by Rusty Firmin
We were all put in separate rooms to be interviewed and, oddly, the room I was in contained several cases of Heineken and Amstel beer. Never being one to look a gift horse in the mouth I started drinking it and, when a detective came to talk to me, I was even more shit-faced than when I was arrested. When they found out we were squaddies on the piss they were reasonably sympathetic and let us off with a strong warning and an order to leave Amsterdam the next morning when we had sobered up.
Another time a group of us went back to the United Kingdom to stay at a guy called Geoff Crawford’s place at Filey in Yorkshire. We spent some time on the beach during the day and decided to go to the Butlin’s Holiday Camp for the evening. When we got there, they wouldn’t let us in because we weren’t staying at the camp but, being good squaddies, we went round the back and climbed over the fence and soon settled into the bar. I suppose we were getting a bit loud because, at last orders, a couple of the bouncers turned up and asked us to leave our drinks and go. I was arguing with them because other people were still drinking but then one of the bouncers pushed me and I smacked him. This immediately developed into a full-scale brawl and several of the bouncers ended up in the swimming pool as we legged it.
Nothing more was said and we assumed we’d got away with it but a few weeks later the British police came out to Germany to interview Geoff. I suppose somebody had recognised him. They had some pictures of the bouncers with black eyes and broken noses which really looked quite nasty. Fortunately for us, nothing could be proved and nobody was ever charged.
One of the local German civilian chefs from the cookhouse, a big fat guy called Rudi, used to watch the football matches on a Wednesday afternoon and eventually asked if I would be interested in playing for a local side, Nach Hermansberg, which was 15 minutes up the road. I agreed to give it a go and went along for training and duly got selected for them. They turned out to be really good guys. I found out that I couldn’t pay for anything: they gave me beer and food after every game, and they would even fill up my car with petrol too. By this time, I could basically get six games of football a week if I wanted them, and a couple of games of rugby too.
In 1974 I decided it was time to move on. A lot of the guys I played football with in the corps team were from either 29 Commando Regiment or 7 Parachute Regiment Royal Horse Artillery (RHA) and I thought long and hard about which selection course I would go for, eventually settling on the Commando course.
Before I could do that, we had another Northern Ireland deployment. I was disappointed to learn during the pre-deployment training that we were going back to the Grand Central Hotel and exactly the same role we’d had before. It was then that I put in my formal request for Commando training. It was make or break time.
Three-quarters of the way through the tour in Belfast I was told to get my kit packed and to head back to Germany so that I could sort myself out and report to the Citadel in Plymouth for the pre-Commando course ‘beat-up’. It was time to move on.
CHAPTER FOUR
COMMANDO
Training for the All-Arms Commando Course was to take place at the Citadel in Plymouth, an impressive-looking fort built in the 17th century to defend the naval base at Plymouth. It was home then – and still is – to 29 Commando Regiment Royal Artillery, which was the largest army unit within the mostly Royal Marines 3 Commando Brigade. That was the unit I had volunteered to join. Everyone serving in 3 Commando Brigade had to be Commando-trained and the two routes to doing that were either to join the Royal Marines, where you did the Commando course as part of your basic training, or to volunteer from the army or Royal Navy for the All-Arms Commando Course. The actual Commando training would take place at the Marines’ Training Centre at Lympstone near Exmouth but the preparation – the so-called ‘beat-up’ – would be run by 29 Commando in Plymouth.
As an all-arms course there were people from all across the army there to do it: Royal Engineers (RE), Royal Electrical Mechanical Engineers (REME), clerks, Ordnance Corps, and even a chef from the Army Catering Corps. About 30 or 40 in total. I was really fit but I wasn’t the only one. I teamed up with two Sappers, John McAleese and ‘Ginge’, who had volunteered for 59 Commando Squadron RE, and they were very impressive too. Johnny Mac was to become one of my closest friends over many years and we took to each other straight away. He was a Scot and so skinny it looked like all his veins were outside his body; he had seriously bandy legs but boy was he fit!
We were issued with a set of green denims, webbing, an SLR rifle and a wool ‘cap, comforter’ and warned that it would all have to be kept immaculately clean throughout the training and that we must be prepared to be inspected by the instructors at any time. This took me back to the bullshit of Junior Leaders: if I hadn’t been through that for two years, I doubt I would have been able to cope.
On the first day we were lined up in three ranks with full kit and equipment and given a really thorough inspection. I guessed that Day 1 would be a bit of a beasting to make sure we were all put in our places and I was right. A Commando has to be well presented and clean, we were told; we must be fit; we must be trustworthy and reliable; and we must be self-motivated and prepared to show leadership to those we were working with.
They didn’t put a training programme up on the noticeboard: at the end of every day we were told exactly what we would be doing the next day and we were expected to show up at the right place, at the right time, in the correct order of dress and with the correct equipment.
On the first day we were shown around the Citadel during the morning and introduced to the assault course at the back of the camp where we were shown the correct method for climbing the scramble nets, how to hold the death slide toggle properly and anything else we needed to know to get over the obstacles.
