by Mark Time
The problem with getting a tattoo done at the end of training is that many lads have lost weight through the commando phase and are skinnier than usual. Once they pass out and join a commando unit, many hit the weights and grow arms that look better proportioned on a rhinoceros. On such limbs the tattoo metamorphosises from a bulldog with a green lid to a Shetland pony wearing a green duvet on its stretched head.
I sauntered down with intent to see whether there was anything I could scar my underage body with, preferably that didn’t consist of military iconography. A black panther eating a snake was rather alluring, unlike the hand swallows many of the miners back home displayed. My personal finances would also dictate my choice: with £10 and a tissue in my pocket, the chances were slim of getting an epic tattoo across the width of my back depicting the battle between David and Goliath, the metaphor for vanquishing my struggles throughout training. So I persuaded the confused tattooist to draw a ‘No entry’ road sign on my arse, using a paint pot to draw a circle, to warn off anyone at my future commando unit from trying to give me a welcome present I wasn’t keen on.
Having a sore arse for a couple of days didn’t pose any particular problems in King’s Squad. We spent most of our time on the drill square without anything that resembled a weapon, until it was deemed we were to be introduced to the new SA80 rifle brought into general service. But when I say ‘resembled a weapon’, the initial issue L85 SA80 didn’t appear to be a real one.
Based upon the EM2 weapon prototyped in the early 1950s, the SA80 IW (individual weapon) and LSW (light support weapon) were produced in 1975. One would have thought that after nearly a decade of academic research, detailed fine-tuning and stringent testing, they’d have come up with something more useful than tits on a fish.
It was if the R&D guys had gone down to the local MFI furniture store to get ideas on gunsmithing. It was a flat-pack version of a weapon, and came with instructions that needed to be read a hundred times before anyone could make head or tail of them. It had infinitely too many small parts for a general service weapon that could be painfully knelt on. Once assembled, however, it did look good. Yet it was as robust as, well, a flat-pack wardrobe.
Since inception it has caused controversy, and initially its faults were many. Some of the more typical faults we found within the first two weeks of issue were:
The SUSAT optical sight: while exceedingly accurate on a range on a nice summer’s day, its glass would mist up as soon as the temperature changed by a degree or a slightly grey cloud came within a mile of the shooter.
The sling: seemingly based on the Rubik’s Cube and a spider’s web, was an overcomplicated series of straps designed to allow the weapon to be carried in a variety of ways. It was impressive for its aesthetics, but our initial ‘ooh’, ‘aah’ and ‘that’s good’ stopped once the novelty turned to realisation that, apart from the default mode of carriage, the other variants were not operationally sound. I can count on one stump how many times I split the sling straps and carried the SA80 down my back; it’s certainly not the quickest way to get the muzzle pointed for dispatching outgoing death. To assemble it was bad enough, but should you make a slight mistake and incorrectly thread the buckle the weapon would fall embarrassingly to the floor. It would also crash to the floor should the rubber buttplate at the stock end of the weapon not be secured properly by screws I wouldn’t trust on a toilet-roll holder.
The buttplate: made from something resembling green moulding clay, it was so malleable that the rear sling swivel would often be pulled out by the weight of the weapon.
The hand guard: made from a brittle plastic seemingly left over from when Action Man manufacturers were trying to cut costs.
The magazine release catch: aptly named, every time it would catch on something the magazine would release – usually by accident. It stood out like a racing dog’s bollocks; every time the protrusion was knocked, rubbed or given a stern look, it would cause the magazine to fall out of its housing, usually unbeknown to the operator of the weapon. A weapon without a magazine full of ammunition is as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike. At least if you hit anyone around the head with an ashtray, it probably won’t break.
The cocking handle: it never stayed where it should have, falling out of its housing and leaving the operator unable to cock the weapon or fire it. Should it actually stay in the weapon, the cocking handle was placed so that it could only be fired from the right shoulder, making firing from certain positions impracticable in an urban environment.
