that though, the age thing is, for me, about something else and very personal. It's about a promise I made myself over thirty-five years ago when I was eighteen and I remember it as if it were half an hour ago. I was standing in the front quadrangle of my school, Brighton College. It was a glorious summer's day and all was exceedingly well with my world. I was adoring my studies, had just been told I was to be the next captain of the 1st XV and was madly in love with my girlfriend, a delectable beauty called Gayle Oliver from St Mary's Hall – a nearby girls' school. I had a terrific bunch of friends and, of course, it was the late sixties – a never-to-be-repeated time of excitement, exhilaration and giddy exuberance. I knew, as I stood there, that life would never be better than at that precise moment. Nothing could be improved upon. I vowed then and there that I would always be eighteen – or at least hold on to the essence of being eighteen as the years rolled persistently forward. The bid for the Green Beret is not so much a desperate yearning for a lost youth – it's just another way of keeping that promise I made myself all those years ago.

  So, fifty-five and going on eighteen. I have received two cards and a parcel. One card is from my parents and the other is from Laura and Julie, my film editor, at the office. The girls' card is a picture of several scantily clad ladies which, they say, is to remind me of the delights that still exist in the outside world! The parcel is from another friend, Anna. We had a bust-up recently because I'd annoyed her in the way I seemed so focused and preoccupied with my commando training at the expense of the rest of my life, my friends and my family. 'You're not a Royal Marine, Chris, you're a film-maker,' she exploded in frustration. 'Stop pretending to be what you are not.' She had a valid point but the barb hurt nevertheless and I couldn't explain to her how important it was for me to see this through in my own way. I am delighted, therefore, and touched to see that she has sent me a DVD box set of Band of Brothers – a drama series about US soldiers in the Second World War. I don't actually like war films – they so often trivialise what it's all about – but I do appreciate the thought behind Anna's gift and, I think, her final acceptance of my desire to experience the Royal Marine way of life as closely and as personally as I possibly can. My
close friends, though they may find it occasionally infuriating because of the way it blinkers me, do realise that I'm living a dream at the moment and finding extraordinary new depths to existing in a community of men who would and do die for each other out of a sense of duty as well as brotherly love.

  At midnight I go to bed but am quite unable to sleep. Tomorrow it starts. Tomorrow at 0800 the first of the commando tests will commence. I feel a mixture of nerves. I try to disentangle them in my head but I cannot. I am nervous for myself but I am also nervous for all the lads of 924 Troop. They've come a long way over the last thirty weeks and the path was always going to lead to tomorrow

  –the start of a four-day rite of passage that will turn twelve young men into Royal Marines Commandos – God willing.

  I shut my eyes but all I can see are the flooded tunnels of the endurance run, the death slide, the chasm leap and the thirty-foot wall of the Tarzan assault course and, of course, the monkey bars –all fourteen of them stretching mercilessly over that bloody tank of freezing water. Excited, nervous, anxious and apprehensive I open my eyes and turn on the light. Reaching for my omnibus P.G. Wodehouse I turn to Jeeves and Wooster for some soothing companionship.

  17 February

  05.00

  I wake with a start. The light is still on and P.G. Wodehouse lies open on my chest. I stay still for a minute and collect my thoughts. So, the day has come. There is little time to be nervous now – the endurance run will start in less than three hours.

  I get up, turn on the radio to listen to the BBC World Service and promptly eat three bananas, two Yorkie bars and a Bounty bar. I wash them all down with a carton of milk and instantly feel sick. I swallow hard repeatedly and wait for the feeling to subside. I know I'll be grateful for the calories and the heightened sugar levels later in the morning.

  I shower, shave and put plasters on the various hotspots I have on my feet. I pull on my fatigues, lace up my boots and then check the weight of my webbing, ensuring it is exactly twenty-one pounds. I put on my combat jacket, buckle on the webbing and then hoist the black canvas case containing my ten-pound tripod over my shoulders so that it sits vertically down my back. Finally, I put my cap comforter into a Tesco freezer bag, seal it and push it into one of my inside pockets. We do not run the course with the comforters but have to put them on for the last couple of hundred yards when we're back inside the camp. Outside, it is still dark and raining slightly. I open the window and let in a rush of ice-cold air. I shudder at the thought that soon I will be wading through Peter's Pool up to my waist and then immersing myself in the foul-watered sheep dip.

  07.00

  I meet 924 Troop and Hamish Robb at the front gate. Before actually running the endurance course we have to walk to the start line – some four miles away. This serves to warm us up as well as psych us up. Hamish leads the troop and boosts our spirits by teaching us a song so filthy and lewd that it's probably best to leave it echoing in the hedge-lined Devon lanes than record it for posterity here. That apart, Hamish is a great motivator and I'm pleased he's taking us to the start. He gives me confidence. He gives us all confidence.

  When we arrive at the start of the endurance course we have to have our webbing weighed by 'H' Quinn and Sean Darnell – every man must be carrying exactly the same load. As they work through fifteen sets of webbing using their portable spring scales we gather round Jon Stratford who tells us what syndicates we're running in. There will be five syndicates of three men and I will be running in the first syndicate with Mark Blight and James Williams. I'm pleased because I have run with them before and know them to be strong. They will push me hard but will act as great pacemakers. After we complete a number of warm-up and stretching exercises we're called into a tight circle – each man shoulder to shoulder, with Jon in the middle.

