Commando

by Chris Terrill

  I sit with 924 Troop who stand out dramatically from the hundreds of other recruits – not because of their pasty complexions but because they are the only ones still dressed in civvies – smart trousers, shirt and tie. At the top of the mess is a separate area walled off from the main room and it is signed 'King's Squad'. We all look over to it and the uniformed recruits dining there – a collection of well-muscled and confident-looking young men. They are at the other end of the training spectrum from 924 Troop because the King's Squad is always the troop in its last week before passing out as Royal Marines Commandos. We look with some awe – and not a little envy – at the King's Squad.

  After supper, 924 Troop have to assemble in their dormitory. There they are divided into two groups: one stays in the main room to learn how to make beds the Royal Marine way; the other is sent to the washrooms to learn how to wash the Royal Marine way.

  Wenners is waiting for them by the washbasins. 'Gather round, fellas. Make sure you are in a position to see me.' He is wearing just a towel wrapped round his waist and in his hand he has a razor.

  'Right, forget everything you ever thought you knew about anything. Here you are starting from scratch. Lesson one. How to shave.'

  The recruits crowd round the half-naked war hero and watch enthralled as they are told and shown how they must shave in future – long strokes against the grain of the beard.

  'You will shave at least once a day and I will inspect you constantly – particularly on the parade ground,' says Wenners as he pulls the razor over his chin. 'I will be looking for the closest shave possible and DO NOT leave shaving cream behind your ears or you're in trouble! Get someone to check you off after shaving. Get him to make sure you are well shaved and rinsed properly.'

  Wenners washes the soap off his face and then promptly drops the towel from around his waist and stands before the recruits completely naked.

  'You may think you know how to wash yourself. Well, you don't, so listen up,' he says as he turns on the shower. 'Hygiene is vital – especially in the field. Fifty per cent of the casualties in the First World War were non-battlefield casualties from dysentery, diphtheria and trench foot. In other words poor personal administration. When you get out to Afghanistan in about eight months from now you will have your hands quite full enough with Terry Taliban without having to worry about some fuckin' rash on your bollocks, so watch carefully . . .'

  Wenners gives a memorable body-washing display that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Every body part is covered in detail.

  'Get that soap into every nook and cranny – right up the arse crack! Then all around the balls, up and down the knob, under the foreskin . . .'

  Meanwhile, Colour Sergeant Webster is showing the other half of the troop the secrets of hospital corners, how to iron bedsheets and pillowcases.

  'I want a single razor-sharp crease across the pillowcase and also along the length of your duvet cover . . .'

  After the two lectures have finished the recruits swap over. The washing section get the bed lecture and vice versa. By the end of the evening Wenners, after a double shave and shower, must be as clean as it is possible for a human to be.

  After nine o'clockers, which 924 Troop did not really want because they have yet to develop a daily calorie deficit, everyone recongregates in the dormitory where they have to iron their civilian shirts and trousers. It is not until tomorrow that they will pick up their uniforms from the quartermaster's store.

  I go over to chat to Terry John – the boy from St Vincent. 'How are you feeling, Terry?' I ask.

  'Weird,' he says. 'My head is all splattered. This is all a bit strange, isn't it?'

  'I know how you feel,' I reply. 'But you'll get used to it.'

  'Yeah, maybe,' he says. 'But thirty-two weeks is a long time, isn't it?'

  I smile and slap him encouragingly on the back. Inwardly, though, I am thinking exactly the same. This is all pretty unforgiving and one thing is for sure – it is going to get an awful lot worse.

  By half past midnight, ironing done, everyone is in bed and waiting for Wenners to give them their final orders.

  'Right, you lot. That is the end of your first day and you are still getting used to me and the way we do things. I will go easy on you to start with but after a while I want to see a big improvement in your general attitudes, your neatness, organisation and speed of reactions to orders. Understand?'

  'Yes, Corporal!' shouts 924 Troop.

