Going Commando

by Mark Time

  My contact with 299 Troop members also brought some quite strange news. Corporal Stevens, the man I’d admired with near hero-worship despite him throwing copious amounts of shit my way, had been killed in a road traffic accident. Apparently, he had inexplicably swerved in front of a lorry on the road up to Woodbury Common.

  My shock and horror at this news soon subsided as the story continued. A new troop sergeant, evidently more sober than the man he replaced, had suspected Corporal Stevens was the infamous troop thief and had therefore set a trap.

  Corporal Stevens took the bait and stole the £10 notes deliberately left there. It was him: a man who we looked up to no matter how much shit he gave us, a god, a bastion of honour and integrity, the sculptor who chiselled us into commandos, a King’s Badge man, a sniper, a thief.

  After all the shit I’d been given over the stealing accusation, and the humiliation it caused me within the troop, it seemed unbelievable that this man could watch it all go on around him and still continue to steal. He may have been initially revered by the nods, including myself, held in the highest regard around commando units, he may have even been a best mate to some; but to me, he was now nothing more than a cheap, cowardly thief.

  * * *

  While my physical fitness in the gym was of the highest order, placing a further quarter of my bodyweight onto my back added a whole new dimension to personal fitness. From week sixteen onwards, the bottom field was our new arena of pain.

  The gym had been only the warm-up to the real challenges of the bottom field, the open-aired coliseum of the PTIs. The only things that could have made the bottom field more difficult were the addition of chariots and hungry tigers.

  Our gleaming white tops, shorts and daps were replaced by denims, a PT top and a coat lovingly referred to as a ‘beasting jacket’, and our most comfortable boots. It would be here where the England Rugby Union team prepared for their successful 2003 World Cup campaign, and one would hope they received similar treatment in the glorious mud.

  While I never failed anything down there in the chaos of battle fitness training (BFT), the high impact was taking a toll on my body. Conquering the high obstacle course, climbing 30ft ropes with the girth of an elephant’s tadger, and a 90m fireman’s carry in full battle gear carrying 70lbs of weight, two weapons, oh, and a fellow recruit, were the warm-ups to taking on the assault course: a well-chosen selection of obstacles placed in order to sap energy systematically from one part of the body to the next.

  Already balls-achingly knackered, we would finish off in style: the full regain over the water tank, crawl along the chasm, a 15m rope stretched high above the regain water tank, halfway across slip the body around until it was inverted under the rope, release the feet from the rope, then swing them back on. From the inverted position, roll back over the top of the rope and continue onward.

  The regain would have been easier if the rope across the chasm wasn’t so slack. The bounce could make swinging a disaster should the momentum not be carried correctly. If the swing back onto the rope on the first attempt was unsuccessful, it was unlikely one could get back on without momentum. Should this happen, a series of ever more desperate yet comical, writhing air kicks, grunts, squeals and struggling would conclude with the PTI ordering the recruit to let go of the rope and fall into the icy waters of the regain tank, resurfacing to some earthy language.

  Fortunately, I found the regains quite achievable, although I did fail once, making a pathetic splash – hardly pleasant in a British winter. As troops ran back from the bottom field it was always obvious who struggled on the regain rope, a troop of muddy but relatively dry recruits intermingling with a few who were saturated from their plunge.

  In this second fifteen weeks it now seemed our CEFO (fighting order) – all 35lbs (16kg) plus weapon – had become an extension to our bodies. Apart from indoor lectures, we wore it everywhere during the working day. It felt like a goblin on my back poking and prodding me, making fun of my aching body every time I ran anywhere, banging into me to add more pain to the ever increasing webbing burns on my lower back that now took over from my blistered feet as the sores of choice. It was evident that the only thing more painful than running with webbing burns was showering with webbing burns.

  Visits to Dartmoor became more frequent. Our night navigation exercises were longer, as our increasing familiarity with Woodbury Common meant the challenges it presented were lessened. Dartmoor, in national park terms, is the girl with the curl: when she is good she is very, very good, but when she is bad she is awful. When the sun shines across a blue sky, the moor is God’s own country, the vistas across the tors, forestry blocks and dales truly enchanting. However, when the weather clags and precipitation is on the heavy side, it is a desolate, godforsaken place where no sane person would choose to venture. No wonder they put a prison there.

