Commando

by Chris Terrill

  Last time I ran a distance longer than a marathon was when I competed in the London to Brighton road race some ten years ago. I remember then, when I got to about the thirty-mile mark, I started hallucinating. It was not a wholly unpleasant experience and at least it helped to take my mind off the agony. So far, I'm not doing the same here, not yet anyway, which means I have all my faculties intact including, unfortunately, all my pain receptors. I concentrate on trying to think of other things. My body may have to suffer this torment but perhaps I can spare my mind anguish by giving it something else to work on. Immediately my thoughts turn to Afghanistan and specifically to Tom Curry.

  I imagine Tom running the thirty-miler just a year ago on the way to his own Green Beret. In my mind's eye I can see his gigantic frame bounding alongside me. He was so strong I cannot imagine he would have found the commando tests anything like as hard as I'm finding them or most of the rest of 924 Troop come to that. Nevertheless, I think about the pride he must have felt in passing and being awarded the Green Beret that turned him into one of the world's best-trained soldiers. But there was something else about Tom that stood him out from the crowd, which I only found out recently but it didn't surprise me one little bit. Tom, at the end of training, was awarded the Commando Medal, having been voted by his peers as the man whose character best reflected the commando qualities of unselfishness, leadership, determination and cheerfulness under adversity. I think how proud his parents and family must have been of him, little knowing where his destiny was going to lead him – Kijaki in Afghanistan where he was to perish so tragically but also so courageously and honourably. It seems ironic, in a way, that to earn the right to fight as a Royal Marines Commando and risk life and limb fighting the nation's enemies you first have to endure the torture and anguish of the commando tests. It is as if you have to suffer to earn the right to suffer further – something most ordinary people would not be able to comprehend. But that is the point, I suppose – ordinary people do not become Royal Marines.

  11.55

  By the time we get to the third checkpoint I am beginning to feel dehydrated and, extraordinarily, quite hungry, so I immediately gulp at a jug of juice and happily consume another pasty. The relief of suddenly standing still for a few minutes is pure ecstasy which almost makes the pain of the run worthwhile. It is the same principle as wanting to bash your head against a brick wall simply because it is so nice when you stop.

  Hamish moves off again and we follow. This time we have been joined by Jon Stratford who says he is going to run the last two sections with us. This lifts me because Jon, like Hamish, is a great motivator and has got me this far in the commando tests. I know I have to dig even deeper now but feel more capable of doing so with Jon there to spur me on.

  We are still having problems keeping together and are constantly having to close gaps, and Hamish keeps driving us hard – especially on the flat and downhill sections. He has to stay on schedule or else we won't break the eight-hour time limit, in which case all this will have been in vain.

  I have no idea how far there is to go any more. I have completely lost any sense of time, distance or direction. I try to do some calculations in my head and decide we have about eleven miles left to go. Bloody hell! I haven't got much more left in my legs and keep thinking they're just suddenly going to call a halt. My lungs are OK but my legs are about to give up the ghost.

  Disorientated, I am surprised when we suddenly stop at another checkpoint stop. I can't understand why because it seems we have only just left the last one. I see Dave waiting by a Land Rover and go over to him.

  'Dave, how many checkpoints are we having?'

  'Just the four.'

  'But this is the fourth one. There must be another one before the finish!'

  'No, mate, this is the last one you're getting. How far do you think you have to go?'

  'Eleven, twelve miles?'

  'Mate, you have just seven miles to go.'

  I am shocked. I cannot believe it. Seven miles. Surely I can wring seven miles from my exhausted legs and battered, blistered feet.

  We set off and at first I am elated that I had so overestimated the distance left to run. Within half a mile, however, I realise that every yard left to run is going to require an immense effort because my legs have become numb, heavy and very sore. If I tripped and fell now I don't think I'd be able to get up.

