Commando

by Chris Terrill

  By the time I reach Leafy Lane – a long, muddy stretch of undulating waterlogged track – Mark Blight has pulled ahead of me by a good fifty yards. James, clearly having problems with his injured feet, has fallen behind me by about two hundred yards. I am drenched, covered from head to foot in reeking, sticky mud. My weighted webbing is rubbing on my hips and I know both will be rubbed red-raw by now, but at least the four-mile run ahead of me is now pretty well straight and much of it downhill all the way back to the commando camp.

  I have no sense of my time. It's almost impossible to pace yourself in runs like this so I just pray I'm up to speed. My head is swimming, and even though I'm finding it increasingly difficult to maintain a running rhythm, I know I cannot afford to slow. If I come in over seventy-three minutes I have failed.

  I reach the end of the seemingly endless Leafy Lane and hit the road, which is an immense relief. At last I have tarmac underfoot and in front of me is a three-mile run for home. I have adopted a sort of shuffling running style that minimises the rubbing of my webbing on my hips but I concentrate, nevertheless, on increasing my stride. I can see Mark Blight a couple of hundred yards ahead of me and use him as a target pacemaker. Behind me, also by about two hundred yards, I can see James who, with me in his sights, will be upping his pace as well.

  I pull Mark back to about a hundred yards but have little left in my legs. I know that if I keep trying to catch him I run the risk of running myself to a standstill. I settle back to a more reasonable pace and now concentrate on just getting home without stopping. With a mile left to go, the pain in the quads and the calves is getting worse with every stride. I turn left into Heartbreak Lane and my shuffling run turns into a stumbling stagger. I pass the famous sign that greets all recruits on the home stretch: '500 yards to go. It is only pain!'

  Finally, I reach the bridge that we have to use to cross the A356. This leads directly to the gates of the camp. The sentries and security guards have raised the barrier in readiness for our arrival. Just three hundred yards left but now every step is agony as I can feel my saturated boots rubbing mercilessly at the raw skin exposed by burst blisters on both heels. I reach into my combat jacket and pull out the Tesco freezer bag that contains my cap comforter. I rip it open and pull the cap onto my head.

  One hundred yards to go and I can see the assembled training team shouting Mark across the finishing line. I summon a final sprint from somewhere and hurl myself over the line shouting, as required, 'Terrill, Staff!'

  I lurch to a halt and fall against a nearby wall, only to be lifted immediately by 'H' Quinn. 'Keep walking, Chris. Keep the circulation going.' I do my best to obey but now my legs are seizing and there's hardly any feeling in my quad muscles. I place one foot in front of the other, forcing myself forward until the blood starts to penetrate my lactic acid-saturated muscles. Gradually, as my pulse slows and my breathing calms, I begin to feel better but I have no idea of my time. Jon Stratford is busy writing down all of our times as we cross the line and will not reveal any of them until all men are back. James Williams appears at the top of the hill. 'Come on, James!' I shout. He looks shot but, head down, he thrusts for home.

  One by one the members of the other syndicates come in. As soon as they've recovered they all have to go to the nearby range to shoot ten shots at a target. They have to record at least six hits or else, whatever their time might be, they will have failed. I am spared this ordeal because as a non-combatant I am not officially allowed to handle a weapon.

  Once the shooting has finished, which all the men pass, Jon Stratford calls us over. 'OK, lads, listen up. Here are the scores on the doors! Blight – sixty-four minutes and ten seconds. Well done – pass! Terrill – sixty-four minutes and forty seconds. Well done – pass! Williams – sixty-seven minutes . . .'

  All of us from the first syndicate have passed and I am gratified that once again I have posted the second fastest time in the troop behind Mark Blight. Two recruits have failed, though they will be allowed a second go at the end of the week. I feel really sorry for them because they will now need to push on with all the other tests knowing that they have to do the endurance run again at the end. A morale-busting nightmare. For those of us who have passed we can at least claim to have won a quarter of a Green Beret!

  Before we head back to the shower room Dave Deveney, the padre, steps forward and calls for everyone's attention. 'You may or may not know,' he says, 'but Chris, who has been with us for the last thirty weeks, was fifty-five yesterday . . .'

  'Oh no,' I whisper out loud. How did he know that? I bet it was Dave Nicholson who let the cat out of the bag. I brace myself for what I reckon must be coming – a dip in the full-regain tank. But I'm wrong. Dave produces a bottle of champagne and leads 924 Troop in a hearty rendition of 'Happy Birthday'. I am touched by this. The lads are exhausted but still find the energy to sing – more or less in tune – with considerable gusto. There's not enough champagne for everyone to have a bit so I shake the bottle vigorously, pop the cork and spray everyone within range.

