Commando

by Chris Terrill

  The last two weeks of our deployment are spent in similar manner – patrolling, protecting passing convoys, meeting local people and, of course, watching our backs in case of imminent attack. M Company and 11 Troop hold out to the end, maintaining the pressure and the discipline, because nobody forgets that the Taliban could attack at any moment.

  The marines have been changed by their Afghan experience and will be returning to Britain different people from when they came out six months ago. They have faced a relentless series of deliberate operations, ambushes, fighting patrols, not to mention the constant threat of landmines, RPG attacks and small arms fire from the ubiquitous AK47. Some have been superficially wounded, some have been seriously wounded and, of course, some have died – notably, for 11 Troop, young Tom Curry.

  Richie Rawlings from Liverpool has had enough for now.

  'It's been like a horror show sometimes,' he tells me. 'A living nightmare.'

  He has seen comrades fall around him so reckons he has now ticked the 'action box' in his military career.

  'I would come back to Afghanistan but next time I would prefer to be in the second line – sending down mortars and such. Front line, close-quarter stuff is something you really only want to do once.'

  Jacko Jackson has similar feelings.

  'It all felt like a bit of a game at first,' he admits. 'Going over the top was like being in a film – all a little unreal. But it soon got very serious and very real because we were killing them and occasionally they struck back. When Vinders was shot it really came home to me that this was no longer a game.'

  Sully Sullivan agrees.

  'When Vinders was killed it was a big kick in the bollocks. Up to then we were going out and absolutely malleting any enemy positions we came across and there was a sort of invincible feeling among the lads. Losing Vinders was definitely a reminder of your own mortality and it put everything back into perspective.'

  Bertie, of course, has had a baptism of fire. I saw, back in Kijaki, when I was with him for the company assault on the Shrine, that he had already grown into his job and its considerable responsibility, but since then he has developed further and inevitably matured further as well.

  'I could never have predicted all that has happened before I came out,' he tells me. 'I knew there was fighting going on but you never really imagine you're going to get involved in it yourself. I was prepared by my training but I didn't honestly believe that I would get as heavily involved as I have.'

  'Do you reckon it's been a positive experience?' I ask him.

  'In many ways yes,' he says pensively. 'But I've got mixed feelings, I suppose. There have been great times, inspiring times, but there have been some terrible times as well – some awful lows. Especially when we took casualties, and losing Tom, of course, was absolutely tragic and it hit all of us for six.'

  'That was the worst thing but what do you think has been the best thing about your first experience as a troop commander?'

  'The lads!' he answers without hesitation. 'To do what they've done and gone through and to come out smiling and still getting on with it is fantastic. They are amazing, special people.'

  It seems a long time since I went to meet him and his family at Brecon in Wales. But I am reminded of it now and especially his mother's obvious concern about him being deployed to Afghanistan.

  'How do you reckon your family has coped with your being out here?' I ask.

  'Pretty well, I think. I have talked to them when I can and written more than I thought I would. But I reckon it's worse for those at home having to worry all the time and seeing all the news coming back in the papers and on the television.'

  20 April

  We have our final few days back at Camp Bastion before flying back to Britain. I am amazed by the change here since I first saw it just before Christmas. Then it was still pretty much 'tent city' but now increasing amounts of it are being 'hard-built' and becoming more permanent. This surely reflects long-term thinking about Britain's presence in Afghanistan – we are here for the long haul, indeed some suggest it could be as long as a generation. This means many more Royal Marines Commandos will be coming out here in the future – and serving in places like Kijaki, Sangin and Gareshk. Some of them have yet to even start their training at Lympstone. Some are yet to be born.

  In this last six-month deployment of some five thousand Commandos to Afghanistan, eight of their number died. This is not a massive proportion, but for the families, friends and comrades of these young men who sacrificed their lives relative statistics have no meaning whatsoever. Each life lost is a tragedy.

  James Williams and Mark Blight, the two representatives of 924 Troop who made it through training and out to the front line, are going home having seen the battlefield and, indeed, trodden it, but they have yet to actually battle up on it. They have exposed themselves to danger just by patrolling in the towns, the villages and among the poppy fields but not, as yet, had the opportunity to close with the enemy. They have carried their weapons ready to fire but have not yet had to look down their gunsights at a foe or squeeze their triggers in anger. They remain hungry for action – and will no doubt hope to have their appetites satisfied when they have the opportunity to return to Afghanistan with 40 Commando at the end of 2007 and again, in 2008, when the entire brigade is due to redeploy to Helmand.

  The rest of 11 Troop, along with all their compatriots in M Company, have for the most part ticked the 'action boxes'. They have 'got the rounds down'. They have shot at the enemy and been shot at in return. They have put their training into practice and the vast majority have survived to fight another day. They also live to tell the tales of their brush with danger when many were forced to look their own mortality squarely in the eye. Some may occasionally recall these shocking, though special, memories inwardly. Some may exorcise haunting recollections by sharing them with family and friends. Others, of course, will spin their war 'dits' down the pub on a Friday night.

  Everybody in 11 Troop will deal with the aftermath of their war in different ways and will have different ways of relating their personal experiences – but there will be one common element, one uniting theme: the memory of Tom Curry. Vinders. The human battering ram. The Royal Marines' Royal Marine.

  Epilogue

  The Dewerstone Run

  4 July

  09.00

  I am at Bickleigh Barracks on the edge of Dartmoor – the home of 42 Commando. I am joining 450 Royal Marines for a speed march – but this is no ordinary speed march.