  I try to pace myself by looking ahead to some natural feature like a rock or a tree and just aim to come level with it. Once there I do the same again with yet another feature. Nobody is talking any more. All of us have disappeared inside our own heads and are just silently following Hamish and Jon who remain at the front. Hamish is shouting orders but I really can't take them in. It is all I can do to keep my eyes on him. I want to stop with all my being. I cannot believe that, after all I have been through, my body is going to fail me now.

  Everything becomes a blur and after an indeterminate amount of time I become aware of running up a grassy slope towards a cluster of trees and a road.

  'Right, lads, stop here,' says Hamish, as we reach a wooden fence. 'If you look down the road about four hundred yards you will see a humpback bridge.'

  We all look in the direction of his pointing finger. I can see a small stone bridge over a fast-running stream and just the other side there is a crowd of people milling around a collection of military vehicles.

  'Once you have crossed that bridge, lads, you will have earned yourself a Green Beret. Reckon you can do it?'

  At first I cannot believe what he is telling us but then it sinks in. My God! It is the finish. Once again I had completely overestimated the distance we had left to cover. My addled mind had convinced itself we still had miles to cover but in fact just a quarter of a mile remains. My heart is racing, no longer with breathless exhaustion but with breathless excitement.

  'Put on your cap comforters and fine up in two files,' shouts Hamish. 'I want us to come in looking like Royal Marines.'

  We reach into our rucksacks, get out our cap comforters and pull them over our sweating and mud-spattered heads.

  'One Syndicate, by the right, at the double – quick march!'

  We break into a run. My legs, reinvigorated, carry me proudly and at pace to the humpback bridge, which we cross to the applause of all those waiting. We have come in with fifteen minutes to spare.

  We stop and line up in our ranks until we are dismissed.

  'Right, fellas. Hoofing well done,' says Hamish smiling broadly. 'That was a mega good effort, now put on some warmers and get some oggin down you. Dismiss!'

  We turn right and walk off cheering, but this is when I am suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. I break down and sob uncontrollably. I feel a series of slaps on my back but I cannot stop weeping. Thirty weeks of frustration, pain and a lot of soul searching have caught up with me, but I have passed. After all my misgivings, my fears, my uncertainties and my injuries I have realised a dream. Laura comes running over and engulfs me in a hug.

  'Well done! Well done! You've done it!'

  I can do nothing but sob on her shoulder.

  Dave strides over, grasps my hand and shakes it vigorously. 'Good effort, mate,' he says. 'Hurts, doesn't it?'

  'Yes it does,' I stutter. 'But it was worth it – every bloody, agonising step!'

  We all go over to the bridge to wait for the second syndicate to come in which they do about half an hour after us. Then, when everybody is dried off and watered, we all line up in two ranks and wait for the company commander, Paul Mattin, to address us.

  'Men,' he shouts, 'you will remember today for the rest of your lives because today is the day you won your Green Beret . . .'

  I stand proudly in line with 924 Troop and listen to Paul's rousing words but I know they are not directed at me. These words, quite properly, are for the twelve young men around me who, a week from now, will pass out as Royal Marines Commandos. Of the fifty recruits that joined 924 Troop thirty-one weeks ago only six of those present today
are originals.

  'You are now a very real part of a large family,' continues Paul. 'And this will be your family for the rest of your lives. Once a Bootneck always a Bootneck. I now have the great pleasure of presenting you with your Green Berets.'

  Paul steps forward and gives each man the ultimate reward for his efforts. One by one each man replaces his cap comforter with a brand-new Green Beret complete with Globe and Laurel badge. Two of the recruits have to stand to the side as they will not earn their beret until they have rerun and hopefully passed the Tarzan assault course tomorrow. It must be incredibly frustrating for them, but they are showing tremendous spirit and both look genuinely pleased for the rest of the troop.

  Paul presents all the berets to the recruits and then pulls out another from his pocket.

  'Chris,' he says, 'has performed excellently and has surprised one or two of us by passing all four commando tests at the ripe old age of fifty-five. He is certainly the oldest participant ever to have achieved this, so it gives me great pleasure in presenting him with one of these rare beasts – the honorary Green Beret.'