Any excess dirt picked up from biomes such as the desert, tropical jungle, boreal forests, temperate savannah, tropical grasslands, shrublands, any form of tundra or basically anywhere under the sun caused innumerable stoppages, sometimes rendering the weapon inoperable. How lucky would we be to only go to war in a laboratory?
Having been trialled until it had reached an ‘acceptable’ level, the SA80 weapon system was brought before a committee to rubber stamp it into general service. Stories abound that the committee approved the system’s introduction despite knowing of the many faults found in a laboratory environment. Some suggested the upcoming sale of Royal Ordnance expedited the introduction of the weapon, its guaranteed service seen as an attractive proposition to any private investor. Surely such a wilfully irresponsible action would never go on in the corridors of power? Would it?
It’s ironic, really, that this new piece of equipment issued to kill the enemy had so many faults it was far more likely to get us killed.
* * *
As well as being shown the world’s worst weapon system in King’s Squad, we were occasionally taken away for administrative tasks. The most exciting of these was to find out which commando unit we would be drafted to. Unless we were special entry recruits streamed to go on a clerk or chef’s course, we had three basic choices:
40 Commando RM – the ‘Sunshine Commando’. Never a unit to go to the cold of the Arctic, they preferred Cyprus, Belize, and factor one suntan oil. In the video of 40 Commando, the members of the unit always seemed to have a suntan with a background of beaches. The upcoming year would see them going to Northern Ireland.
42 Commando RM – the ‘Pusser’s Commando’. Soon to be going to London ceremonial duties. Months of standing in front of Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle and all the other royal residences looking like garden ornamentation certainly didn’t appeal to me. Neither did their seemingly strict regime.
45 Commando RM – the ‘Arctic Commando’. Based in Arbroath, Scotland, 45 were much vaunted for their exploits down in the Falklands. They had not long returned from a Northern Ireland tour and would be going to Norway for three months in the winter. With the reputation of being a brutal unit, I didn’t know whether, as a seventeen-year-old bit of skin, my bottom hole would survive, even with my tattoo.
Our drafting preference form gave us three choices. We had been told previously we’d probably get our third choice, the intrinsic value placed on a recruit passing out of training paling into insignificance against experienced commandos due for drafting between units.
With the wisdom of a wise owl, I put down 3 Commando Brigade Air Squadron as my third choice, where the daily operations of assisting the air capability of the Corps translated as playing lots of sport, combing hair in readiness of a night ashore and the occasional bit of work. I knew there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of me going to such a cushy unit.
I put 40 Commando second and 42 Commando first. I didn’t like the sound of 42 but I was hoping my gamble would pay off. The personnel responsible for my destiny may have laughed at sending me anywhere other than the unit where I apparently wanted to go to, but unbeknown to them that was actually 40 Commando. Their base in Taunton was the nearest to home, they had suntans and, more importantly, they were going to Northern Ireland the following year. It would be the first opportunity for me to see some action.
I should have done the football pools that week. My cunning bit of trickery ensured a draft to 40 Commando came thr
ough. Only two from King’s Squad were chosen to go there, much to the dismay of a few lads who had put it down as their first choice. It was at this point that I realised my time with these lads, especially Fred and Charlie, was coming to an end. It filled me with a sadness I’d never encountered before.
The upside of being back trooped so late in training was that I got a second King’s Squad piss-up. This time it was in the salubrious surroundings of The Blue Pig, the marines’ bar at CTC. As the youngest to pass out, I was given the honour of saying grace before we ate but given a sermon that could only commend me to hell.
Joining me were the strippers who, I have to say, could only be described as filthy. Unlike the old hags in Okehampton, these girls were extremely attractive and showed parts of their anatomy I never even knew existed. They also gave me the opportunity to put my fingers inside a woman for the very first time, and I can honestly say those pubescent years of masturbating like a naughty monkey while experimenting on oranges came in exceedingly useful.