In the afternoon, after lunch, we were introduced to the ‘Citadel run’. There was nothing complicated about this: in full kit and equipment we ran round and round the perimeter of the Citadel until we were told to stop. I’m not sure how long we did this for but it seemed like forever. Inevitably a few began to lag back and fall by the wayside and the instructors watched as Johnny Mac, Ginge and I, and others, tried to gee them up and get them back with the squad. What they wanted to see was teamwork, and they wanted to identify the weak links in the group.
As the training continued, I began to develop a routine that would serve me well in later years. As soon as we had finished for the day and got back to the accommodation, I would get to work sorting out my feet. Why not? These were, in a sense, the tools of my trade, at least on this course: if I didn’t look after them, I certainly wasn’t going to be able to run with a heavy load without serious discomfort. So, I would check them for blisters and carefully puncture any that I found, before dousing my feet in surgical spirits which sterilised the punctured blisters and also helped to toughen the skin. After that I would give them a good coating of foot powder to dry them out. With my feet sorted, the next move was to get my rifle cleaned and back to the armoury, then to wash and dry my uniform and belt kit, ready for the next day.
Once everything was sorted out, Johnny Mac and I would stroll down into town for a couple of pints of cider and some food to help us wind down and get ourselves in the right frame of mind for the next day’s activities.
After a few days working around the Citadel, we were loaded onto trucks and taken out to the training area at Bickley, on the edge of Dartmoor, and introduced to the endurance course – a six-mile cross-country steeplechase on foot and wearing full kit – and the ‘Tarzan’ course, an assault course over a series of high obstacles, also in full kit. I didn’t have a problem with the endurance course – I’d done so much running by then that I could take it in my stride – but the Tarzan course was a bit more of an issue for me at first, before my upper body strength caught up. Johnny Mac was the exact opposite. Ginge, on the other hand, was a natural all-round athlete who could cope reasonably easily with both, the bastard!
By the end of the first week, sever
al guys had already dropped out with injuries or just the growing realisation that they weren’t going to make it but I felt fine. We got the weekend off to relax and recover and I certainly wasn’t planning on doing any physical training at all. Instead I spent Saturday doing a bit of shopping and then out on the piss with Johnny Mac, drinking thick local scrumpy cider with a shot of blackcurrant in it until last orders at 11pm. On Sunday, I headed out in the morning to buy a newspaper and read it in a café over coffees before meeting up with Johnny Mac for a couple of lunchtime pints and then a quiet afternoon and evening back in the accommodation. We weren’t allowed to socialise with our mates who were already in the Commandos which was a shame, but I understood why. There couldn’t be any accusations of favouritism.
The second week was a more intense version of the first, with a significant increase in our workload, and we ended most days soaking wet and covered in mud, which also increased the amount of cleaning and kit prep we needed to do. A couple of the lads dropped out at this point because they didn’t like the heights: we were abseiling forwards and backwards down the walls of the Citadel and it spooked them. Oddly enough, both were experienced free-fall parachutists, which seemed a bit odd but there we go.
By the time the third week came around, I was beginning to actually enjoy it. I knew now that I could pass the tests and instead I began to focus on setting faster and faster times in each of them, trying to complete them more quickly than my mates. For me this competition was really important, I had a need to be the fastest and the best and this was a chance to prove it. I thought back to what I was like as a teenager: no goals in life and no motivation; and then look at me now, giving it my best shot to win the green beret; what a difference.
I remember the third week as the hardest part of the course but I finished it and still felt good and we spent the weekend as usual, drinking, relaxing and getting ourselves ready for the final week of the beat-up.
There was a distinct and deliberate attitude change by the instructors now. Instead of running us ragged they were trying to help us through it and I appreciated that. They knew that the guys who had come this far would probably make it through the Commando course at Lympstone itself, so they were making sure we got there in good order. We still had to pass the tests, of course, but after what we’d gone through, that wasn’t so much of a problem. The only hiccup was that Ginge managed to break his ankle and couldn’t complete the course. He came back for the next one and passed with flying colours.
We had the usual end of course piss-up with the instructors and this turned out to be a real marathon session. I woke up at 6am on a park bench on the Hoe, overlooking the sea, and staggered back to the accommodation, only to find it half empty as many of the lads had managed to trap-off with local girls. I slept through until mid-afternoon and then got something to eat before heading off into town with Johnny Mac for even more boozing. I can’t say I remember what happened next.
I spent the Sunday out on Dartmoor, sweating out the booze I’d consumed over the past two days by running and walking over the hills and I’ve got to say I had more fun putting it in than getting it out. When I’d driven back to the Citadel in the afternoon, I sorted out my kit ready for the move down to Lympstone the next morning.
The Commando Training Centre Royal Marines at Lympstone was like stepping back in time to Junior Leaders. Everywhere Marines recruits, with hair cut back to the wood, were being beasted around by smartly dressed instructors yelling at them at high volume, and I soon realised that it would be the same for us, despite the fact that we were all experienced soldiers and NCOs.
