Commando

by Chris Terrill

  The recruits obey and now survey the wide expanse of mud in front of them.

  'When I give the order,' Orlando continues, 'you will sprint as hard as you can to the PTIs and the training team you can see standing out there in the mud. You will put everything you can into this, fellas, because if you don't you will be here till midnight

  The troop braces itself.

  'GO!' screams Orlando.

  I join the recruits with my camera as they lunge forward and plunge into the deep, sticky, stinking mud and try to run towards the distant figures. There is no way to lift the feet so running soon becomes an unsteady lurching motion. Balance is virtually impossible so we're continually falling over and picking ourselves up. The strain on the leg muscles is immense and the lungs are soon heaving as we gasp for oxygen. But there is no mercy from the PTIs or the training team.

  For an hour the troop is beasted. They have to run, do head over heels, star jumps, squat jumps and press-ups in quick succession. At one point they are ordered to crawl for a hundred yards on their bellies.

  'I can't see, Corporal,' says Terry John in agony as he tries to rub globules of mud from his face and eyes.

  'Oh really?' says a nearby PTI, quite unmoved. 'Has anybody seen my sympathy? Oh dear, I don't seem to have any. What do you expect is going to happen in Afghanistan, fella? Are you going to stop in the middle of a firelight and say you can't carry on because you've got a fly in your eye?'

  'No, Corporal!' cries Terry.

  'Well, crack on, fella. And go faster.'

  Finally, the torture ends. The entire troop is shattered and entirely covered in mud – from head to toe. Many of the guys are in tears.

  'Listen up!' shouts Orlando. 'You've done well. Everybody put everything into that so, as far as the team and I are concerned, that has wiped the slate clean. Take it on the chin and push on. I want to see a marked change in attitude from now on.'

  The troop is hosed down and then everyone goes to the washrooms to shower before starting the long job of cleaning and scrubbing their mud-caked boots and uniform. 924 Troop has paid its dues in a way they will never forget. Only time will tell whether it will make the sort of difference that is required if the recruits are ever to pass out as fighting marines.

  Muddy and exhausted myself, I trudge back to my room. Although hosed down I am still dripping and filthy, so as I fling open the fire doors onto my landing I see Jane stop dead in her tracks. At first she looks shocked but then, as she recognises the mud-caked figure, she collapses into a fit of giggles.

  'Have you seen what you look like?' she says. 'Go and get that lot off and have a shower. I'll put the kettle on.'

  Thank God for Jane.

  21 July

  The greatest dread of 924 Troop is now, quite understandably, a mind-blowing, body-shattering and gut-wrenching mud run. My equivalent of the mud run is the run ashore and that is precisely what is happening tonight – kicking off at 1900. All day I have waited for the phone to ring to say that I had been granted a reprieve but no such call has come. My fate is sealed. As I mentioned earlier, I have been on a few Royal Navy runs ashore in my time and after some of them barely felt human or even of this world. They are invariably epic experiences, especially if, like me, you are not a front-line drinker. When it comes to the alcohol stakes I am very much an also-ran – if there were a pickup game called 'Knocking Back the Sauce' I would be the sad lad left at the end who nobody wanted on their team. I would be the one bringing on the oranges at half-time and the sick bags at full-time. In short I am a reluctant imbiber. I don't mind the occasional ice-cold lager on a hot summer's day or a fruity glass of red wine with a slab of steak but, frankly, most alcohol tastes to me like medicine. Taken to any excess it either makes me feel sleepy, pass out altogether or gives me such a thumping headache that at first I'm frightened I'm going to die. As the headache gets worse, as invariably it does, I soon become frightened that I'm not going to die!

  I think I make myself clear on the subject of drinking. I am rotten at it. The problem is, though, so many male-bonding rituals involve the heavy consumption of alcohol and to 'bottle out', so to speak, is to marginalise yourself in a heartbeat. One surefire way not to bond with blokes on a binge is to sup orange juice all night, so when a drinking session is unavoidable I have no choice but to open up my throat, lie back and think of England. That is no doubt what I will be doing tonight.