  As Murphy’s Law edicts, we only went there when it rained, snowed or the fog rolled in. I am sure someone at Okehampton Battle camp has a Dartmoor weather switch and whenever Royal Marines are scheduled to train, it’s turned to ‘cold, wet and miserable’. After all, we were often told, ‘If it’s not raining, it’s not training.’

  Venturing onto the moor for the first time filled me with trepidation. I recalled watching the 1939 version of The Hound of the Baskervilles with Basil Rathbone playing Sherlock Holmes. As a child it was only natural to be fearful of such a beast in grainy black and white, but my lasting impression was of the infamous, if fictitious, Great Grimpen mire – the bog that swallows the unwary.

  The training team did nothing to dispel my fears. During winter these bogs were exceedingly dangerous; apparently they could easily swallow those who ventured too far into them. The prospect of dying a slow, sinking death in the middle of such a depressing place sent my overly imaginative mind into overdrive. Walking over wet, sodden terrain during the bleak nights that I crossed the moor became a frightening experience. Jumping from tussock to tussock was a good way to avert the ‘quakers’ and ‘featherbed’ areas of sodden earth, but the tussock jumping was a bone-shattering experience and ankles were easily turned.

  The story goes that a young man was traipsing home across the moor when he came to a livid green ‘featherbed’. To his astonishment, there in the middle of it was an expensive-looking top hat. Obviously, someone of the gentry had dropped it whilst trying to extricate himself from the mire. Never one to pass an opportunity, the lad delicately picked his way into the featherbed and picked up the hat. As he lifted it out of the quagmire his heart leapt into his mouth, for there, under the hat, was a human head. The sunken gent smiled and formally introduced himself in a posh city accent. The young man immediately started to heave the man out of the bog but, pull as he might, he could not budge him. Again, the gent smiled and explained that, if the lad would wait a moment, he would try to take his feet out of the stirrups of the horse he was sat upon.

  We initially crossed the moors in ‘syndicates’, small teams to collectively navigate our way. As we grew more competent and our skills developed, we were dispatched on our own. A dark Dartmoor night, with freezing fog wrapping around the body like a sinister cloak, scared the bejesus out of me. Regardless of my figmental fears, I cracked on with overcoming the real threat of deadly bogs, getting lost or not making the checkpoints in time.

  It wasn’t the usual location for someone celebrating their seventeenth birthday. The only cake would be the mud that dried on my clothing. It could have been worse though, I could have lost my compass jumping across one of the many small leats that criss-cross the moor.

  It got worse.

  Although I had always previously attached my compass to my lanyard, on this occasion I didn’t. The only reason I can think of is that I was a dick. The leat wasn’t all that wide, but as I leapt my wet boots gave way on the sodden, sloping bank opposite. Instinctively, I tried to grab some grass to arrest my fall, only to stupidly let go of my compass.

  Bollocks!

  I was soaking wet,
alone, and on Dartmoor without a navigation aid.

  Happy fucking birthday!

  At the back of my mind was the fact that another charge was forthcoming. The compass was a starred item so it counted as equipment of value. And how the hell was I supposed to carry on without it? I could probably get to the next checkpoint using the reference points I’d pre-planned on my map, but that would mean an instant charge from the corporal at the checkpoint.

  I was frantically hand-ploughing the grass, when along came my knight in shining armour – or at least a heavy-breathing Fred in sweaty green combats, navigating the same route as me. Seeing my distress, like a true bootneck, after calling me a ‘cock knocker’ he forsook his own mission and assisted me in my search.

  ‘Would it have fallen in the leat?’ Fred asked.

  It was arguably the most astute thing he had ever said, (other than when admiring the centerfold of a porn magazine: ‘I can’t see the point in her wearing shoes’). I accepted it was the likely whereabouts of my compass, but been loath to get into the leat in case it swallowed me like a bottomless bog. Now Fred was here he could pull me out if I did sink.

