Commando

by Chris Terrill

  'Come on, Terrill! Get yourself up here! You need to move fast – now!'

  My head is swimming but I keep pulling on the rope and keep searching for footholds. Sucking for air, I can feel my heart thumping and I am seeing strange flashing lights before my eyes, but finally, in a time that for all I know could have been an age, I reach the summit. 'Terrill, Staff!' I shout as I climb over the lip of the wall and jump down onto the platform where Jon is holding the stopwatch. Dave, who is up here as well, encourages me to stand up straight and breathe deeply. I hardly need encouraging as I loosen my webbing and let my lungs fill with the delicious cold air blowing in from the sea. I look over to Jon who is looking at his watch and writing on his clipboard. He glances at me grim-faced but looks away quickly. My heart sinks. I have failed. I beat the course but not the time.

  'Down you go, mate,' says Dave. 'Down the ladder and get some oggin down you.'

  I say nothing but slowly climb down the metal ladder to the ground where I take my place in the troop which is lined up in two ranks. Jon climbs down from the wall and walks over to us. 'OK, 924 Troop. These are the results of the Tarzan assault course.' Even as he starts to read out the times I am replaying my own performance in my head trying to work out where I went wrong and where I could have gone a bit faster. I could attempt a rerun tomorrow but I honestly don't think I would have the strength in my left shoulder.

  'Williams – ten minutes and thirty-six seconds. Pass. Good effort. Street – you failed the six-foot wall. Come and see me after this. Blight – ten minutes and twenty-six seconds. Pass. Well done. Sparks – twelve minutes and twenty-three seconds. Pass. Good. Terrill – twelve minutes and twenty-four seconds. Pass. Well done.'

  Jon carries on reading out the times but I am in a daze. I cannot believe what I heard. He said 'pass' but I failed. Didn't I? I look round and see Joe Hogan giving me the thumbs up.

  'Well done, Chris,' says George Sparks. 'I beat you by a second!'

  'Nice one, Chris,' says Treadwell, one of the backtroopers, who is standing right next to me.

  It is true then. I came in under thirteen minutes. A whole thirty-six seconds under thirteen minutes. I should feel euphoric but I feel numb. I think I'm in shock. When Jon has finished reading out the times Orlando steps forward to address the troop.

  'Right, fellas. Well done to those that passed but a couple of you failed – one on the six-foot wall and another on the half regain. I want everyone to get behind those two guys because their morale will be through the floor right now. Pick them up and support them. They'll get another go in two days' time but tomorrow they're going to have to do the thirty-miler along with everyone else.' Orlando pauses to survey the lads. 'Royal Marines stand by each other, fellas. Through thick and thin.'

  Along with everyone else I really feel for the two that failed. I had convinced myself that I was going to be in their number and facing the prospect of a rerun in a couple of days after a thirty-mile yomp over Dartmoor. An impossible prospect and one that would have defeated me for sure.

  Jon comes over to me and shakes my hand. 'Well done, Chris. I'm chuffed you did it, mate.'

  'Bloody hell, Jon. You weren't giving much away up on top of the wall. I was sure I'd failed.'

  'Can't give times away individually. Not giving you special treatment, Chris!'

  'No,' I say. 'But I really wasn't expecting to crack this one.'

  'To be honest, mate, I don't think anybody did. But you made it, so that's hoofing. Now, put it out of your mind and get your head sorted for tomorrow. Thirty miles is a long way – especially after three days of commando tests.'

  I make my way back to my room and a long, lingering bath. I lie back in the soapy water, redolent with the scent of muscle relaxant, and look down at my feet with a mixture of fascination and horror. They don't really look like feet. Not human feet anyway. Swollen, bloodied, bruised, battered and blistered, they look like something the make-up department might come up with for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Alien. I submerge them under the stinging but restorative water not so much to heal them as to hide them. They don't strike me as the sort of feet that are going to carry me over thirty miles of rough terrain in less than twelve hours. I put them out of sight and out of mind as I start to psych myself up for the final commando test and one I have so far hardly considered. Partly this is because I have been so preoccupied with full regains, death slides and monkey bars but also because, as a reasonably experienced distance runner, I've never thought it too much of a threat. I suppose I have always assumed that my natural muscle memory would kick in and carry me through the inevitable pain barriers. Now, however, a small voice deep within me is whispering caution, prudence and care as I refocus my thought as well as my fears. Tomorrow, I am not running a marathon over a nice, flat road surface in shorts, singlet and a pair of the best running shoes. Wearing heavy boots, full fighting order and a rucksack weighing forty pounds on my back I have to run thirty miles over some of the roughest terrain in the British Isles . . .