  19.00

  I meet everyone in the corporals' bar on the base. The plan, I have been told, is to have a swift pint here before catching the train from Lympstone to Exmouth where the night is to unfold. Hamish, Matt, Jim, Mick, 'H' and Orlando pitch up in jeans and T-shirts, just as I am dressed. I immediately offer to get the round in because, as the new boy, I reckon I should. Everybody has pints of either Boddingtons, Guinness or Stella. I opt for a Stella. The 'swift pint' turns into four leisurely pints each so I am already well past my limit before we have started. Eventually, someone suggests we get on our way and so we wander down to the station. Well, everyone wanders except for me. I am already beginning to stagger.

  Once on the train I am grateful to be able to sit down for the ten-minute journey, but then I suddenly discover that I've left my ID card in my fatigues. This is a disaster because, even in my already befuddled state, I realise that, as everyone in the team lives 'ashore', nobody will be coming back with me who could sign me in.

  'Guys, my ID's back in my room,' I bleat. 'I won't be able to get back on base later.'

  'No sweat, Chris,' says Orlando brightly. 'I'll come back with you as I have to pick up my bike. I'll get you back on base.'

  Relieved, I settle back into my seat and watch the River Exe flash by as we head for the fleshpots of Exmouth.

  Our first stop is a pub called the Powder Monkey. The place is heaving with Bootnecks but not one recruit is in sight. All Nods are banned from Exmouth, the soul preserve of NCOs and officers, and have to do their drinking, clubbing and general high kicking in Exeter. I get a round in and try to make my tin of Stella last for as long as possible. Some hope! Everyone seems to be buying rounds for everyone else.

  'Come on, Chris,' says Hamish. 'Drink up, mate. Gulpers rather than sippers if you're going to get shiters. [There are three recognised ways of drinking if you're a Bootneck: sippers – to sip; gulpers – to gulp; sandy bottoms – to drain your glass in one. Shiters is Bootneck-speak for drunk (very).] Here's another couple for you. Don't fall behind or else you'll have to pay a forfeit.'

  'Like what?' I ask with some trepidation.

  'Oh, probably shave your eyebrows off,' says Orlando, slurring his words slightly. 'That's the usual one for beginners!'

  'I knew you were bloody dangerous the moment I met you, Orlando,' I stutter.

  'Dangerous?' he yells. 'You ain't seen nothing yet, mate. I hereby declare tonight a "Trap or Die" night! Trap a chick or else . . .'

  'Or else what, boss?' says Matt Adams.

  'Don't know. I'll think of something – probably involving nudity, or pain, or both!'

  'Count me out, boss,' says Jim. 'Got a girlfriend at home, and anyway I just want to drink tonight.'

  Everyone agrees with Jim. Orlando is overruled.

  'OK,' he says. 'It is Trap or Die just for me. If I don't trap, do with me what you will.'

  'You said it, boss,' says Hamish.

  We move on from the Powder Monkey to the Famous Ship Inn to the Heavitree to the Pilot Inn to the Viper and to the Remedies Bar. I have lost count of how many Stellas I've had and I am appropriately smashed. Consequently, according to my usual pattern, I have become incredibly sleepy. I fight back the alcohol-induced fatigue and buy in another round for the team who, being proper Bootnecks, are absorbing everything they're drinking and still only swaying slightly. They're a good bunch who are fun to be with and, notwithstanding my intoxication, I've been getting to know all of them much better.

  Sergeant 'H' Quinn, the forty-year-old from County Down in Northern Ireland, is a gruff terr
ier of a man. Small but powerfully built he is the sort of bloke you would certainly want on your side if set upon by ruffians. Once you get to know him, however, you realise he does have a soft side and likes a good laugh. At first I had him down for a confirmed bachelor but it turns out he is long married and devoted to his wife, Denise.

  Corporal Matt Adams, on the other hand, I had down for a married man with three kids but he is in fact single and searching! The other thing about Matt, apart from the fact that he always seems to be in a good mood, is that he is soon to become commissioned as a lieutenant and join the officer classes. What the others describe as 'going to the dark side'.