  He steps forward and presents me with the thing I had set my heart on eight months ago but which, increasingly, I thought beyond me. I take the precious prize in my hand and look at it for a while before putting it proudly on my head.

  Moments later Orlando Rogers slaps me on the back with one of his enormous hands.

  'Well done, Royal!' he says.

  12

  'Royal Marines, to your Duties!'

  2 March

  It has been a long haul. Thirty-two weeks of constant challenge. Many of the original 924 Troop who arrived at the Lympstone railway station last June have fallen by the wayside. Some have been backtrooped, some have been relocated to Hunter Company and some have left altogether. Six of the original fifty have made it through to the commando tests and to eventual pass-out. Of those, just two will be sent out to Afghanistan –James Williams, the ex-plasterer from Kent, and Mark Blight, who rejoined after initially dropping out two years ago. These two will pass out as the top recruits of 924 Troop.

  It is a bright, windy day but dry, so the pass-out ceremony, unlike the one I attended for Bertie Kerr, will be held on the parade ground. Family and friends take their places in the stands and wait for 924 Troop to march in. The Royal Marines Band arrives playing Elgar's 'Nimrod' which sets the scene perfectly for such an important, emotive and rousing event. Today, after all, marks the end of an extraordinary rite of passage for the surviving recruits of 924 Troop – who now march smartly and proudly on to the parade ground in their 'Blues' and white peaked caps to the excited applause of the crowd.

  The inspecting officer is Vice Admiral Adrian Johns, the Second Sea Lord and Commander-in-Chief Naval Home Command. After his inspection of the ranks, when he talks personally to each man, he addresses 924 Troop as a whole. He congratulates them on their success in getting through such an exacting regime of training and bids them well in their future careers.

  'You pass into the corps,' he says, 'at a time of great urgency in the world when we need well-trained and committed Royal Marines to rise to the considerable challenges that face us all over the world – but particularly, at the moment, in Afghanistan. Most of you, if not all of you, will eventually serve over there and I wish you the very best of luck in your duties. God speed.'

  For the last week and a half, since the completion of the commando tests, 924 Troop, now known as the King's Squad, has been practising a marching and weapon-handling display with Corporal Goodall and it is this they perform now. It is a thrilling and split-second demonstration of drill – a far cry from the first time I saw them on the same parade ground learning to march in time with Corporal Weclawek.

  Finally, just as with the YOs last December, the adjutant steps forward and gives the members of 924 Troop their final order as recruits – and the order which instantly transforms them from Nods into Bootnecks: 'Royal Marines – to your duties. Quick march!'

  And 924 Troop march off the parade ground towards their destiny as fully-fledged front-line commandos. James and Mark are going straight into 42 Commando and will be sent to Afghanistan within two weeks. They are to join M Company's 11 Troop. Their troop commander will be one Second Lieutenant Bertie Kerr.

  18 March

  05.00

  I am at Brize Norton yet again and on my way back to Afghanistan. This time I am not travelling with Dave Nicholson because he has been diverted to a job involving a Royal Navy submarine at the North Pole, but he plans to join me in Afghanistan in a few days. I am travelling, however, with brand-new Royal Marines James Williams and Mark Blight – shiny and straight out of their box. They have spent the last week going through OPTAG, getting their desert gear together and saying all their goodbyes. They are not going out for a full six-month deployment because the Royal Marines are due to return en masse to Britain in about five or six weeks, but fresh marines are needed meanwhile to replace battlefield casualties. They are going for a relatively short period but it is nonetheless extremely dangerous. There is no such thing as an easy deployment to a place like Afghanistan because a bullet or a bomb needs only a split second to wreak its havoc.

  After a series of delays, due first to a fuel leak and then because of a problem with the missile warning system, we eventually take off for the seven-hour flight to Kandahar. James is excited but already concerned for his mother Maureen.