  'Men, this is it,' he says. 'No more practices. No more run-throughs. This is the start of your commando tests – what you have been preparing for for the last thirty weeks. A lot of your oppos have fallen by the wayside but you're still here.'

  I watch as the 924 survivors absorb Jon's words. All of them are looking down, shifting nervously from one foot to another, but everyone's jaw is set firm and all eyes are narrowed with purpose.

  'These tests over the next few days will not be easy,' Jon continues. 'If they were everyone would do them. They're meant to be hard and they'll hurt you, but by now you should know how to deal with pain and overcome it.'

  No longer distracted by the others I am now concentrating on my own resolve. I am used to doing this before marathons – finding an inner mental space, somewhere between the conscious and the subconscious, from where it is easier to block out all thoughts except those that serve the immediate purpose.

  'In two minutes the first syndicate will start,' says Jon. 'And then a syndicate will start every thirty seconds after that. Remember to put on your cap comforters when you get back to the base. Good luck.'

  Mark, James and I line up and wait for the order to start. My nerves have gone and I am feeling good. This should, according to form, be a strong test for me. I've already recorded the second fastest time in the troop for endurance-run practices because, of all the tests, it most closely resembles what I like to do best – marathons and triathlons. Having said that, I also know from experience that previous form can sometimes count for very little, as so much can go wrong at any time – with mind, body or soul. It is always about how well you perform on the day, and while I'm feeling good in my head right now, I know my body is pretty busted up – but you could say that for the majority of the troop. It reminds me again of the fundamental difference between sports fitness and battle fitness. In sport an athlete aims to peak for an event and will rest injuries for fear of aggravating them. In war you have to do your best whenever called – and there is no such thing as bringing a sick note to the battlefield.

  'Three . . . two . . . one – go!'

  We set off at a scorching pace, remembering that we have to keep together up to the sheep dip. After that it is every man for himself. Mark and James are pushing hard and beginning to pull away from me. By the time we reach Peter's Pool they are twenty yards ahead. I accelerate into the icy water up to my waist, grab under the surface to find the rope that stretches from one end to the other and haul myself forward. 'Go on, Chris,' shouts a familiar voice from the bank. 'Don't let them get ahead because they'll have to wait for you at the dip, and you'll be eating into their time.' It's Orlando. I respond to his order and redouble my effort, so by the time I'm pulling myself out of the glacial pool I'm only ten yards behind the other two.

  I now concentrate on my breathing and try to establish a rhythm. This is easy over a nice flat marathon course but almost impossible over this undulating, winding, potholed, mud-carpeted and waterlogged track. Eventually, running together, we arrive at the sheep dip. We have practised this so many times that we jump into the putrid water without hesitation. One by one we dive head first through the underwater tunnel – pushing each other in and pulling each other out. I'm the last to go through and as I emerge I hear Hamish Robb's distinctive voice. 'Happy with that, fellas. Now you're on your own – go for it!'

  All three of us, now running individually and not as a team, head up a steep rocky hill to start a six-mile cross-country course – through hell. At first we keep together, each testing the others with sudden bursts of speed. After a mile we're still together but the course flattens out for a stretch which allows me to establish more of a tempo to my breathing and cadence to my stride. I make a push and slowly pull ahead of my competitors. Moments later I hear Orlando's voice again. 'He's fifty-five, Blight and Williams! Is it acceptable that he's ahead? Catch up now!' Orlando has caught us up and is running alongside to give us his own brand of uncompromising encouragement. 'Chris, you're slowing!' he bellows as he comes up to my shoulder. 'That's not acceptable either. You're a marathon runner. Don't let these kids beat you!' Mark Blight has responded to the call and draws level with me. 'Go on, Bl
ight!' screams the lieutenant. 'Run past grandad!' I look round at Orlando and he responds with a wink and a mischievous grin.

  Soon we come to a steep downward slope – very unstable underfoot. We lurch downhill bounding unsteadily across the friable surface of sharp rocks and slippery rounded stones. Mark is ahead of me by about twenty yards by this time. The thudding footsteps on my heels are still those of Orlando going like a steam train and hurling general abuse. 'Come on, Chris! Get a grip, mate – or would you like your Zimmer frame?' I stumble on cue but just manage to regain my balance and footing. 'Royal Marines are leaping antelopes, Chris – not old goats!' laughs Orlando. It's at this moment that the gods step in, and never let it be said they do not have a sense of humour. Orlando, striding downhill like a colossus, is just gearing up for another barbed comment when an invisible lightning bolt strikes. 'Chris, you are running like a girl – Aaagh!' He trips. He falls. He hits the unforgiving ground like a tumbling elephant. Crash! 'Hurrumph . . . Bugger . . . Fuck!' I don't look back for fear of falling myself but imagine with relish the size of the crater Orlando must have created, and despite my own pain and distress I laugh out loud.

  Soon we're crawling through a series of half-flooded sixty-foot tunnels – full of stinking, stagnant water and razor-sharp rocks. As I pull myself through the claustrophobic, enclosed spaces I can feel the rocks cutting into my hands, my elbows and my already skinned and scarred knees. My right hand, heavily strapped because of the dislocated finger, takes a particular bashing and is soon throbbing again. My left shoulder holds out OK but feels distinctly stiff. Between the tunnels we have to run through the infamous 'Hippo Pool' – the hundred-yard stretch of a dozen mud-holes of varying depths. You have no choice but to leap feet first into them – some coming up to your knees, others to your thighs and a couple right up to your chest.