Going Commando

by Mark Time

  ‘Right, three ranks in front of me, go!’

  From the serenity of basking in the shade of summer trees we were catapulted into a maelstrom of activity and within a minute we were ready, fully kitted in three ranks, already sweating like huskies in a sauna.

  ‘One of the commando tests is a nine-mile speed march, guys,’ added Corporal Stevens from the flank. ‘This is a piece of piss. It’s only eight.’

  We were already exhausted from a week of sleep deprivation. Speed marching for the first time with the 30kg of kit on our backs, in the middle of a hot summer’s day, elicited auditory signals of struggle.

  ‘Shitten it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ Corporal Stevens answered one particular grunt of anguished exhaustion.

  By halfway, the troop had split in two. Near the end, the divisions had become greater, as too had the shouting of the training team running alongside.

  ‘Pain is just weakness leaving the body, fellas,’ shouted one corporal.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt when the pain has gone,’ screamed another, continuing the theme.

  By the time we reached CTCRM, only around fifteen of us had finished as a lead group. It was noted that all five of us on washing-up detail had finished. It was also the first time I had been told, ‘Well done.’

  * * *

  Three weeks of summer leave followed. Everywhere I went, I wore my Royal Marines sweatshirt with pride amongst my old schoolmates who were either on Youth Training Schemes or, God forbid, still at school. They needed to get out into the real world. I had been a Royal Marines recruit for four weeks and done things they would never dream of (like boot-polishing a floor with a toothbrush).

  They questioned me relentlessly about the mystical world into which I’d disappeared, and I was only too happy to fuel their imagination with awe-inspiring tales of heroism, despite experiencing very little of it. I sat in a café with an old schoolmate drinking coffee, and managed to catch a fly that had been annoying me.

  ‘Did you learn that in the Marines?’ he said, eyes popping at my killing skills.

  I could have blown his mind by replying, ‘Yes, week three in training was devoted to catching flying insects.’ But instead I just smiled and said, ‘My reflexes have sharpened up a bit.’

  And maybe they had. Despite being a Royal Marine recruit for only four weeks, a few days of rest had left me feeling sharper, stronger and fitter than I’d ever been. But my feet were a real problem. Permanently blistered, my heels were raw; an area of skin the size of a fifty-pence piece had worn away, leaving me in total agony when walking in anything other than a pair of slippers, which unfortunately were not a military-issue item. At least on leave I could go back to wearing nice, soft trainers to ease the pain and hopefully allow them to heal.

  Noting my pain, and horrified at the state of my feet, my mam suggested pissing on them. This surprised me. I’d found pornography hidden in my stepdad’s wardrobe but I didn’t think they’d gone that far. But apparently it was an old miner’s trick to harden the hands and prevent blistering.

  With only two short planks of common sense between my ears, I thought I’d give it a go. Pissing on my heels was easy enough, but trying to get the outsides of my ankles was decidedly more difficult. Whichever way I contorted my body, legs and rather inadequate penis, it was impossible.

  Please have a go sometime, or, by way of a comparison, try this: next time you go to a garden fete, visit the Scouts’ stall. They will undoubtedly have that piss-poor game where you trail a metal hoop along a twisting length of electrified wire, trying not to make the spotty little twat in charge laugh at you when the wire buzzes as the hoop touches and you lose your 10p. When you’ve finished punching his specky face, nick the game and take it home, where you can begin the following experiment:

  Erect a stepladder in the doorway adjoining the dining room and the kitchen.

  Saw an inch from one leg on the dining-room side and cover it in creosote, balancing the ladder so it doesn’t touch the new wholemeal carpet in your dining room.

  Place the opposite legs on the kitchen linoleum, on upturned margarine wrappers.

  The fourth and untouched leg can be left alone. (The more advanced can place it on an upturned treacle can.)

  Place a comedy mirror in your kitchen, preferably one that makes your head look the size of an old 7” single.

  Strap the wire game to the top of your head using black masking tape.

  Climb to the top rung of the stepladder (the one the instructions tell you not to stand on).

