by Ben Collins
The next sprint was less fluid. This upset Ken.
More climbing, jumping, swinging and running led to a brick wall. ‘Colin, get up that fackin’ wall.’
I ran in, dug my foot into the mortar line and hopped up, getting a hand on to the top. A big pull, then the other arm, and over to the finish.
The next course was a team event and unsighted. I hooked up with the Bear, Johnny and a lad from another company. We attacked the course and its festering water obstacles before approaching the monkey bars, where Geordie was lurking with a mischievous smirk. It wasn’t long before we found out why. When we were halfway across the bars, he whipped out a high-pressure hose and artfully switched his fire between our eyes, balls and fingertips.
We had a problem with our heavy Bear, who spent more time swimming the lagoon than on the bars overhead. I went back for him with Johnny and we shoved him on top of the bars, where Geordie couldn’t squirt him off.
‘Ah, that’s quick thinkin’ there, fellas.’
We sprinted to the final obstacle. I vaulted up the high wall with Johnny, but we struggled to drag Bear over, so I climbed back down and shoved him over the top with his boot in my mouth. I was wrenched over as the last man, falling in a heap on the other side, where everybody else was already waiting.
I lifted my saturated helmet from over my eyes, got to my feet and collided with the training officer. ‘Switch on, Collins. You need to work on your phys.’
An Officer and a Gentleman it wasn’t …
I loved the Army. It had become the only constant in my career. Back at ‘work’ I had to try and capitalise on my championship title and get a NASCAR drive. When I wasn’t training with the boys in green, I was back on the phone selling my soul to the marketing and advertising genii of Madison and Vine. I also had to earn some money and pitched endless ideas to Top Gear.
Winning the Texaco Trophy had opened the door with their UK marketing agent. Given that Texaco also sponsored a car in NASCAR’s top category, it was a link worth forging. I struck a deal to drive for them in the UK, with the proviso that I would compete in a NASCAR support race at Charlotte at the end of the season.
I joined a new team with a tiny operating budget. As returning champion I had it all to lose. But I still had a lot to learn about NASCAR racing, so I figured it was a risk worth taking.
The team collected our car from a pool of spares held by the series organisation and put it together. Then we set about testing, and my first laps in it confirmed my worst fears. The back end shook around as awkwardly as a John Sergeant mambo on Strictly Come Dancing. I couldn’t get anywhere near my own pace from the previous season and we ran out of adjustment on the car trying to fix it.
The first weekend was an exercise in mediocrity. We crossed the line in fifth and sixth positions. I met with one of the series organisers in his ivory tower at Rockingham and pleaded our case. Our car was incapable of winning; we needed to exchange it.
‘You are the last person we would want winning the series again,’ he explained as he rocked back on his leather chair. ‘That’s half the problem with Formula 1 these days, right, it’s bloody boring watching the same person winning again and again.’
I knew it. This was all Schumacher’s fault.
‘Well, I assume that you want Texaco to stay in the series?’ I bluffed. ‘Basically if we can’t have another car, I’m pulling out. And so will they.’
I had no authority to say that, but it paid off. We were granted a new car for the next race a few months later, one that could actually turn left. In the meantime the soldiering business became a full-time preoccupation.
After months of intensive training our assault rifles became extensions of our bodies. Contact drills, our immediate response to enemy fire, were honed from hundreds of rehearsals of choreographed moves designed to inflict maximum damage on the enemy.
We crept across the vast open plains of the firing range on the tips of our toes, rifle in the shoulder. Every sense was jacked; we could almost smell the targets before they appeared. The river to our left offered potential cover, as did the rising valley to the right.
The glimmer of a target – the weapon fired and the target dropped.
‘Contact front.’
Our tiny group dealt out a murderous rate of fire. Live rounds pierced the air as we wove past one other, taking control of the ground. Fire and manoeuvre, all under the watchful eyes of our instructors, who were judging our performances.
‘Baseline, break left,’ Ninja shouted.
I lobbed a smoke grenade and we hurtled into the confines of the river one by one, pepper-potting along it, firing all the way. Sprint, down, fire, up, sprint, down, fire; lead turned into brass.