  'Right, it's well past midnight so lights out now. No talking or you will all be giving me press-ups. You will hear an alarm at 0530 when you will get up immediately. You will then shave and shower the way you now know how. Understand?'

  'Yes, Corporal!'

  The lights go out. I leave the dormitory to head back to my own billet. Behind me forty-nine stunned rookies lie in silence, no doubt staring into the darkness. They are still in shock – the shock of capture – and it does not help that they remain strangers to each other. But I know that soon the bonding process will begin and these young recruits thrown together by fate will become friends and comrades in the face of the immense challenges stretching before them. Eventually, I am willing to bet, these boys, soon to be men, will be so bonded that they would die for each other – and, one day, may have to. In just eight months from now some of them are going to be deployed to the front line in Afghanistan.

  2

  Cheerfulness in the Face of Adversity

  20 June

  05.27

  I am standing in the recruits' dormitory in complete darkness with my camera on my shoulder. The recruits are fast asleep but not for much longer because Corporal Weclawek is about to wake them to start the first of the remaining 240 days of their Royal Marines basic training.

  A crackle on a loudspeaker is immediately followed by an explosion of military music that echoes ear-splittingly around the room. It is 'Life on the Ocean Wave' and, as it builds to a series of robust crescendos, courtesy of a particularly vigorous brass section and some full-bodied percussion, forty-nine young men are left in little doubt that it is time to get up. The ceiling strip lights flicker and then flood the room with a harsh white light that reveals a flurry of panicked activity – naked and half-naked bodies running around like so many headless chickens. Wenners shouts some much needed direction.

  'Now that you know how to do it, go and shower and shave, men. Then get dressed in your smart civilian rig ready for breakfast. You have ten minutes.'

  Everything is done at double time at Lympstone, including getting ready in the morning. This is all part of the disciplined approach to life that must now be instilled into these fresh recruits. Most of 924 Troop respond immediately to the orders but I notice Terry John, the boy from St Vincent, is reacting more slowly.

  'Come on, John,' shouts Wenners. 'Get a bloody move on or you'll be giving me press-ups!'

  'Yes, Corporal!' says Terry John morosely as he beaks into a run towards the washroom.

  Just over ten minutes later the troop congregate outside the Foundation Block in three ranks where they are inspected to make sure their shaving is up to standard before being sent to the galley for breakfast.

  'Once you've had breakfast, men,' says Wenners, 'I want you back here to clean up the block. Nice bit of housekeeping for you before we go to stores to get your kit – fuckin' oodles of it.'

  08.00

  While 924 Troop get on with cleaning their block I walk back up to the officers' mess where I have an appointment with someone called Major Dave Nicholson. He is to be my project manager throughout the next nine months or so, both while I am here at Lympstone and when I eventually go out to Afghanistan. I am more than slightly worried about meeting him because if he tries to be too controlling and attempts to sit on my shoulder the whole time this entire project could become a nightmare. I need to be given space to establish my relationships with the recruits as well as the training team and if I am going to be continually scrutinised I know it will undermine the entire
process. I am terrified the Ministry of Defence and the Royal Marines Corps have chosen a Colonel Blimp type to chaperone me through the next few months. We're meeting in the lounge of the officers' mess but first I go to my room to dump my camera. As I walk in I am taken aback by seeing a small blonde woman scrubbing energetically at my sink.

  'Oh hello, I didn't think you would be back so early,' she says brightly in a broad Birmingham accent. 'I'm Jane.'

  'Hello . . . I'm Chris.'

  'Glad to meet you.' She smiles. 'How long will you be staying?'

  'About eight months.'

  'Oh, great, so you'll be here some time,' she says. 'I clean all the rooms in this corridor and do my best to look after all you officers.'

  'Oh, I'm not an officer, Jane. I'm a civvy – don't let the uniform fool you.'