  Now look into the comedy mirror and try to drag the hoop successfully around the wire without leaving a creosote stain on your carpet from unbalancing the ladder.

  That takes half the skill needed to urinate on the outsides of your ankles.

  I tried it in the bath without a flat surface. It wasn’t at all surprising when, with one foot planted on the opposite thigh, I slipped. Thrusting out my arms, I grabbed the shower curtain and wrenched the pole from its fixing, crashing to the floor in a snotty heap. My mother heard the racket, and rushed in to see what on earth I’d done. There I lay, my meat and two veg flaccidly parading, semi-wrapped in a floral shower curtain with a pole across my head.

  ‘I was trying to piss on my blisters,’ I said, ‘but I couldn’t reach the sides of my ankles. I slipped.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just pee on your hand and rub it in?’ she said.

  IQ 150, common sense zero.

  This may have been why my ankle blisters didn’t heal very well. Mind you, neither did the ones on my heels. They looked just as bad, but smelled a lot pissier.

  * * *

  So eager was I to get back to training that I returned two days early – a ridiculous idea, as CTCRM only had a skeleton staff and most of the camp was closed. I spent forty-eight hours stuck in my room, scared shitless as the accommodation block took on a spooky aura when empty.

  The first week back at CTC took off as it had finished: lots of shouting, weapons training, physical exercise, and cleaning. Jackie and five others had dropped out. They returned all the way to camp to immediately put in their notice to opt out, and within the next day or two they were never to be seen again. Within five weeks we had lost nearly thirty per cent of the troop.

  Being sixteen and therefore still classed as a child – although not treated like one, unless you count the Victorian workhouses – I was issued a third of a pint of milk daily that would be sent to the training team’s office. The office sat in the corner of the accommodation block’s landing and should have had a yellow and black cordon tape reading, ‘CAUTION: BASTARDS AT WORK.’

  Going to the training team’s office was as nerve-wracking as meeting the Queen –though the Queen would probably not call me a ‘scrote’.

  The story goes – and I can totally believe it – that a nervous recruit, already in the shit for some hideous misdemeanour, such as having a difficult-to-pronounce surname, knocked on the training team’s door. Despite him knowing for certain they were inside, there was no answer. He knocked again, and waited like a forlorn puppy for attention. When he had been standing there for two minutes, a corporal opened the door. Inside sat the whole team, with the troop sergeant busy making a noose to scare the nods.

  ‘What do you want, scrote? It had better be important. I’m busy,’ says the troop sergeant.

  ‘Yes, it is, Sar…’

  The corporal at the door interjects, ‘Is that how you report to the troop sergeant, fuckdust? Get out and report properly.’

  So the recruit smartly about-turns and leaves the office. Halting, he about-turns again to have the door slammed in his face like a gypsy offering to tarmac a drive.

  He knocks again. No answer. He knocks again.

  The door opens and the corporal instructs the recruit to report.

  The nod marches back in properly, clashing his heels together to attention.

  The sergeant says, ‘Right, let’s start again.’

  ‘Sergeant, I am PO457
40J Tumblefish. Permission to speak, Sergeant.’

  ‘That’s better. Now, what do you want?’

  ‘Sergeant, my room is on fire.’

  So it was with trepidation that I’d knock every morning to receive my milk. And every morning I found the milk had already been used as a welcome addition to their morning’s teas and coffees. I was sure it was my only contribution to the training team’s happiness, and the main reason I was still with the troop.

  By now we were allowed off camp, so we were ordered to the training team’s office to be issued a shore-leave pass. It was probably the only time we ever wanted to visit the team office.

  ‘Time!’ shouted Corporal Stevens from within the office. I marched in as well as I could with my shitty feet.

  ‘It says here, “Junior Marine.” How old are you, Time?’ he asked, the shore-leave pass waving in front of my eyes.

  ‘Sixteen, Corporal.’

  ‘Have you been out on your own after six o’clock?’

  I returned his smirk. ‘Yes, Corporal.’