Burning legs pumped through the river towards my buddies as we broke away from contact. We were so close we were firing past each other’s shoulders. I noticed a flash and heard an unusual noise, the hiss of a close round. Tread carefully.
Magazine changes became a bodily function. You felt the weapon lighten, anticipating the click at the end of the magazine, diving into cover, automatically slapping home the next magazine, releasing the working parts, re-engaging – Bang. We were totally tuned in.
My rounds ricocheted off another target 200 metres away, but it still wouldn’t fall. Ken pounced on my shoulder. ‘Fack’s sake, hit that fackin’ target!’
I rounded on him. ‘It’s fucking broken, Staff!’
I switched to another and blatted it down.
All morning we leapt over obstacles, rolled through firing positions and sprinted from one objective to the next. We bombed up for the next assault, established security and analysed the situation. Sweat poured and hands shook from the adrenalin and the high lactate concentrations in our muscles. Ken was looking for the smallest error.
‘Fackin’ switch on. This is when we’re looking at you, when you’re facked. Right. Fackin’ close in, lads.’
We huddled around Ken. Our steaming breath rose from the circle like a halo. He stared intently at each of us, one by one. I took a slug from my water bottle and hacked at the phlegm in my throat.
Ken was the devil to most of us but I admired his perfectionism, and not just the ability to swear several times in every sentence. His relentless abuse was timeless, whether it was lunchtime and someone wasn’t loading rounds into a magazine fast enough, or 3am and someone wasn’t in exactly the spot where they were supposed to be for an ambush. He cared, I suspected, because he had witnessed the consequences of getting it wrong.
‘The next objective is in that fackin’ wood up there. You fight through that position, yeah. Fackin’ whatever it takes, lads. In Para Reg, right, we fix fackin’ bayonets.’
We advanced to contact in sections, losing sight of the far right flank behind the tree line as we cleared the open ground.
There was a crescendo of loud bangs.
‘CONTACT FRONT …’
‘You, you, you and YOU – you’re fackin’ DEAD.’
Unlike the real thing, being ‘killed’ on the range wasn’t all bad. I checked my safety and hit the deck. Johnny and Bernie started hauling me towards cover. The effort was carved across their faces.
‘You two, pick up his fackin’ bergen.’
‘You’re joking,’ Bernie moaned, adding the dragging weight of my pack to my carcass. Out of sight of the DS I kicked my legs as much as I could to help propel my weight.
They dropped me and laid down more fire. People were opening up at the tree line from all sides. I leaned over to my right to get a better view of the advance as the group nearest me switched fire and the flanking section took the position. A searing hot pain entered my armpit, then wriggled quickly down my ribcage to the small of my back.
Being a hypochondriac, I thrust my hand inside my body armour to check for blood and quickly realised I hadn’t been shot. After plenty of digging, I removed a pair of hot, flesh-stained shell cases that had fallen from Bernie’s rifle. I looked back up to see Geordie and Jone
s laughing their asses off at me.
‘STOP.’
Geordie gathered us round.
‘So what have we learnt from this exercise, lads?’
‘Should’ve joined the Air Corps,’ Cartman said, catching his breath.
‘Don’t get shot, simple as that. Otherwise you’re all fookared. Right, collect the brass, pack up and Foxtrot Oscar.’
We absorbed volumes of information on assault techniques, situational awareness, observation skills, reconnaissance, patrolling, signals, close-quarter combat, fieldcraft, routines, teamwork. It paid to listen and learn. You could be put on the spot at any moment.
‘Collins, Johnny, you’re with me in the gun group. The rest of you lads, get fackin’ bombed up for the assault.’
I took the General Purpose Machinegun, Johnny took the Minimi. I carried enough belts of ammunition around my neck to film the entire Rambo series. We made a tactical approach to the fire support position overlooking the area where our brothers would be assaulting a range of bunkers and targets. ‘Tactical’ meant the hard way, the steep way, avoiding open ground and maintaining cover, dragging ourselves and our kit across rocks and fallen trees. Ken walked alongside and dished out his usual brand of encouragement.