  18 February

  Today is a rest day. I was meant to be running in the Brighton half-marathon today with some of the blokes from the Fitzroy Lodge – Glenn, Paul, Jan and Giles – but have resisted the temptation. A few weeks ago I said to Glenn that I would run – this was when I thought there was little chance I would pass the Bottom Field – but Glenn suggested, in his own inimitable way, that he thought this would be a trifle foolhardy . . .

  'Bollocks!' he shouted down the phone. 'You come anywhere near Brighton and I will personally tie you to the fucking Palace Pier and wait for the fucking tide to come in!'

  I think I managed a strangulated 'Erm . . . well, I er . . .' before he carried on . . .

  'No, you listen to me, you fat fucker. You can do any amount of marathons and such when you've finished the commando tests. Don't blow your chances now – not after everything you've put into it. And anyway, you're doing it for us as well. We're right behind you so give it all you've got.'

  I think of this in the shower as I wash the mud off my bruised and battered body. I know the endurance-run result was a good one but then I was half expecting it would be. I had never failed an endurance run and so I ran to form after all. The trouble is it was my trump card and I have played it early. I wonder to myself just what I have left to play with, particularly when it comes to the Tarzan assault course, which up to now has held all the best cards, as far as I'm concerned, and probably still does.

  I put the Tarzan out of my mind. Before that, tomorrow morning, we have to face the rigours of the nine-mile speed march.

  19 February

  07.00

  We travel to the start of the speed march by a four-ton lorry. Once there we assemble for the usual weighing of our webbing and then ?wait to be started. With speed marching, of course, there is no competition between individuals because the most important thing is to keep the troop intact. The tactical reason for this is quite simply that you always want to keep your men together to maintain maximum strength and, when it comes to it, maximum firepower against an enemy. This I have already seen and been part of when I was embedded with 11 Troop in Afghanistan.

  We form into two ranks and prepare to set off, but not before Orlando rallies us with a quick pep talk in which he reminds us that we have to work together and mustn't let gaps develop.

  'Once you have gaps in the ranks, fellas, you're in trouble,' he says. 'If those gaps get too big there's no way back for the ones behind, so keep together at all costs. Stand by!'

  Jon Stratford counts us down and, setting the pace, he leads off at a brisk walk. After no more than fifty yards he barks the order that instantly injects the speed into speed marching: 'Double time – quick march!' We instantly break into a run, all trying to keep pace with the man in front. 'Left! Left! Left, right, left!' shouts Jon, helping us to keep pace and tempo. Speed marching is very demanding of the quads and the calves, also the back and the arms because of the extra weight bein
g carried, but I find that once I've got myself 'into the zone' I can keep going without too much trouble. The danger is that if you're at the back of the troop, as indeed I am, once a gap opens up, which is inevitable, you keep having to inject bursts of speed to close those gaps. As Orlando warned us, once a breach in the troop formation grows too big the people behind it are in real trouble. This is why, generally speaking, it's a good idea to keep your strongest runners at the back, although, I hasten to add, that's not the reason I'm bringing up the rear. I am at the back because I am carrying a small camera strapped to the side of my head in order to film the march and I want to be able to see most of the troop.

  Some people hate speed marching with a vengeance. They are simply not designed for it and really struggle to keep up the pace, although I think this is, more often than not, a psychological problem rather than a physical one. Having said that, Terry John's problem with speed marching, which was his eventual undoing, was certainly physical in nature, due to the compartment syndrome they eventually diagnosed in his leg muscles. But I have no real, deep-rooted fear of the speed march other than the fact it will inevitably deplete my energies for tomorrow's Tarzan assault course. I shudder at the thought and return my attentions to the immediate problem – a steep hill which looms in front of us.

  Jon takes us back down to a fast walk for the uphill sections but immediately returns us to a run when on the flat or going downhill. We have to come in together in less than ninety minutes, so it is vital to make up time when we can. In the field a speed march may be employed to move to a strategic position from which to attack an enemy, but it may also be used to effect a withdrawal from a dangerous situation. Then again it may be the only way to traverse rough terrain in order to get to a prearranged landing site where a helicopter is landing at a specific time to extract troops. If the enemy are nearby the helicopter will not wait, so getting to the landing site on time is a matter of life and death for all concerned.