  'It was difficult leaving,' he tells me. 'Mum was upset, especially as it was Mother's Day. But she knows I'm doing what I've always dreamed of doing. She's proud and everything but obviously concerned – especially with the news that keeps coming back of yet another marine being killed or wounded.'

  'How do you feel about it?' I ask him.

  'Worried obviously,' he says. 'But I've been trained by the best to be the best so I will trust in that. Most of all I just feel so relieved to have finished training and know that I will never have to go through that again. All that shouting, punishments and press-up bastards are a thing of the past now. I've made it.'

  'Following in your grandfather's footsteps?' I say, remembering that, while he was not a marine, he was a successful career soldier.

  'Yeah, that's right. I was looking at his medals before I left home and thinking of him telling me his war stories when I was a nipper. Well, soon I'll have my own war stories, won't I? Just need some grandkids now!'

  The journey is long and tiring but most of us manage to sleep. It is dark when we reach Kandahar and, as before, when I came out at Christmas, we have to put on our body armour and helmets as we make the final approach to land. We land without event and make our way to a holding area to wait for our onward journey to Camp Bastion. An hour later we're told that our flight has been postponed till the following morning because the C130 troop carrier that we were to fly in has had some of its electrics knocked out by a lightning strike.

  We all go to a massive hanger full of hundreds of bunk beds and get our heads down for the night.

  19 March

  The C130 is fixed so after a massive and very welcome Bootneck breakfast in the main galley we take off from Kandahar for the one-hour flight to Camp Bastion. It is all familiar to me, of course, but to Mark and James it is a new and exhilarating experience. I watch their excitement as we sweep round for our landing on the airstrip carved out of the desert just outside the camp. Once again I hark back to the first time I met these lads on Lympstone station and consider how far they have come since that fateful day.

  Bastion is baking hot. When I was here in December Helmand was still in the grip of the Afghan winter but spring has brought the sun and an intense heat that must, I imagine, be difficult to deal with when on patrol and in full fighting order. James and Mark are told to report to their troop commander in the 42 Commando compound. I go ahead of them as I want to see Bertie first and ask whether I can film his first meeting with the two newcomers.

  'Hello, Chris. Welcome back,' says Bertie as I walk into the air
-conditioned tent he shares with his NCOs.

  'Hi, Bertie. How's life?'

  'We're all absolutely knackered, to be honest,' he says. 'It all started as soon as I got here when I came under fire on my very first patrol and it just hasn't stopped. You saw what it was like at Christmas, but it's been a long, hard slog since you left, and then what with losing Vinders

  'Yes, I was so sorry to hear that,' I say. 'Your mother phoned to tell me just the day after it happened.'

  'It was tragic. And he was such an amazing bloke as well as being a first-rate marine. Losing him hit us all really hard. It was a tough time.'

  'Ready for home?'

  'We're all ready for home,' says Bertie. 'Especially the lads. I've just been here for four months, but most of them have been out for the full six months and have just been going from one hellhole to another. We just got in from Sangin last week where we were under constant attack for two weeks – we couldn't get out of the compound. We took incoming all day – small arms and RPGs. Three men from 29 Commando, who were attached to M Company, bought it last week when they took the full brunt of an incoming rocket. We've done a lot of damage to the Taliban, mind. I'm proud of the troop – they've been fantastic.'

  'You have two lads from 924 Troop outside – bit of new blood.'

  'Yes, I'm going to see them now. Good lads?'

  'Yes,' I say. 'They were the best in the troop. Both very committed and nice guys too. Eager for action of course!'

  'No doubt,' says Bertie. 'Well, I can't promise them that. We are moving to Fort Price in Gareshk the day after tomorrow to start patrolling the town and some of the outlying areas. The Taliban are keeping a low profile at the moment but have promised a spring offensive so we need to make sure we show them we have strength on the ground as well as getting to know the local people. We have a lot of hearts and minds work to do. It should be good actually – we'll get close to ordinary Afghanis for a change. In the whole time I've been here I've hardly seen any – especially not women and children.'