* * *
The only real issue to overcome was the adjutant’s inspection. Rumour had it that if we didn’t pass he could prevent us from passing out. We didn’t know whether this was true or not but we didn’t want to find out. We only saw the adjutant when on the drill square and didn’t really know what his appointment entailed, apart from giving out extra duties or sitting on a horse that permanently shat all over the square’s tarmac. We had seen him throughout training and undergone his inspections twice before. They were always feared, as kit had to be twice as clean, three times as pressed and four times more polished than normal. When inspecting he would ask questions that couldn’t properly be answered.
Adjutant: ‘How long have you spent on your uniform?’
Recruit 1: ‘Three hours, Sir.’
Adjutant: ‘Do you think that’s long enough?’
Recruit 1, now nervous: ‘No, Sir.’
Adjutant: ‘So, you don’t think my inspection is important? On the flank.’
The adjutant moves along to the next recruit, who has just heard the last conversation.
Adjutant: ‘How long have you spent on your uniform?’
Recruit 2: ‘Four hours, Sir.’
Adjutant: ‘Do you think that’s long enough?’
Recruit 2, again nervous: ‘Yes, Sir.’
Adjutant: ‘Obviously not, you need far longer. On the flank.’
The adjutant moves along again.
Adjutant: ‘How long have you spent on your uniform?’
Recruit 3, confident: ‘Seventeen hours, Sir.’
Adjutant: ‘On the flank.’
On the drill square I was always consistent: consistently picked up, a 100 per cent record of being sent to the flank by the adjutant for my perceived slovenliness. It would have been more efficient for me to parade on the flank at a reserved spot with my name on it. It would have at least cut out the middleman.
But we were nearly there. Our pain and suffering were coming to an end. We had conquered the longest infantry training in the western world and the phrase ‘stand by’ was a distant, if nightmarish, memory. There was little reason for us to get beasted anymore; we had done everything required. Everything but one thing it seemed – the dreaded mud run.
The Exe Estuary sits at the other side of the Exmouth train line from CTC. It is a site of international importance for wading birds, and of domestic importance for beasting nods.
It had come to the attention of the training team that the troop had yet to do a mud run. Apparently, one of the nods at the King’s Squad piss-up was boasting that we had gotten away with it. And we may have done, if it weren’t for that boast being within earshot of the troop PTI. But if I were to say we were forced to do a mud run as a punishment for some calamitous indiscretion, I’d be lying. We were just forced to do a mud run.
‘On the landings now,’ echoed the yell from the landing.
We still ran like the wind into attendance, but as King’s Squadders we had every reason to believe we would be addressed politely about some fluffy undertaking, maybe a refitting of our blues uniform prior to our pass-out display, or an opportunity to go into Exmouth as we were nearly trained ranks.
‘You cunts think you’ve already passed out,’ shouted the PTI.
I hoped he was going to add, ‘so you can all go ashore in Exmouth.’
There was certainly a dislocation of expectation in his voice. ‘I have a rule. I will only beast people if they’ve fucked up. And while you lot haven’t fucked up per se, your attitude leaves a lot to be desired. Humility is a great strength for bootnecks, so when I hear you cunts bragging that you haven’t done a mud run, there needs to be an attitude adjustment. Get into your bottom field gear and parade three ranks at the bottom of the 30ft ropes. Go!’
Panic overrode any propensity to be scared. We launched as we had done a hundred times before into a quick change. Racing with the energy of not having done any proper exercise in a week, we reached the bottom field – an area we thought we had said goodbye to a long time ago.
At the foot of the ropes were two other PTIs. Neither spoke. It must have been a first. One just rubbed his hands and smiled at us all. His crystal ball was working. Ours was certainly becoming clearer. Our PTI ran past us to the bottom gate, where the marine sentry opened up the gates of Hell.
‘On my word of command, three ranks on the mud in front of me. Go!’ shouted our PTI rather cheerfully.