  I explain to her who I am and what I'm doing here. She is probably in her mid-thirties, attractive with a permanent smile and an infectious laugh that betrays a bubbly personality. It soon becomes apparent that, as good a cleaner as she might be, her real God-given talent is talking. Before I know it I am finding out all about her son who has a talent for rapping and her husband Dave who also works at CTC in the officers' reception. I get a comprehensive insight into her home, her neighbours and a fair idea of her own time in the army as a younger woman. She is very entertaining and a breath of fresh air in this uncompromisingly male and military environment, but one thing I realise very quickly: if you strike up a conversation with Jane you better not have a pressing engagement to get to. And I do!

  I keep looking at my watch to indicate that I need to make a move but Jane does not seem to pick up the hint. I wait for an opportunity to interrupt her current monologue on the benefits of liquid sink cleaner over abrasive cleaners and eventually manage to leap in as she pauses briefly to draw breath.

  'Sorry, Jane,' I say, edging towards the door. 'Got to run. I have a meeting.'

  'Oh, OK,' she says sweetly. 'Good to meet you anyway. Bye.'

  Minutes later I walk into a spacious lounge area where officers are sitting around on large comfortable armchairs and couches chatting or reading newspapers. I have no idea what Major Nicholson looks like so decide to grab myself some coffee, take a seat and let him find me. No sooner have I sat down than I am approached by a smiling, boyish-looking officer who can be no more than about thirty.

  'Chris?' he enquires.

  'Yes. Are you Dave?'

  'That's me,' he says cheerfully.

  We shake hands and he sits down opposite me. He is not what I was expecting at all. I had envisaged an older man and someone much less jovial. My initial fears of being smothered and controlled by an overzealous minder are immediately dissipated. It soon becomes apparent that Dave is an extremely dedicated marine but also very concerned that I be allowed free rein to find out for myself about the Bootneck world.

  'The point is, Chris,' he tells me, 'we haven't got anything to hide. If we did you probably wouldn't be here, but we are proud of what we are and we want people to know what makes a marine a marine. Most people don't even realise we're part of the Royal Navy – they think we're part of the army and beyond that they really don't know how we operate or what our specialist skills are.'

  'I know that, Dave,' I say. 'But of course my aim is to tell the story from a very personal point of view. I need to build relationships with specific people and follow their lives as they unfold – and be with them for both the up times as well as the down times.'

  'Oh, there will be plenty of down times, Chris. The training will take the lads to hell and back but hopefully you will see how their personalities build along with their physiques. And with any luck you'll capture something of the Bootneck humour as well – it's what makes us who we are!'

  'The other thing, Dave,' I say hesitantly, 'is that I really need to operate on my own. My fear is that if you're standing over me as I film it might intimidate the recruits and –'

  'Oh God, no,' he interrupts. 'It would be no good me being around all the time. You crack on, mate, and do your thing. I will always be on call if you need me to organise things or to arrange access et cetera.'

  'Fantastic,' I say gratefully. 'The thing is I am not here to make a promotional film for your recruitment. I need to tell it how it is but, from what you tell me, that should be good PR anyway.'

  'Well, we like to think so,' he laughs. 'We want you to do your thing and I certainly won't interfere apart from making sure you get to see everything you want to and sometimes I may have advice about something you're not aware of. But as far as your filming is concerned you have free rein, subject to a few security issues of course. You can usually find me in my office here or sometimes up at the MoD in London. Always on the end of a phone though. I understand you want to have a crack at the commando tests?'

  'Yes,' I say enthusiastically. 'I would love to have a go, partly just to get closer to the experience so that I can understand the nature of the challenge better and partly just because I want to.'

  'So you're clinically insane?'

  'Well, there are those who would say so.'

  'Excellent. You probably have the makings of a good Bootneck in that case. OK, well, you'll need to talk to the physical training instructor in charge of 924 Troop and ask to get involved with the training. We'll have to keep an eye on your progress and pull you off if it all gets a bit much. It's pretty extreme stuff and we don't want to break you.'