  'Listen in, men,' bellows a gigantic and much tattooed PTI. 'We are about to leave in troop formations to Dewerstone Rock. We will set off at minute intervals so we don't bunch up. Keep together and maintain a good pace. On the way back it will be every man for himself.'

  A few minutes later, in pouring rain, I set off with Bertie Kerr and his 11 Troop and we have in front of us a three-mile run to a craggy, granite hill known as Dewerstone Rock. This is a traditional run for Royal Marines first instituted in the 1960s when Bootnecks had to run to the top of the rock to get their pay if they wanted it cash in hand. This was not simple bloody-mindedness on the part of the authorities but an attempt to persuade marines to have their salaries paid straight into their bank accounts, because if they agreed to the latter option they didn't have to run to the top of the rock. Today, however, we're not running to pick up money. We're running for a much greater purpose and no man in the unit would have dreamed of opting out.

  Corporal Sully Sullivan counts out the pace for our troop.

  'One, two, three, four!'

  Our run is fast but disciplined and our boots beat out a steady rhythm on the road.

  After a quarter of an hour we come off the road and on to a stony, muddy track leading to the base of the Dewerstone Rock. We then start to climb its steep and treacherous slopes. It is difficult to keep balance as the footholds, while numerous, are wet and slippery, but slowly wave after wave of Royal Marines Commandos, drenched in sweat and rain, rea
ch the summit. One group, slightly slower than the rest, are carrying a massive, white wooden cross on their shoulders.

  We have come here today to remember the six men of 42 Commando who died in the previous twelve months – and to honour them in a typically Bootneck way.

  It is of course a sombre occasion and the day, grey, wet and windy, reflects the mood – fitting for remembering fallen comrades. Around us, in all directions, is the windswept terrain of Dartmoor which, of course, every man here would have trained on and run over to get his Green Beret, including, I am now so very proud to be able to say, myself.

  Mike Sharkey, the chaplain who I travelled with to Kijaki from Camp Bastion last Christmas, is to conduct the short service on top of the rock. With the white cross behind him and 450 men in front of him – who have all now donned their Green Berets – he makes his address.

  'Good morning, everyone,' he shouts against the wind and driving rain. 'I wish you a very warm welcome to our service of remembrance, in memory of our friends, colleagues and fellow Royal Marines who lost their lives in the last twelve months . . .'

  Every man on top of the rock stands proud and solemn.

  'The special qualities they had made them the people they were – and made them Royal Marines,' says Mike. 'They belonged to 42 Commando, they were one of our number. We had a bond with them – that is why we feel their loss so gravely. The carpet was taken from under our feet when we lost them . . .'

  After Mike leads his own prayers in memory of the fallen, Corporal Anthony Brisley steps forward. The last time I saw Tony was in that school in Gareshk when he taught an entire class of Afghan boys the Queen's Park Rangers chant. Now, however, in far more serious mood, he reads out the Royal Marines prayer.

  'O Eternal Lord God, who through many generations has united and inspired the members of our corps, grant Thy blessing, we beseech Thee, on Royal Marines serving all round the globe. Bestow Thy crown of righteousness upon all our efforts and endeavours and may our laurels be those of gallantry and honour, loyalty and courage. We ask these things in the Name of Him, whose courage never failed, our redeemer, Jesus Christ. Amen.'

  At this point a sergeant major steps forward and reads out six names:

  'Marine Hayden Rollason . . . Lance Corporal Richard Lamb . . . Marine Richard Watson . . . Marine Thomas Curry . . . Marine Scott Summers . . . Marine Benjamin Reddy.'

  He pauses, looks up and then, in a clear and resolute voice, recites Laurence Binyon's timeless dedication to young, fallen warriors:

  'They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them.'

  The entire unit responds as one voice.

  'We will remember them

  Following the Last Post, played by a lone bugler, and a minute's silence, everyone disperses and makes their way back to the base of the rock. There the sombre mood is replaced with an exuberant one as a sergeant shouts, 'Slow guys at the rear, sprinters at the front.' Moments later he roars, 'GO!' Four hundred and fifty men surge forward and the race is on to be the first man back at the barracks. This is still part of the tribute – but, again, it is done in typically Bootneck fashion. Everyone runs, including Chaplain Mike.

  It strikes me now, as it has struck me before, notably among the flying bullets on top of the Shrine seven months ago, why it is that these young men fight as heroically and selflessly as they do. Certainly, they have a great sense of duty to Queen and country, but their primary concern on the battlefield is the safety and welfare of their friends and comrades. They would and do die for each other. After the best part of a year in the company of Bootnecks I well understand and appreciate the strength of the bond between them. I have felt the intensity of that bond myself and while I must now move on, extract myself from their special world and revert from 'Tomcat' back to merely 'Chris', I take with me many new and lasting friends, extraordinary memories, unique experiences and, of course, my most prized possession – the coveted Green Beret. This represents to me not a mere reward for passing the gruelling commando tests but an emotive symbol of my temporary communion with an incredibly special breed of people who I will never, ever forget.

  Tom Curry

  Mentioned in Despatches

  'Tom Curry, after only a year out of training, did not hesitate to lead an attack across open ground in the face of the enemy. He performed the task with no concern for his own safety, seeking instead to protect his comrades. He paid for this gallantry with his life.'