  By the time we get to the first water stop – a two-minute break to take on much needed fluid – a number of the troop are beginning to suffer. Arrowsmith, the youngest member of 924 at seventeen and who had a nightmare endurance run yesterday, is looking very wobbly and pale. Lee Smith, normally a tower of strength, is also looking distinctly off colour but then he has, for the last few days, been fending off an attack of flu. Lastly, Clifford, one of the fittest members of the troop, looks absolutely spent. Jon Stratford and the accompanying corporals from the training team bring them to the front of the troop. But once we start both Clifford and Arrowsmith almost immediately fall back until eventually, when it is apparent they are never going to catch up, they are heaved off the road and put into the back of the Land Rover that is following us. Lee Smith, looking like death, pushes on with impressive determination, but it looks to me like he is running himself straight towards a guaranteed bed in sickbay.

  We maintain a good pace and eventually reach the finish – the playing field outside the main camp – with a good three minutes to spare. Orlando looks pleased and tells us as much.

  'That's hoofing, fellas. Good strong marching and nine miles of it is no easy task. You now have half a Green Beret!'

  And now we get to enjoy the first of the rewards that come with continuing success in the commando tests – we are to be formally drummed through camp. Every time a troop completes the nine-mile speed march, a tannoy announcement alerts people throughout the camp that the troop in question is about to march in. The successful speed marchers are then drummed into camp by a Royal Marines Band drummer and everyone comes out to applaud the recruits now at the halfway mark in their attempt to win the Green Beret. That is what is going to happen now, except that 924 Troop is going to be 'drummed in' in a rather unique way. Hamish Robb is so full-blooded a Scotsman that he probably tosses cabers, eats haggis with his porridge, goes commando under his kilt and keeps his money in a stash in the attic. Maybe, but two things are for certain: he was actually born on Burns Day and he plays the bagpipes – and that is precisely what he's going to do now. Dispensing with the usual Royal Marines drummer, Hamish Robb leads us on a march, at normal speed, down the main thoroughfare of the camp. On either side of the road we are applauded by recruits, training staff, visiting marines and officers. Even the commandant, the head of training, has turned out and, standing to attention in front of the Royal Marines memorial statue, waits to take our salute. To get this sort of attention is extraordinary and as we obey Orlando's order 'Eyes left!' and salute the commandant, we are all of us filled with pride. The only slight hiccup occurs when Georgie Sparks, concentrating hard on his saluting, fails to adjust his step for a speed bump, trips and lurches forward with a gasp into the man in front. He regains his step and composure quickly enough, but it is too late to stop a whispered but collective guffaw from the troop and a host of under-the-breath comments that turn Sparks's already flushed face a deep shade of mortified crimson.

  Soon after we get back to the accommodation block poor old Lee Smith, looking gaunt and pale, is carted off to sickbay to join Arrowsmith and Clifford. He put everything he had into the speed march and, even though he finished, he has clearly drained his tank. We all realise this is the end of Lee's personal bid for the Green Beret until he's recovered. We are now down to a total of twelve in the troop and just six 924 originals. Seven including me. But the Tarzan assault course looms and tomorrow morning at 0800 it will be my high noon.

  20 February

  05.00

  Numb with nerves I wake early once again. After showering, I bandage the blisters on my feet and tape up the angry red grazes on my hips from the bouncing, rubbing webbing. I then repack the webbing and try to redistribute the weight around the pouches so that there will be less impact on my hips. Once I'm finished with the first aid I grab another banana and chocolate breakfast. Then I pull the boots onto my double-socked feet and tie the laces as tight as I can so that there will be a minimum of movement around my blistered heels. I double-knot the laces and then tape them – I don't want to have to stop to do them up halfway round, like I did on the Shrine in the middle of a company assault on the Taliban. I still cannot believe my laces came undone at the precise moment I needed to move as fast as possible to save my own skin! I think momentarily of the guys in M Company and 11 Troop still in Afghanistan and hope all is well with them. My thoughts drift again to Tom Curry and I smile as I imagine him on the Bottom Field not bothering to leap the six-foot wall but deciding to run right through it!

  I cut the tape, push it down hard around the top of my boots and put the roll and scissors back on my desk which I look at in dismay. It is a mess of wires, camera parts, lenses, papers, unopened letters and miscellaneous bits of military equipment. I make a solemn promise to the gods that if they see their way to letting me pass today I will tidy my desk as it has never been tidied before . . .