  'Yes, I understand that. I don't want it to interfere with my main job obviously or let injury stop me getting out to Afghanistan.'

  'Of course,' says Dave. 'Oh, on that subject – when it comes to going to Afghanistan I'll be coming out with you to ride shotgun. Try to stop you getting hit by a bullet or captured – far too much paperwork otherwise.'

  'Absolutely.' I grin. 'I know my folks would quite like it if you could get me back reasonably intact.'

  'I'll do my best, mate. Anyway, I better get off as I've got loads of work to do. Shall we meet for a drink tonight? Say in the officers' mess bar at twenty hundred?'

  'Excellent,' I say. 'But there's one more thing before you go, Dave. I know I'm following 924 Troop but I just wondered if there's a possibility of following an officer under training as well. It might make an interesting comparison – what do you reckon?'

  'Yes, good idea,' he says. 'The YOs (Young Officers) live on board so we can probably meet some of them tonight in the bar.' (Being part of the Royal Navy, the Royal Marines refer to their land bases as if they were ships. Hence, if you are at the base you are 'on board' and if you leave it you are 'going ashore'.)

  I am relieved to find Dave is a regular sort of bloke, with a sense of humour and a very broad-minded outlook. I feel confident we can do useful business together and, having met him, I suspect we could end up good friends.

  11.00

  I join 924 Troop outside the Foundation Block where Wenners has them lined up in ranks and is briefing them before taking them to the stores to pick up their kit.

  'Right, men,' he shouts. 'I am now going to ask you a very important question and I want honest answers.'

  He pauses while he surveys the recruits looking uneasy in front of him and wondering what is coming next.

  'How many of you are Aston Villa supporters?'

  Everyone looks round but nobody puts their hand up.

  'OK,' says Wenners. 'Queen's Park Rangers?'

  Again, nobody responds.

  'Right,' says Wenners, 'put your hand up if . . . you are a Manchester United supporter!'

  A dozen hands shoot up instantly.

  'OK,' says Wenners with a grin. 'Rest of the troop stay put. All you Man U freaks down on the ground – and give me twenty!'

  With a groan twelve men start to pump out the press-ups – much to the amusement of all the others.

  As soon as the press-ups are completed the troop are marched down to the clothing store where they spend an hour being issued uniforms, boots, helmets, sleeping bags, gym gear, training shoe
s and all manner of underclothes, socks, gloves and waterproof gear. They pack everything into large black holdalls before doing their best to march back to the Foundation Block where they are ordered to change into their gym kit for their first visit to the sports hall. This will be my first taste of physical training too, so it is with some consternation that I change as well. I have no idea what to expect and just hope I don't embarrass myself.

  The physical training instructor who will be dedicated to 924 Troop is Corporal Jon Stratford, twenty-four years old and, judging from his well-defined muscle tone, as fit as they come. He surveys his new troop with narrowed eyes.

  'I will be with you for the next thirty-two weeks, men,' he says. 'In that time I expect you to give me everything you've got and then dig down deeper for more. Understand?'

  'Yes, Staff!' shouts the troop.

  'If you do not give me everything you've got you will be marching out of those gates and not coming back. Understand?'

  'Yes, Staff!'

  'Right, have you all got your oggin?'

  The recruits look bemused.

  'Oggin – that's marine-speak for water,' explains the strapping corporal. 'Have you all got your water bottles?'

  'Yes, Staff!'

  'Good. In you go then. Line up in the sports hall and stand by.'

  As the recruits run into the gym I take the opportunity of introducing myself to Jon Stratford and explain that I want to take part in the physical training as my ultimate aim is to run the commando tests myself.

  'Yes, hi, Chris,' he says with a friendly smile. 'You're welcome to join in. I'll need to make a judgement of your fitness now and at all stages of training because it gets very intense and can be dangerous unless you're up to scratch. I understand you like your phys anyway.'