  15.00

  I meet up with 924 Troop in a lecture room at Puzzle Palace. Here we congregate around a huge model of the part of Dartmoor we are going to be running over to be shown the route. This is the only one of the four commando tests that none of us has tried before. You cannot easily practise such distances so tomorrow we are literally and metaphorically entering new territory. Some Bootnecks have told me that it's good you don't have to practise it beforehand because if you actually knew what the thirty-miler was like you would never want to do it again!

  'OK, lads,' says Hamish Robb. 'Make sure you can all see the model and pay attention.'

  Hamish outlines the route and indicates the four checkpoints where we will have a five-minute stop for water and food. He then warns us of the dangers that we could encounter: treacherous ground, bogs, swamps, potholes, sharp inclines, sudden mists and 'clag' – ground-level clouds.

  'Stay together, lads,' says Hamish emphatically. 'If you get separated you could easily get lost and if the clag sets in we may never find you. I'll be running with you to navigate and set your pace. We have to complete the thirty miles in less than eight hours so you have to keep up, lads, because once you drop off the pace and fall behind you'll never catch up. If that happens you'll be gathered by a following PTI and taken to the nearest wagon. Everyone understand?'

  'Yes, Corporal,' shouts 924 Troop as one.

  'Good,' says Hamish. 'But remember this – the faster you go the greater the danger of twisted ankles, broken legs and busted heads, so be careful and watch where you're going all the time.'

  Hamish then explains that we will be going in two syndicates, one of seven men, and one of six. The first led by himself and Jon Stratford will depart at 0700. The second led by Matt Adams and Jim Glanfield will leave at 0720. I look at the list and see that I am allocated to the first syndicate along with James Williams.

  'Right, lads,' Hamish continues earnestly. 'All you have to do is follow us and we'll show you the way to your Green Beret. The slight difference is that you will be carrying forty pounds on your backs and we won't, so grit your teeth, dig in and blast the course. This is a real-man challenge – don't underestimate it. It may be the last commando test but it has defeated many before you and will defeat many after you.'

  There is a moment of silence as everyone considers this harsh truth.

  18.30

  I travel with the troop to Okehampton camp on Dartmoor where we will sleep the night because the thirty-miler starts from here at dawn. The camp is familiar to us as we have done many exercises here, including our introduction to speed marching all those months ago when Callow fell and split his knee wide open.

  The mood tonight in the dormitories is contemplative. Everyone is thoughtful because, after thirty weeks, everyone knows they are on the eve of winning their Green Beret – or not. The thirty-miler, the most iconic of the commando tests, is undoubtedly a monster challenge and for the participants I would imagine it is the most
bonding and the most emotive.

  I am excited about tomorrow, but I know that I am still a long way from that Green Beret – thirty torturous miles and eight agonising hours to be precise. Feeling a surge of panic in the pit of my stomach I lie back on my camp bed and reach for my trusty P.G. Wodehouse.

  21 February

  05.30

  I wake shivering in the cold, dark dormitory still echoing with the intermittent snoring of half a dozen recruits. I had fallen asleep on top of my sleeping bag and I start to climb into it when I glance at my watch and notice the time. No more sleeping now. I have to tend to my wounded feet before getting ready for the big day. First I slowly and painfully peel off the pus- and blood-soaked plasters and bandages that I have wrapped around both feet. I wash the wounds as best I can, apply liberal dollops of antiseptic cream and then put on fresh bandages.

  Within half an hour everybody is up and dressed and we all head down to the galley for breakfast. Once there we are ordered to stoke up to the gills. Normally, I would not need encouraging to stuff myself at breakfast – the best meal of the day – but right now a combination of nerves and indigestion are militating against anything more substantial than some lightly buttered toast going down my neck. Jim Glanfield has other ideas.

  'Bloody eat, all of you! You need some mega calories in you if you're going to do this today. Anybody not doing major scoffing may as well go home right now!'

  Jim is right of course. In the next quarter of an hour I force myself through two bowls of porridge, three eggs, four sausages, bacon, beans, toast, a litre of orange juice and two bananas. I hate every mouthful. This is not eating. It is just fuel consumption and I keep ingesting till my inner fuel gauge registers full.

  06.45

  We assemble at the start of the course. It is still dark, though a pinkness in the eastern sky heralds the approaching dawn. As usual, our webbing is weighed, but also today our rucksacks – the combined weights must be no less than forty pounds. I look over to the training team assembled behind us. Some, like Hamish, are preparing to run with us while others will be moving ahead by road to meet us at any one of the four stop points along the way. Standing among the training team are two familiar faces. One is Dave Nicholson who once again I am relieved to see. He is a very solid citizen and a fine marine, but he has also become a good friend and a good omen. He helped see me through the multiple risks and hazards of the front line in Afghanistan and now, I hope, his presence and support will help see me through the final commando test. The other familiar face is that of Laura, my assistant and honorary Bootneck pin-up. She wanted to be there for all the commando tests but I said quite emphatically 'no'. I did not want the extra pressure of an audience but I did tell her that if I got as far as the thirty-miler she could come down if she wanted to. How she has got here I don't know but she is standing there now waving at me enthusiastically. I smile and wave back. She is here not only for me of course but for everyone left in 924 Troop. She knows just about all of them by now, as well as the training team who have been feeding off her home-baked biscuits and apple cake for the last eight months.