If’ I’d kept up my geological studies from when I was a schoolboy, I might have been interested in the alluvial deposits. From afar it seemed I was – I had my fucking head in them. As soon as we paraded in the ankle-deep mud the three PTIs let loose. No longer silent, they became a triangle of noise:
‘Bend stretch, bend stretch, bend stretch,’ shouted the adjacent PTI.
‘Roll over, roll over, roll over,’ screamed the opposite PTI.
‘Ten star jumps go! Ten burpees go!’ snarled the hypotenuse PTI.
As we probably all did when back on our PRC, we were doing the wrong thing at the wrong time – every time, according to the diaphragmatic pitch of the PTIs.
Our bodies struggled to sprint. It may have been something to do with the mud now becoming calf deep.
‘Oi, you, Lofty, you’re not covered in mud, stop loafing,’ shouted our PTI whose white vest, if the measuring stick of laziness was the proportion of mud spread over a person’s body, suggested he was the laziest fucker of all. It was an observation I didn’t really want to convey.
The mud on the Exe Estuary smells as it should – earthy, salty and a bit shitty. It tastes like it smells. There was mud now in every orifice of my body. If I shat my pants at this very moment no one would know. Heaving, wheezing breath echoed in the splattering, energy-sapping mud. Any mud that flew in the eye was impossible to remove – there wasn’t anything to wipe our eyes on that hadn’t been caked itself.
My flailing, star-jumping arms flicked a globule of mud into my ear. It was like listening into a shell, only it wasn’t the sea I could hear, it was the echoing screams of the PTIs still intent on bringing us to our knees, in which they were close to succeeding. Our beasting was taking its toll. Rapid aerobic exercise folded with the excess weight of the mud. While trying to keep my eyes from mud blindness, all I could see were bodies spitting mud, exercising in slow motion, with a distinct lack of sympathy emanating from the PTIs.
‘It’s mind over matter, fellas,’ one shouted.
‘We don’t mind and you don’t matter,’ his partner in crime hollered.
Breathing was hard enough without our mouths and noses being clogged with liquefied soil. Sod the endurance course, stuff the thirty-miler – this was the hardest thing I had ever done.
‘Keep moving, no one stops on the bottom field,’ shouted our PTI as we were divided into three ranks again.
We weren’t technically on the bottom field but we kept up our lead-heavy legs, shuffling into a rather pitiful jog on the spot.
‘I w
ould hope that this has been a rather enlightening lesson for you, fellas.’
At that moment in time, the only lesson I wanted was how to work a defibrillator.
‘Cockiness, arrogance and being a boastful twat will get you nowhere in a commando unit apart from sickbay.’
Sickbay was looking a very inviting place to be at this moment.
His voice softened. ‘Take this as a lesson in humility. You are going to be bootnecks. You don’t need to show off.’
* * *
The passing-out parade is the day every recruit dreams of when passing through the gates of CTC for the first time.
It had taken me thirty-six weeks, rather than the customary thirty, to get there. This was longer than many recruits, and at times I wished I hadn’t alighted from the train at Lympstone Commando on that memorable first day. But I’d gone through the full gamut of emotions a lad of my age could ever experience, alongside people with whom I’d now share a lifetime bond. Only fourteen of us remained who would pass out on 15 May 1987 as Royal Marines Commandos.
Even my mum and stepdad came down to see me pass out. They arrived the night before the parade, smelling of cigarettes as they always did. We took a trip into Exmouth and ate fish and chips which being southern, was of course inferior to the northern version.
Our final morning started like any other, with cleaning the accommodation. This time, there would be only a cursory glance by the training team. Our lockers empty, our baggage full, on the cusp of our greatest achievement there was an emotional vacuum.
The ecstasy of passing out was tinged with the sadness of leaving comrades with whom we’d shared every agonising second. We may never see each other again, our paths similar yet our motivations different. Before marching away to our future we shared our last moments together. For the first time in my life, I felt a lump in my throat from leaving those I truly loved as people.