  07.00

  I wander slowly down to the start of the course and then walk past each of the obstacles, going through the required technique in my mind. I then start to warm up my left shoulder with a number of limbering-up exercises given to me by Barry, my physiotherapist in London. Soon after this the rest of 924 Troop arrive with Jon Stratford, half a dozen PTIs and the entire training team led by Orlando. I look behind me and see, as ominous as ever, a military ambulance with a large red cross emblazoned on either side. Finally, I notice a lone but familiar figure walking over the hill in our direction. It is Dave Nicholson.

  'Dave!' I shout. 'Hello, mate. Good to see you.'

  'And you, mate,' he says, shaking my hand warmly. 'Thought I should come down and give you a bit of support. How are you feeling?'

  'Bloody awful.'

  'Good. That's the way you should feel. Good luck and don't bloody fall off. Too much paperwork.'

  Jon Stratford puts us through his usual warm-up routine and then gives us our running orders. I am to be the last to go and I know why. With only thirty seconds between each person starting there is always a risk that if
someone is held up on an obstacle, or is just going too slowly, it could obstruct the person coming up behind. I'm fine with that, as I would hate to hold anyone up. So on the one hand this will take some pressure off me, but on the other hand, I reckon this betrays Jon's doubts that I will do well on the course. I put this out of my mind. I have to believe I can do it or else I may as well not even start.

  08.00

  The test commences. One by one the troop climb the ladder to the top of the death slide and launch themselves down the rope. I whisper good luck to each of them as they leap – Hogan, Sparks, Williams, Blight, Barnes, Williamson . . . 'My God, they're going at a hell of a lick,' I think to myself. It rained hard last night so the rope is saturated and running very fast. This is good for timing but it's going to exert a much greater force on the shoulders and arms and my left shoulder feels just about ready to snap.

  Eventually it is my turn. I leap and, as expected, career down the rope at a startling speed. I brace myself as I come to the bottom where the brake man decelerates me abruptly. I feel the pain sear through my left side but the shoulder holds. I drop to the ground and race to the next obstacle with all nerves now left behind. I feel like I'm in a sort of a trance and go through my techniques and changeovers almost automatically – not fast, I know, but certainly effectively. Before I know it I'm sprinting towards the chasm leap and praying that I don't catch my bandaged right hand as I punch through the netting. I jump, I punch, I hook on. The impact knocks the air out of me but my hand is intact. I climb the netting and then down the other side. Soon I'm heading for the Bottom Field, but I can feel myself fighting for breath. I realise my webbing is too tight and restricting my lungs so I reach down and pull on the waist but there is virtually no give. I push on, trying to breathe with more rhythm, but it's difficult not to gulp for the oxygen my muscles are screaming for. I reach the tunnel and dive in head first but I snag my webbing and 'weapon' on the roof of the tunnel and lose valuable seconds trying to free myself. I race on over the twelve-foot wall, over the tank trap, over the six-foot wall, over the fence and then under the netting. Suddenly, I am face to face with the dreaded monkey bars. I do not hesitate but jump up to grab the first of the bars. If I am going in the tank then so be it but at least I want to get to the halfway mark before I fall. I swing my body forward and grab the next bar. I wait for my swing to take me forward one more time. I grab at the third bar. Then the fourth. I am still hanging. I think it is hurting but the adrenalin has taken over now and is somehow keeping me going. I pass the halfway mark and still find strength to grasp my way onwards. It seems like an age but at last I'm able to kick out one leg and get a foot on the other side of the tank. I hang still for a second. I lose momentum and feel my grip slipping but I reconcentrate my efforts and manage to pull my weight up and a fraction further forward. Finally I'm there. I'm safe. I have both feet on the other side. 'Yeeaahh!' I shout as I jump towards the next barrier, and the next and the next. Soon I'm running up the final hill towards the thirty-foot wall. I say running – it is by now the familiar stagger but at least it's going in the right direction. I pump my arms as hard as I can to bully my legs into greater effort and at last I reach the base of the wall which was, when I saw it earlier this morning, thirty foot high, as it is meant to be. Somehow, in the time it has taken me to get from the death slide to here, the wall has at least trebled in size, maybe quadrupled. It looks gigantic. As I grasp the rope to begin hauling myself up this new Everest, I am vaguely aware of the rest of the troop who have finished and the training team cheering me on. I pull myself up and start searching for the irregular footholds and then I hear Jon Stratford screaming down at me from the top of the wall.