Going Commando

by Mark Time

  While all this flying around in helicopters, disarming knife-wielding attackers, abseiling down quarry walls and inspecting porcine wounds was very exciting, at the back of our minds, niggling away like a bit of steak caught between molars, we knew we’d have to soon undertake the commando tests.

  These tests are the physical criteria all Royal Marines have to successfully complete in order to gain the green beret. Throughout training we had interim physical tests – basic fitness tests, USMC gym tests, battle swimming tests, IMF pass-out, BFT pass-out, four- and six-mile speed marches; but the commando tests were all important. Fail any of these and the months of training so far undertaken would have been wasted. We would get three chances at passing. If deemed unfit to succeed we’d be given a ticket home, a failed wannabe commando with only futile excuses.

  * * *

  The Commando Tests

  Endurance Course

  Only ever run when the weather is insufferable, the course starts on Woodbury Common at 07.45, so an early-morning four-mile speed walk is required through the fog of vapourised breath to reach the start line. Even this is an important part of the test; not only does it give us time to make sure our weapon is secured comfortably and our fighting order is snug by the application of bungee cords wrapped around our webbing to mitigate friction, but it also provides a mental battle to overcome the fear of what we know lays ahead.

  The first part of the endurance course is a series of tunnels and obstacles, acts of calculated sadism. Okay, so I didn’t expect the tunnel designers to make them luxurious transit points adorned with animal skin rugs. But it would have been nice if the floors were designed as a muddy mess smooth enough to slide through. Instead, some sadist had the marvellous idea of shovelling shitloads of sharp shingle in there to destroy what is left of your knees.

  ‘The shingle is there to aid drainage,’ we were told by a PTI. Yet every time I went through any tunnel, I nearly drowned in the fetid, foul-smelling water. Depending on size, a recruit either manages to crawl, each movement creating painful spasms, or the bigger lads slide through like epileptic eels, webbing and weapon crashing on the tunnel’s corrugated tin sides sounding like a skeleton wanking in a dustbin.

  The first obstacle is called the ‘dry tunnel’, named by someone with a vocational qualification in irony. It was always so wet that if I looked at it for too long I feared I might develop trench eye.

  Running down a dip over rough terrain causes the knees to scream before entering Peter’s pool. I never found out who Peter was, but I think he was a little careless leaving a pool there in the middle of the endurance course; it just got in the way.

  Although I was never fortunate enough, like some, to have the privilege of breaking the ice on its surface, we did witness thin, frozen slivers on its edges. Entering the icy-cold water, lungs implode automatically, forcing gasps of exhaling air. Inhaling is made all the more difficult when the throat is blocked by rocketing testicles.

  To those vertically challenged such as I, the pool is neck deep. Lurching along the sunken rope is easy; exiting isn’t. Bodyweight doubles from the inundating water, just the tonic running up a forty-five degree hill of shale and mud that, although short, immediately steals away any bounding energy.

  Just as heavy breathing reaches a modicum of normalcy, along comes the water tunnel. It is a submerged pipe that a recruit must individually torpedo through. Here, underwater in darkness, the senses are reduced and those submerged are totally reliant on colleagues at each end of the tunnel engaged in a push me/pull me drill. The human torpedo hopes not to get jagged on some randomly placed obstruction, as the tunnel’s girth is too narrow to allow any freeing movement should they get stuck. If Peter’s pool doesn’t saturate, then the water tunnel does.

  Being submerged in dirty brown water leaves not an inch of the body dry. The squelching of wet boots sliding irregularly over slimy mud and ankle-turning rocks is the syncopated backing track to the drumbeat of drenched webbing bouncing off blistered backs; rasping breath adds the vocals.

  The next area that could cause anyone to come a cropper is the sheep dip, a gully of ankle-deep water and energy-sapping deep mud, with banks that, if not approached correctly, lead to a comedy slip. Not funny if it happens to you, just more energy wasted when at an absolute premium.