The Gimpy could dish out up to a thousand 7.62-calibre rounds every minute, and Ken wanted Armageddon. That meant switching barrels regularly to prevent them overheating and I ran the drill in my head. Sometimes the barrel would get so hot that it glowed red and the passing rounds were visible from the outside.
Lying flat on my belly in the firing position, I set out my stall with spare barrel, oil and ammo. With the butt of the gun pressed into my shoulder, I flipped open the top cover and splashed oil over the working parts like a drunk pissing over his shoes. I loaded a serpentine belt of live rounds mixed with ball and tracer, slapped down the cover, racked the cocking handle to make ready, clicked on the safety and sighted for 400 metres.
In seconds, the boys would sweep into view from the left of my arc of fire. My job was to suppress as many targets ahead of them as possible. Policing the exercise was just as intense for Ken as for us on the triggers.
I stared down the iron sights with both eyes open to take in the periphery, scanning for a target, watching for the assault group. A jammed round or a belt change had to be dealt with as fast as possible to maintain the rate of fire and support the attack. Everything was prepared. Shit. Apart from my earplugs …
Movement, an obscured white object that wasn’t there before …
‘Staff, target at 400 metres, centre of arc behind the bush, can I engage?’
‘Crack on.’
I flicked off the safety and gave a short burst to gauge the fall of the rounds. Johnny followed suit. The crackle of fire slashed at what was left of my eardrums. The bush exploded as the tracer thudded into the bank just short of the target. I raised the barrel a hair, squeezed and the next burst tore through the target.
Firing in bursts didn’t look as cool as the Rambo method: stripped to the waist and freshly lubed, legs apart, gun under one arm, hosing an infinite belt of rounds across the entire battlefield. The upside of stroking the trigger was the accuracy, which the ‘spray and pray’ method rarely achieved.
Smoke drifted across the area, signalling the arrival of the rifle group. ‘Get the fackin’ rounds down!’ Ken chanted.
We poured fire into the forward positions at an increasing tempo as they moved towards them. I could make out Bernie and Flash dashing forward and dropping, signalling and firing.
Our fire intensified, decimating the position. The boys closed in, metres away from the falling shots, then just feet. If I aimed a quarter inch to the left the fire would split Bernie’s head open like a cantaloupe. I gripped the weapon with all my strength, as if some imaginary force might draw the barrel towards him.
Ken left it to the last moment. ‘GUN GROUP, switch fire to the right – bunker, 450 metres, rapid FIRE.’
I swivelled the Gimpy on its tripod until the sight met the target. BLAP, BLAP, click.
Ken was on me. ‘Clear that stoppage!’
I cracked the top cover and racked the working parts, which jammed in protest. I pulled on the lever with all my strength. Not now, you bastard, open …
The bolt whipped back, I peeled off the belt and cleared the smouldering link obstructing the feed, slapped on a fresh belt … rack, engage …
The gun chewed through the belt like confetti; targets rose and fell. I must have gone through at least 350 rounds.
‘BARREL CHANGE,’ I shouted, putting Johnny on notice to hold the fort. I fired through the belt and sprung into action, dislodged the smoking barrel, attached the fresh one and carried on. The rifle group closed in again. Grenadiers took out the bunker as we went cyclic on the guns and blew it to smithereens.
The boys cleared through the final position and took off up a re-entrant, a small cutting that covered their movement. It was our turn to run.
Our charred fingers gathered up all the bits and bobs. Ken rushed us along, piling on the pressure. Gun over the shoulder, start running. The burning first gasps of air rushed through the backs of our throats. By the time we reached the blokes, Johnny was waddling like a pregnant duck. In between bursts of fire at an imaginary enemy, I cradled the Gimpy like a newborn baby, with arms jacked too full of lactic acid for my hands to hold it.
Geordie beasted us through fire positions all the way up the re-entrant. Everyone was ball-bagged. It felt like having bench pressed one too many and not even being able to get the bar back into the rack. Do you cry for help, or just slow down a little?