  Stripped naked, at night on Dartmoor, I slowly lowered myself into the leat. I felt my feet grow numb as they sank into the freezing water and was slightly surprised when they hit the slimy bottom at knee height. Even more incredibly, my foot had trodden on something hard and metallic – my compass. My often-ridiculed monkey toes managed to pick it up. Naked, wet and cold on my birthday in the fog of Dartmoor, I couldn’t have been more ecstatic.

  Off Fred ran. ‘Your toes could peel an orange inside someone’s pocket,’ he shouted.

  ‘Cheers mate, I love you too! Lots of beer in the NAAFI awaits you on our return!’

  ‘None of that Southern shandy shit,’ his voiced trailed as he continued into the darkness.

  I sat alone once more, this time tying my compass to the lanyard, up to that point safely securing nothing more than fresh air in a pocket containing a half-eaten packet of biscuits and lots of fluff.

  Instead of buying Fred a pint at the NAAFI, I decided I should at least attempt buy him a beer ashore. Nods going ashore wouldn’t take their ID but would leave it in the guardroom in return for a personalised shore leave card, which did not have a date of birth on it. While this may have reduced the risk of ID cards being lost or stolen, to my criminal mind it raised the chances of getting served in a pub and allowed into Exeter’s finest nightclub, Tens.

  ‘Finest’ may be a little optimistic. There may have been far better nightclubs in the town. I certainly hoped so, because Tens was one of those places where you would wipe your feet on the way out. Its clientele was clearly defined into three groups: women that wanted to go out with a Royal Marines recruit, local men who wanted to be a Royal Marines recruit, and Royal Marines recruits. It was no place for high fashion and champagne.

  It sat below a pub named ‘Winston’s. Named after Churchill, I am sure the descendants of Britain’s most revered leader of the twentieth century were overjoyed his name lived on through a pub. Winston’s did serve its purpose, however, as the conduit between sobriety and the demise of mental faculties in Tens.

  I was in a group of five recruits, including another birthday boy nicknamed ‘Jim’ due to his surname being Davidson. Nervous as I always was in entering a drinking establishment, I handed over my shore leave pass. The bouncer looked at it to confirm I was a nod, which was pretty obvious bearing in mind my haircut and limp.

  ‘Keep out of trouble, lads,’ said the bouncer, returning my card.

  The smell of dry ice, Kouros aftershave and stale ale hit my nostrils, while Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’ orchestrated the low-quality dance moves. I looked around keenly to see if there was any female that took my fancy. It may have been the fact that I’d looked at only men within the confines of CTC that made every woman look like Belinda Carlisle (this is 1986, remember).

  I was still a virgin. Here I was trying to become a bootneck and I hadn’t yet managed to get hold of a girl’s left knocker. (I had felt a right one once. It was okay.) Surely, here in this pit of debauchery, I couldn’t fail to further my sexual repertoire?

  ‘Happy birthday, short arse,’ said Jim, holding a shorts glass in front of me.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Whisky.’

  ‘I don’t drink whisky. I had a bad session on it before I joined up.’ It was true, if a little pathetic.

  ‘And? Get it down you. I’ve bought it now.’

  With the logic that my health and my wishes rated below the unnecessary splurge of a quid, I downed the whisky so as not to offend Jim. It was immediately obvious that this was a mistake.

  With that familiar feeling welling up, using skills taught in the ‘Why Things Are Seen’ lectures, I quickly scanned and searched for the toilet sign. Excusing myself, I pushed quickly through the doors. That distinctive public loo smell of shit, sick and piss-soaked fag butts didn’t lessen my need to puke; finding little in the way of open toilet stalls, I barfed my ring up so violently into the urinal that it splashed back onto my shirt and all over my shoes, much to the hilarity of a fellow nod pissing into the nearby sink.

  ‘We’ve just bought Jim a death wet,’ said Fred as I returned, teary-eyed, into the darkness. ‘We were gonna buy you one but thought you might actually die.’