  Through the woods of Woodbury Common, the next obstacle is the claustrophobe’s nemesis – a 30m water pipe, known as the ‘smartie tube’. It envelops the biggest blokes, who struggle to fit their wide shoulders and kit through. In winter, when the water is high, and when we do it, it always is; (I can only imagine the training team filling it with a hose in the summer) the excess water means I literally have I had to drag myself unceremoniously through the near-darkness, scraping my nose along the roof to obtain air along with mouthfuls of mudded slurry. Fresh air is welcome upon exiting, unlike the pain from the crawling.

  We carry on again; even trying to stand upright after the smartie tube is an effort, but we ignore our self-mutilation. We thankfully reach the final obstacle, the zigzag tunnel, sponsored by knee-reconstruction surgeons. While we can’t shoot through it, the zigzag tunnel is probably the least distressing obstacle.

  Upon exiting, a member of the training team will check an individual’s weapon for blockages and offer some sarcastic remark, before a limp up a slow, grinding, dirt-track hill sees knackered yet determined bodies reach the metal road where begins the four-mile run back to camp in full, wet, heavy and uncomfortable kit.

  It is here, where forestry turns into farmland, that the recruits split up. Throughout the obstacle phase, teamwork is encouraged by sticking together to assist each other through the difficulties. Now it is every man for himself to attain the best time possible.

  The key is to quickly develop a rhythm, to synchronise bounding legs, pumping arms and lung-filling breaths that inhale the pungent perfumery of steaming cow shit and farm slurry that attracts a haze of flying insects intent on dive bombing eyeballs or open mouths. Often my rhythm is similar to a tachycardia-suffering tortoise and even the downhill stretches caused me to dribble mud and the odd fly I’d so far consumed.

  On Heartbreak Lane – a rather literal name for a road so cruel – 500m before we reach CTC a sign hangs from a tree. Painted on it is a comedy-caricature marine gasping and puffing with the immortal words, ‘It’s Only Pain.’ It is a shout of encouragement to strengthen the resolve of those who pass it. For me, it always works.

  The overpass footbridge outside CTC becomes an impromptu obstacle; it has just the right amount of steps to kill any energy left in the thighs, dribble phlegm over the railings onto passing cars underneath, then to painfully jar the already destroyed knee cartilage on the downward steps.

  The finish line of the endurance course is at the far end of CTC, where success is dependent on getting six out of ten shots on target at the 25m weapon range. As the easiest part of the course, if the weapon jams due to any serious damage sustained through the rigours of the tunnels, it results in a sickening fail. All the previous suffering, all the heartache leading up to this point, would be in vain.

  Pass times have changed over the decades due to changes of route, but completing the course in less than seventy-one minutes was our target.

  Tarzan Assault Course

  Imagine being Spider-Man, flying high through the air, jumping sprightly to swing, balance and launch yourself from one structure to another. Now imagine doing that wearing boots better designed for diving, with a weapon continually clattering against the back of your head and 16kg of weight bouncing off your midriff. Spider-Man never did, the wanker. And he wore spandex.

  The Tarzan assault is a high obstacle course of ropes, swings and nets that challenges both physical co-ordination and mental courage. Starting on the aptly-named Death Slide, recruits whizz from the 15m high tower down the manila rope, then take on the various high-wire, rope, beam and ladder disciplines interwoven between the ancient trees that make up a giant sized version of t
he board game ‘Mouse Trap. Falling from any discipline would not necessarily fail anyone; however, if anyone could walk away from a fall and still eat solids, he is a better man than me.

  When completing the Tarzan phase, a 150m run leads to the assault course that a recruit has run around many times before. Having the Tarzan as a warm-up tends to make the assault course a tad more difficult, but as is often the case, mental strength is the spur to continue onwards to the final obstacle – the 30ft wall that is climbed using a rope for assistance. On reaching the top, the recruit gives their name with the most triumphant shout they can muster.

  One of my fellow recruit’s surnames was Thorpe. It is a verbal blur, a rather bland, soft monosyllable that is difficult to understand through a thick Welsh accent and heavy breaths.