  Orlando steps forward. His usual cheery countenance is replaced with an earnest and thoughtful look. His tone is serious and gaze all-embracing.

  'Listen up, 924 Troop,' he shouts, 'you are about to start the last of your commando tests. You are just eight hours away from winning the greatest prize of your lives. This is for you the culmination of eight months of training. Blood, sweat and tears for all of you as well as the ups and downs you have experienced emotionally and physically. Only eight hours stands between you and a Green Beret. Tell yourself, if ever you feel you cannot go on, that you will take one more small step. For in truth the largest of feats are achieved by taking many small steps. OK, here we go. You all up for it?'

  'Yes, sir!' we roar.

  07.00

  'One Syndicate!' shouts Hamish Robb. 'By the right – quick march!'

  And so it starts. We march briskly across a cattle grid and up a sharply inclined road towards the granite-strewn landscape that is Dartmoor. In front of us we can see the silhouettes of imposing tors emerging against the paling sky. It is almost like they are rising to beckon us, challenge us, taunt us: 'Come on then, 924 Troop. Try it. We have broken better men than you!'

  We turn right from the road and start down a rough track.

  'OK,' shouts Hamish, 'let's blow out the cobwebs. Double time to the top of the hill, double . . . time!'

  We break into a run but almost immediately our feet sink into spongy swamp. We lose traction, balance and forward momentum all at once.

  'Come on, One Syndicate!' screams Hamish. 'I never promised you a walk in the park, did I?'

  Ten minutes later, breathing hard and our lower bodies dripping with stinking swamp water, we reach a rocky ridge. We have covered half a mile. Just twenty-nine and a half left to go. I look over to James Williams and raise my eyebrows. He raises his in response and shakes his head. We are silently agreeing with each other that this is going to be a very long eight hours indeed.

  08.00

  Our syndicate of seven, plus Hamish at the head, moves like a slow and hesitant snake across the unforgiving landscape. And the snake keeps getting longer as dangerous gaps begin to develop between us. Intermittently we all respond with short bursts of speed to close up the spaces but it is increasingly exhausting to do so. At one point I inject a 'sprint' to try and catch up with the man in front of me only to find, once I reach him, that Hamish, at the front, puts on a burst of speed himself. It is a constantly demoralising game of catch-up and certainly unlike any marathon or crosscountry race I have ever run. I chastise myself for ever having felt confident that I could achieve this just because I've done a bit of distance running in the past. With only one hour gone, I brace myself for another seven hours of mounting agony that stretch depressingly in front of the syndicate.

  08.30

  At last we reach the first of the checkpoints. We are allowed only five minutes to grab some water, a banana and, astonishingly, a hot pasty. After such a huge breakfast I find it impossible even to contemplate consuming anything, let alone a thumping great meat pie. Again, I have no choice. None of us do.

  'You will all eat a pasty!' shouts a PTI.

  'Every fucking crumb!' bellows another. 'And a banana!'

  Insistent corporals and PTIs helpfully offer to push the pasties down our throats if we don't swallow them ourselves.

  'Just eat the bloody thing,' shouts a PTI to a pale-looking recruit nibbling at his pasty. 'I don't care if you puke it up straight away – some of it will stay down. Chew!'

  I somehow manage to get my pasty down but as soon as I have done so a banana is thrust into my hand and then half a litre of blackcurrant juice. Within another two minutes we are on the move again. I run alongside James Williams for a while.

  'I really underestimated this, Chris,' he confides. 'It's bloody horrible.'

  'Torture,' I gasp. 'You can't get any rhythm, can you?'

  'No,' replies James. 'I'm sure I'm gonna bust an ankle or snap a tendon.'

  We struggle on across every type of terrain imaginable – waterlogged bog, rock-strewn, grassy inclines, crevassed and pot-holed granite pavements and, worst of all, endless stretches of 'baby heads' – clumps of saturated grass coalesced into tight balls on which it is almost impossible to keep a footing. Wild Dartmoor ponies watch on in bored disdain.

  10.05

  We reach the second checkpoint. More water, more juice, more bananas and, of course, more pasties. Some of the lads grab the opportunity to get some first aid on burst blisters and cuts to the legs. I decide not to take my boots off just in case I can't get them on again, so I try to stretch my hamstrings and calves. I glimpse Dave who gives me the thumbs-up sign. Next to him I see Laura looking at us all with a worried look on her face. She ventures a smile and I do my best to summon something like a smile in return, but my face is really only capable of displaying agony and distress. F
ive minutes later we're off again and heading once more into a landscape full of geological and fluvial booby traps.