  The ‘death wet’, or ‘top shelf run’ as it was otherwise called, was a pint of every available spirit on the top shelf, with a splash of either coke or lemonade added to reduce the risk of an appearance at the coroner’s court. Jim stood at the bar, with his cock out for no other reason than that’s what he liked doing. Taking the pint glass, he downed the death wet in one go. It was rather impressive (the drinking, not his cock, although it was certainly bigger than mine).

  I stood with my pint of flat beer, not even sipping it for fear of another bout of vomiting, looking at anyone who would return my gaze.

  Someone did. She was nice. Very nice in fact, far better than the girl I’d passed en route to the toilets, pissing in the corridor as she couldn’t wait any longer.

  She smiled at me. I smiled back. She smiled again. I again returned my smile. I must have looked like a simpleton. With the fuzz of alcohol giving me the required courage – as defined by the qualities of a commando – I approached her.

  ‘Ayup,’ I said in the poshest northern accent I could muster.

  ‘Alright.’ Her Devonian greeting made her sound like a pirate.

  Silence ensued. That was it. I had failed to prepare any conversation beyond regional salutations. She could see my discomfort.

  ‘What week you in?’

  It wasn’t the romantic opening gambit I’d expected. Okay, so I would have been fortunate for her to say, ‘I saw you standing there and our body language suggested we had a mutual attraction, and my, you are a fine specimen of manliness.’ But I wasn’t expecting her to quiz me on my progress at CTC.

  ‘Uh, week eighteen now.’

  ‘You got Silent Night coming up week after next then.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Got your patrolling skills weighed off?’

  I was confused. Was I talking to a girl or a Royal Marine dressed in women’s clothing?

  It was only at this point that I suffered a little paranoia, wondering if she could smell my vomit-tinged breath. Thankfully, before she could get another whiff, Fred butted in, grabbing me roughly around the neck.

  ‘Ayup Doris, can I plait your hair with me feet?’

  Even I could see Fred’s drunken spittle hitting her.

  ‘Smart bloke,’ she replied, in a fashion rather too bootneck-esque for my liking, before she walked away to talk to another recruit.

  ‘Fuck me, Fred, I was in there,’ I lied.

  ‘Yeah, ’course you were. Mate, stay away, she’s been through more blokes than a dodgy curry. They call her “the Adjutant”. She’s been invited to nearly every passing-out parade.’

  To be honest,
at my level of sexual frustration I’d have quite happily had my balls fondled by the actual adjutant.

  * * *

  The following morning I actually felt okay. I’d managed to purge myself of most of the alcohol through the medium of puke and had sensibly drunk a bellyful of water before sleeping. I rose from my bed and spotted a few dark splashes on the linoleum floor. Initially, I thought it was blood. But as my senses awoke, I could smell it. It was shit.

  Seasoned animal hunters will often track ‘scat’ in their quest to find a prey. It is generally regarded as an advanced skill, with an understanding of animal habitat, a keen eye and a lust for vanquishing quarry as must-have qualities. But even a myopic vegan could have easily followed this particular trail of shit.

  It led from the doorway to Jim Davidson’s bed in the corner of our room. He was laid on top of his sheets naked, but for a forlornly hanging sock which had seemingly stepped on one of his own brown landmines. He was face down, luckily enough, because his face was also lying in a dried pool of vomit.

  ‘What the fuck is that smell?’ Fred had by now awoken.

  Fred shook Jim, hoping he wasn’t a stiff. In case they all smelled that bad, I made a mental note never to work in a mortuary.

  ‘Hnnh?’ Jim raised his creased head. Realisation then hit him. ‘I think I’ve pissed the bed.’

  ‘You think? I think you’ve done more than that,’ replied Fred.

  Jim looked down to see the overt display of his bodily fluids. ‘Fuck,’ he said, before allowing his head to fall back into his vomit to sleep off his hangover.

  It was my first exposure to the Holy Grail of overindulgence, the ‘grand slam’. I wasn’t to know at the time, but it certainly wouldn’t be my last.

  The rest of us agreed we couldn’t think of any better way to spend our Sunday morning than cleaning up our mate’s shit trail. Utilising our newly acquired skill of judging distance through a unit average, it measured twelve metres. And there are people who say there are no civilian uses for military skills.