  ‘Probably out in the park drinking cider, weren’t you?’ he added. He didn’t realise how close to the truth he was.

  ‘No, Corporal,’ I smirked again.

  ‘You are not to drink when you’re ashore, Time.’

  ‘Of course not, Corporal.’ My smirk suggested I thought he was joking, but his deadpan glare definitely suggested otherwise.

  ‘If I find out you’ve been drinking you will be charged. Do you hear me?’

  The lightheartedness had turned menacing. I had no doubt he was a man of his word. It was quite okay for him to teach me how to kill people, but God forbid I might order a Babycham.

  Despite Royal Marine camps being on dry land, getting off camp and into the civilian community was known as ‘going ashore’. As a recruit, it was an exercise in itself.

  Most of the accommodation blocks were around 100m from the train platform. But we’d have to trek 400m in the opposite direction up to the Guard Room at the main gate to join a queue more suited to popular theme-park rides. Once at the front of the queue you would report and ask the duty guard commander, ‘Permission to go ashore.’ As part of the ceremony, the guard commander would then inspect us before we trekked the 500m back to the train stop.

  Inspection for going ashore gave carte blanche to the bored guard commanders, pissed off that they were working weekends, to deny you permission. Rejection could be for any odd reason and given with equally bizarre explanations.

  Wearing white socks:

  ‘Who do you think you are, John Travolta?’

  Trousers too short:

  ‘Put some jam on your shoes to attract them down.’

  Laces twisted:

  ‘If you were in the First World War you’d have been stabbed in the trenches.’

  Or you had a weird accent:

  ‘Come back in ten minutes and talk properly.’

  Pushed for time as we were, any rejection meant running back to the accommodation to fix socks/trousers/laces/speech, before running back to the guardroom to queue up again for more ridicule, in the vain hope you’d catch the next freedom train out.

  With uniform haircuts, polished shoes, trousers (recruits were not allowed to be wear jeans) and pressed shirts, we were not only recognisable as nods walking around Exeter but obvious targets for the IRA and, more probably, the fashion police. We all frequented the same pubs. One, The Turk’s Head, was known as ‘The Nod’s Head’. On any given Saturday afternoon you’d think you had walked in on a skinheads’ ‘how to dress smartly and talk in abbreviations’ convention. If your leave pass allowed you out late, you’d then move on to Tens nightclub – a dark, sticky-carpeted, subterranean nightspot full of easily-pissed recruits desperate for even the smell of a girl’s neck perfume, and even more inebriated women more than happy to allow recruits to smell wherever they wanted.

  While encouraged to go out in Exeter, an evening in nearby Exmouth was strictly off limits to nods. It was the domain of trained ranks and training teams. An afternoon visit to promenade along the seafront was allowed, but if a nod was caught in a pub it was seen as a show of insolence and a quiet word would be had, along to the lines of, ‘Off is the general direction in which I wish you to fuck.’

  The nod would then disappear in the direction of Exeter, usually with a chit attached to his forehead saying, ‘Please beast me first thing Monday morning.’

  An afternoon ashore would usually consist of wandering aimlessly around the shops, not really buying anything of use to the layperson apart from the odd music cassette. We nods regularly found ourselves in outward bounds suppliers, buying yet more green string in case the twenty metres in our holdalls got used or lost. I reckon if I had opened a green string shop in Exeter (probably called something like Geez String!) I’d have been able to retire by now.

  Occasionally, if you were confident of staying awake in the dark, you might catch a film. One time, Hopkins, the lads and I went to watch Sly Stallone in Cobra. Prior to joining up, I’d been refused entry to watch Commando, even though I was about to become one. As I queued up I reflected that as a serviceman, a government-trained assassin with a lust for napalm and hot chicks, I’d surely be allowed in this time. But no, I was relegated to watching the 15-rated Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. And I still got my ID checked beforehand.

  I had the last laugh, though. The general assessment was that Cobra was shite, and I’d had a narrow escape. It was probably the only time when being so young was an advantage.

  SIX

  ‘My blood congeals, and I can write no more.’