Our first activity turned out to be an inspection in our Number 2 dress uniforms and best boots which struck me as odd but I soon found out why they did it. Having paraded in our best uniforms, we were then marched over to the quartermaster’s department and issued with a mattress cover. We then signed over all the extra clothing and equipment we would need for the coming weeks, which we had to squeeze into the mattress covers. Once we had this, we were doubled over to the armoury to sign for a rifle and cleaning kit, and then to the bedding store to collect pillows, sheets and blankets. By now we all had these huge ‘sacks’ on our backs and looked like a bunch of military Santa Clauses, puffing and sweating in our best uniforms. With all the kit collected, we were doubled around the camp being shown all the relevant places like the guardroom, the ‘galley’ (or cookhouse to normal human beings), the gymnasium and so on, before arriving back at our accommodation, now soaked in sweat and completely dishevelled. Finally we were given the chance to settle in and get acquainted with the guys who hadn’t been on the 29 Commando beat-up before a briefing on the next day’s activities.
The Commando course proved to be much as I expected it. Like the beat-up in Plymouth it mostly consisted of physical activities although there was a certain amount of low-level tactical stuff thrown in as well to keep us on our toes. The Royal Marines instructors were on our backs the whole time and were not afraid to make us work for what we wanted. For 95 per cent of the course I would have been happy to punch most of them at any time – they got on my tits that much – but the bigger prize was earning the green beret and I kept a lid on my anger.
John Mac and I maintained much the same routine that we had done during the beat-up. At the end of each day we sorted out feet and weapons, then took our laundry down to the launderette in Lympstone and handed it in for a ‘service wash’ while we went down to the pub for a couple of pints, before collecting it on the way back to barracks. Most days finished with the notorious ‘mud run’ on the seashore at the back of the barracks, ploughing through waist-deep mud in full kit, followed by the rope course afterwards, by which time we were filthy and exhausted. Getting everything cleaned up after this was an additional embuggerance.
As the course went by, a few dropped out through injury. It was designed to be a wearing-down process from which only the physically robust would emerge but you needed mental strength to get through it as well. My focus was complete: whenever things got tough, I would tell myself over and over: you must pass and you will pass. I was genuinely scared of failure: I could barely imagine how awful it would be.
The last week was the toughest of all and by the end of the final nine-mile battle run there were only around 20 of us left. We’d lost all of the weak links, together with a fair few who had what it takes but had sustained injuries, but we still didn’t know who had actually passed the course. I was in the accommodation cleaning my weapon for the last time when one of the instructors came in and ordered us all to parade outside. We were in all kinds of different rig: tracksuits, jeans and t-shirts, muddy uniform too, but we got outside and formed up for the moment of truth. I’d been chatting with John Mac and some of the others and we’d agreed that whatever happened, pass or fail, we were all going out on the piss that night.
We were brought to attention. There was a short silence, and then: ‘Well done, everyone here has passed.’
Morale could not have been higher. We were laughing and joking and even the Marine instructors dropped their poker faces and joined in. I felt completely elated.
But first: feet; then weapons and kit needed to be cleaned up and handed in; then we would teach the Royal Marines how to drink.
The next morning there was an air of carnage about the accommodation: some could handle their drink better than others but I was in a reasonable state having got all my kit squared away the evening before and I dragged myself over to the cookhouse – sorry ‘galley’ – for a hearty breakfast, then got into my Number 2 dress for the parade.
It didn’t last long. We marched out onto the square and the commandant of Lympstone gave a short speech, then went round the parade shaking each of us by the hand and passed over a green beret, telling us: ‘Well done, you deserve it,’ and that was it. I thanked him and saluted.
Afterwards, I said my goodbyes to the lads and prepared to drive back to Plymouth. 29 Commando had batteries in Plymouth, Arbroath and Malta
back then, and I didn’t know which one I’d be going to but I wasn’t actually too concerned. What did worry me slightly was that I would be joining a unit as a bombardier where I would be in charge of squaddies who were far more experienced than I was – as Commando gunners at least. Never mind, I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
I took the drive back to Plymouth at a leisurely pace and rather than going straight to the Citadel, I went to a café, drank some coffee and read the papers. Checking my watch I could see it was late afternoon, so I headed up to the main gate, told them who I was and was directed to report to regimental headquarters. I asked for the chief clerk and told him who I was and that I’d just passed the Commando course.
‘We’ve been expecting you, mate,’ he told me, ‘you’re posted to 145 Battery here in the Citadel: welcome to 29 Commando Regiment.’ He handed over some documentation for me to fill out and pointed out where 145 Battery were accommodated. I made my way over to drop off my kit and to meet my new colleagues.
Once again I was on a steep learning curve. 29 Commando were equipped with the 105mm pack howitzer, a light, portable gun which was ideal for a unit designated to support the Marine Commandos, but it was one I hadn’t worked on before, and now I was going to have to command a gun crew using it. I decided that I would need to put my personal physical training programme on hold while I got to grips with the new job. It could have been difficult but I found I was working with a really sound bunch of lads who did everything they could to help me. We had a live firing exercise coming up on the Otterburn training area in the North East and it went well: my crew worked hard together and drank hard together, and the exercise passed off without a hitch.