  ‘Thorpe, Corporal!’ he would gasp.

  ‘Fox?’

  ‘No, Thorpe, Corporal!’

  ‘Fawn?’

  It continued through ‘Thorn? Thought? Halt? Fawlty?’ until Thorpe realised the PTI was just taking the piss. His finish times were always thirty seconds longer than they should have been after the PTI’s verbal jousting.

  Thirteen minutes of speed, strength, agility, and correctly pronouncing your surname will lead to passing the Tarzan assault course.

  The Nine-Mile Speed March

  The least spectacular of the tests, the ‘nine-miler’ is a straight speed march over splendid hills and through wondrous dells of the Devon countryside. By now speed marching has become as natural as waking up in agony, but as a pass-out test it is done at a more breakneck speed than necessary. Ninety minutes at a ten-minute-mile speed would see a recruit troop home, but most do it far quicker.

  The nine-mile finish only becomes the start line for a long troop attack where a fictitious enemy seems to be an infinite distance away – coincidentally up a hill, never at the far end of a bowling green. Even without a false-dawn finish a recruit will continue in formation, dashing down, crawling, taking cover, observing sight, time and time again, the recruit wishing every dive will be the last. In the real world, it is pointless speed marching to an objective and being unable to carry out the necessary assault once there.

  As a recruit, there is no better way to finish a Saturday morning than the ‘nine-miler.’ All there is left to complete the tests and earn the green beret is the final small task: the ‘thirty-miler’.

  The Thirty-Mile March

  With an evening of route planning complete, personal administration consists of ensuring kit is well fitting, eating as much as possible and taping up the majority of bare flesh to reduce contact sores. With the variety of burns, blisters and bruises on my battered body, by the time I finished I looked more like an Egyptian mummy than a nod.

  Waking in the dark, a hearty breakfast is all that is required before greeting the harsh bleakness of Dartmoor, which at first light has an unnerving tranquillity. In syndicates of eight, all assist in the navigation of the march accompanied by a corporal who, rather than giving permanent bollockings, now carries a couple of jars of encouragement.

  The march takes in some of the most breathtakingly beautiful parts of the moor, as well as the wettest. Already raw feet soon become wet crossing streams early in the route. Marching speedily from checkpoint to checkpoint, never settling for more than a couple of minutes to prevent bodies stiffening, recruits take in sweet, stewed tea and sandwiches, whilst cajoling and encouraging each other.

  At mile twenty-six, the recruits steam over the highest point on southern Dartmoor, Ryder’s Hill. Due to its convex shape, no matter how many times the recruits think they have reached the top, there is yet another summit to conquer; however, with the finish in my day at Cross Furzes, just over the other side of the hill, they would willingly drag their bollocks over broken glass to get there.

  Marching over the soft moor takes its toll on thighs, the hard metal roads take their revenge on feet, but the last few steps to the finish are taken on a cushion of euphoria. Crossing the thirty miles of rough Dartmoor terrain in less than eight hours would see a recruit pass the final commando test.

  * * *

  Taken individually, each test is eminently achievable. Anyone with a high standard of fitness, no injuries and a good period of balanced preparation could successfully complete each challenge. The difference for us as Royal Marine recruits is that we were twenty-five weeks into a highly demanding training course. Although our fitness has been equated with that of an Olympic athlete, our bodies were stock cars, getting battered from one heavy crash to another. With little time for rest and recuperation, injuries were common and recurrent. The options were limited – push through the pain barrier, or be back trooped. The latter would only mean prolonging the torture.

  The commando phase meant we wouldn’t do each test just the once. We would practise them repeatedly, thus degrading our bodies even further.

  Test week, where each test would follow on consecutive days, would commence the day after we returned from the final exercise – a twelve-day consolidation of everything we had learned in military training.

  Our fitness was now only part of what was necessary to complete the commando phase. Mental fortitude and the will to push beyond our pain and fatigue thresholds were equally, if not more, important.