  DR FAUSTUS – CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

  THERE ARE MANY old stories that abound in Royal Marines folklore. Indeed, this ‘dit’ culture of storytelling is part of the Corps ethos. Some may be factual, some a little embellished and some a total fabrication. Whatever the level of veracity, ‘spinning dits’ has become an important factor in underpinning the character of a Royal Marine, whether the story is set at the Battle of Trafalgar or in The Battle of Trafalgar pub.

  A DL inspects a recruit troop on the drill square at CTC. The recruits have their dry weapons stripped down and, as per usual, the DL ensures there is not even a gnat’s hair present.

  He looks through the weapon barrel of one recruit and spots something within the rifling. He passes the weapon to the recruit for him to look through.

  ‘What can you see through there, Lofty?’ asks the DL.

  The nod looks closely up through the barrel. ‘The officers’ mess, Corporal.’

  Whether or not it is true, just the presence of an officers’ mess at CTC is unique. The Army has Sandhurst as an academy to train its officers, the Royal Navy has Britannia Royal Naval College in Dartmouth, and the RAF probably trains its officers at the Ritz for a couple of weeks before heading off on a skiing trip.

  The Royal Marines make no such distinction in training establishments, and therefore officer recruits – Young Officers, or YOs – while living in the mess, mingle with non-commissioned recruits on a daily basis, undertaking similar lectures in the same areas, receiving the same level of instruction. This not only provides an instant bond between a Royal Marines officer and his men, but also offers a recruit an insight into the lives of their future commanders, with less of the separation often prevalent in the other services.

  A Royal Marines officer on a course at an army barracks is in the mess eating breakfast with officers from all arms of the services. He asks a Guards officer, busy reading the morning’s broadsheet across the other side of the dinner table, ‘Could you please pass the salt?’

  The Guards officer ignores the request, so the RM officer repeats it.

  The Guards officer looks up. ‘Are you aware that when a Guards officer is reading the newspaper it means he does not want to be disturbed?’

  The Royal Marines officer pauses before climbing onto the dinner table and stamping into a bowl, kicking milk and cereal all over the Guards officer’s newspaper and uniform
.

  ‘Are you aware that when a Royal Marines officer stands in your cornflakes it means pass the fucking salt?’

  Again, this is possibly an embellishment of the truth, but it does show how rough around the edges the typical bootneck officer is. Which could not be said about one YO who arrived to commence training.

  The press was constantly parked outside the main gate as if some B-list celebrity had been seen entering. We had been told by the camp hierarchy to stay away from them; as if we had time to go up to the main gate and start a conversation with anyone; as if we could even get out of the main gate. Even when ashore journalists would approach us, keen to get a scoop from some young nod with a head full of wild stories about our new Young Officer: His Royal Highness Prince Edward.

  We had known of his arrival on return from summer leave. While quite thrilling for many, I’d have taken his presence with a huge dollop of ambivalence if it wasn’t for the fact that his academic qualifications were shit and his presence was based upon birthright and not merit. Regressing to my socialist roots, I thought his commission only denied someone more deserving.

  I saw him only on occasion, the rosy red cheeks on his otherwise pasty face giving him a permanent look of embarrassment and adding to an androgyny that would make him popular if he ever ended up in prison. I do recall he wore a very badly-shaped beret like a felt cushion on his head, and in truth he didn’t look at all like a bootneck officer. Never once did I see him smile and I certainly never saw him pissing in a doorway. The PR gurus at CTC told the press that Prince Edward would be treated just like everyone else going through training, so I was at a loss as to why I never had two bodyguards by my side when I went ashore to buy green string.

  * * *

  The military was going through kit and equipment changes in 1986. We were to be issued the new Mk 6 nylon fibre helmet, which we were told was the best thing since sliced bread. I would have preferred sliced bread on my head.

  As we were some of the first troops to be issued this new-fangled head protector, logistical problems meant the first shipments only came in one size: Extra Fucking Large. Unfortunately, those of us who didn’t have a noggin the size of a beach ball ended up looking like an overgrown toadstool.