‘I’m gonna start FACKIN’ PUNCHING CUNTS. Fackin’ MOOOVE,’ Ken screeched.
A gnat’s fart could have blown me over.
‘Stop.’
I quietly puked some baked beans.
‘Well done, lads,’ Geordie said. ‘Sometimes a breakaway like that goes on for hours. You stop pushin’ and you die, it’s that simple. Have a ten-minute break, sort yer shit out, everyone ready to leave in five minutes.’
We tabbed into the night and returned to our base in the woods. ‘Stagging on’ was never a popular part of field routine and involved fighting to stay conscious during the small hours to provide security for the patrol, whilst every fibre of your being begged for sleep. Sleep deprivation, the stress of constant evaluation, cold, hunger and arduous exercise made your eyes welt.
My head barely had time to sink into my gonk bag before I was thumped in the ribs by the sentry I was replacing. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me out of bed at home when I was feeling this tired.
My face screwed up like a walnut. I double-checked there was a round in my weapon, peeled off the warm bag and re-attached my webbing. I slipped on my cold wet boots and stood like an old man. My smock was next to go on; the sweat from the day had had just enough time to freeze. I moved quietly and carefully through the jungle of para cord, camp paraphernalia and prone bodies.
I found Ninja drooped over his rifle, barely awake. I had to make sure we both remained alert until he was relieved. We scanned constantly for the ‘enemy’, but the only real fight on offer was with our eyelids.
The only way to stay awake was to have deep and meaningful conversations that would inspire enough cerebral activity to stay conscious.
‘Jelly baby,’ Ninja grunted.
‘I’m out,’ I replied.
I pushed a grubby hand into my smock pocket and carefully extracted a paper packet. I tipped half the coffee powder on to my tongue before passing the rest to him.
The stillness of night went unbroken for twenty minutes. Nothing pulsed in the green glow of our thermal imager. Skeletal branches broke up the low moonlit sky like cracks in a pane of glass.
Something caught my attention to our right. One, then two dark figures loomed into view 200 metres away, at the edge of our line of sight.
I kicked Ninja and signalled that we had company. As they came closer we could see more men trudging in li
ne, fifteen at least. It was probably best to let them walk by, but what if it was a test by the DS to see if we were awake? The leading men pinged on their head torches and that clinched it.
I took up a firing position and, as the leader reached us, Ninja nodded and challenged them. ‘Halt. Advance one and be recognised.’
I took a step forward from the trees and aimed at the point man’s face. He froze as his torch beam told him the good news. It took a few seconds for him to clock the 40mm grenade launcher slung underneath the barrel of a foreign rifle. Unlike his SA80, ours were not fitted with adapters for firing blanks.
‘Identify yourself!’
Point man’s feet left the ground as he performed a jumping jack, thrusting his arms into the crucifix position, legs akimbo. Not the DS then.
He didn’t know our password and began desperately pleading for someone called Stu to help him. In a real battle, these would have been his last words. Lieutenant Stu duly appeared and we decided to let his platoon of Royal Marines go this time.
Chapter 16
Pass or Fail
The Army had a way of making you feel invincible. So I decided to run the London Marathon.
The cheering crowd and the folks wearing the daft hats with pointed ears for the Whizz Kidz charity I was running for made the whole experience unforgettable. With 5 kilometres to go, I was handed a Lucozade by a big hero of mine, Jonny Wilkinson. Under different circumstances we might have had more than two words to say to each other, but it was an honour just being alongside the World Cup rugby legend.
The ligament in my knee was less impressed with the whole performance. Back on the military ranges I had to sprint with a limp. On the weekend before the last hurdle of battle camp, the referred strain finally tore my Achilles tendon. The Army medic thought it might rupture and was threatening to withdraw me from the course when Geordie waded into the twat wagon. ‘Let’s not be too hasty with the prognooosis, docta.’ They agreed to keep an eye on me, but if things got worse, it was game over.
There was better news at Top Gear: I was brought back for a second series. The second guest was Paul McKenna, the celebrity hypnotist and mind-bending wizard.