  * * *

  The final exercise was now upon us. We saw it closing in as we counted down the days. It stared at us from the schedule pinned to the wall in pink paper, which I can only assume was to soften the blow. I hated looking at it. I hoped if I closed my eyes it would go away and become something far more pleasurable when I opened them. But there it still was. They could have named it something like Exercise Final Hurdle or Exercise Well Done Lads You’re Nearly There, but no. They called it Exercise Nightmare – and with good reason.

  It started out as a bit of a dream. We were taken in a plush coach down to Portsmouth to spend a day out learning about naval and Royal Marines history. We walked around HMS Victory and the Royal Marines Museum at Eastney Barracks feeling like tourists, although I was a little despondent I couldn’t buy an ice cream.

  We moved to RM Poole to meet blokes from our very own Special Forces, the SBS. We looked in awe at these guys who, in our commando-tastic fantasies, all had webbed feet, gills and black masking tape covering their eyes.

  Disappointingly, they looked like normal blokes, although it has to be said it seemed their selection into SB was dependent on them being suave dreamboats. I made a note to check up on cosmetic surgery services should I ever want to go SF.

  We moved on to watch a demo by the less revered driver’s branch, who took us on combat log flumes when driving through deep water in Land Rovers. We were mightily impressed and choked by one marine burning rubber as he screeched around the skid pan circuit completing J and S turns, evasive driving techniques we’d only seen on Starsky and Hutch. It was all extremely impressive and rather distinct from the drivers we had so far met at CTC, who looked as bored as bat shit dropping off nods on Woodbury Common.

  The one part of commando operations we had yet to be exposed to was the amphibious capability the Corps uniquely holds. We zoomed about on rigid raiders and sat bobbing in landing craft, jumping into the icy waters of Hamworthy harbour to make beach landings. Like the day spent climbing cliffs, all this rugsy-tugsy, commando-type stuff I had seen in the recruitment brochures was even more brilliant in real life.

  But all this frivolity had to come to an end.

  The troop sergeant called us together for a snap parade instead of the planned visit to the NAAFI. We stood nervously as he paced up and down like a father outside a labour ward, only with anger not nerves. I don’t think I was the only one expecting to hear the words ‘stand by’.

  ‘You fucking lot are in the deepest fucking shit I think I have ever fucking seen. I assure you, you are going to be thrashed until your eyes bleed.’

  It wasn’t the most pleasant of openings. We sort of guessed why we had been called together.

 
Many of us had gone to Exeter to buy lots of green string. As an extra special treat, we purchased civilian boots to wear on the exercise. We knew that as soon as we went to commando units we would buy our own.

  In fact, very little clothing worn in a commando unit, when in the field, is military issue. We just thought we were exceedingly switched on in pre-empting this by purchasing boots while still recruits. Having only taken our new civilian boots to Poole, the training team couldn’t make us wear our issue pair. Not having control over this made them very angry. Very angry indeed.

  The troop sergeant’s head had turned the colour of an overripe aubergine. We had often seen him angry, it was far more common than him being happy, but the spittle from his crooked mouth told us this was a new level of fury.

  ‘You think you are fucking clever buying these fucking Carlos Fandango boots. When your feet are being cut to fucking shreds by wearing these new fucking Gucci boots, don’t even fucking think about coming to fucking whinge. I cannot describe my loathing for you fuckers. You literally are a bunch of cunts. You fucking fuckers can fucking stand by to stand by. If I had my fucking way the lot of you would be fucking back trooped. Now fuck off and prepare for severe unpleasantness.’

  There was a swear jar somewhere that was willing to be filled.

  His threats were not idle. Instead of starting the exercise with a morning twelve-mile insertion yomp, we set out the night before and were taken by landing craft to an unknown point. It was like one of those mystery tours at the seaside, only we were fairly sure it wouldn’t end with a nice meal at a pub.

  When we reached our destination, the coxswain pointed in the direction we needed to head as the ramp lowered. The wind swirled inside and the temperature plummeted. Sea spray welcomed us to the gates of a freezing Hades.