  Jim Glanfield, from Gloucestershire, is twenty-seven and, with a nose that has seen more traffic than the fast lane of the Ml, looks like a seasoned bare-knuckled brawler. Actually, he is no bruiser at all but a sharp-witted and deep-thinking sort of bloke who, while a strict disciplinarian, cares deeply for the welfare of the recruits in his section.

  Hamish Robb is twenty-four, married and, hailing from the Isle of Mull, fiercely Scottish. Like Matt he always seems to be cheerful and has an inexhaustible supply of one-liners – virtually all of which are either blasphemous, pornographic or just plain disgusting.

  Mick Beards, thirty-three, is a Brummie with the Brummiest accent you have ever heard. Always cheerful, he can, nonetheless, transform into the strictest of disciplinarians when faced with a recruit not pulling his weight or achieving the required standards. I am particularly struck by his drinking skills and, right now, very envious of them.

  And then, of course, there is twenty-one-year-old Lieutenant Orlando Rogers. Younger than all his corporals he is the baby of the team but also the boss. I was amazed to find out that he was a real problem child and, after being expelled from a series of schools, had numerous stints in foster-care. His energies were eventually redirected into judo, however, and he became a member of the British judo squad before applying to the marines for officer training. Orlando is such an extreme sort of guy and so larger than life that nothing much surprises me about him any more. When he told me earlier that he was training to row the Atlantic Ocean I didn't blink an eye – it is precisely the sort of thing I would expect him to be doing.

  'So, Chris,' says Orlando mischievously, 'tell us about the women that have been in your life.'

  'Yes,' says Hamish. 'The boss says you've been engaged to half the women in Britain, which either makes you a lech or a legend – or both.'

  'Hardly half the population,' I say bullishly. 'Just four. Actually only two were Brits. One was a Yank and the other an Aussie.'

  'Well, that's not a bad strike rate,' says Mick Beards.

  'Yeah, but there's one he's being very mysterious about,' says Orlando provocatively. 'Some famous bird, I reckon.'

  'Come on, Chris,' says Matt. 'No secrets among Bootnecks, you know.'

  'OK,' I say. 'Guess.'

  'We need clues,' says 'H'.

  'Well, her first initial is the same as yours, H, and she's currently married to a well-known musician.'

  'Is she good-looking?' says Hamish.

  'Yes – used to be a glamour model,' I say teasingly. 'Well stacked. Limps a bit.'

  'Bloody hell,' says Matt, 'not that bird with one leg married to Ringo Starr?'

  'No,' I laugh. 'Haven't heard about that one, Matt.'

  'No, not Ringo Starr. I mean Paul McCartney. What's her name?'

  'You're doing the guessing,' I say.

  'Fuck me sideways!' says Hamish. 'Not Heather thingy. She's essence!' (Essence, I learn, is Bootneck-speak for terrific or, with respect to women, gorgeous.)

  'You got it, Hamish,' I say.

  'Gen?' says 'H'.

  'Gen,' I say.

  'Bloody hell, Chris,' says Orlando. 'I would never have guessed her.'

  'Yeah, not my usual type at all but I just succumbed – hook, line and sinker!'

  'Have you met McCartney?' asks Matt.

  'No, mate,' I say, leaning heavily on the bar. 'Heather and I only knew each other for a few months. It was one of those whirlwind things. I proposed to her on a fishing boat on the Mekon River twelve days after meeting her.'

  'As you do,' says Orlando.

  'That's not a whirlwind,' says Hamish. 'That's a fucking turbo-charged tornado.'

  'The press is going for her jugular at the moment, aren't they?' says Mick.

  'Yeah,' I say. 'She's getting a rough ride because of this divorce with Macca. I feel a bit sorry for her now, though I didn't when she ditched me.'

  'Are you still in touch?' says Orlando.

  'Good God, no. We both went our separate ways. She got married to an icon and I went to Australia and got engaged to someone else. Girl I met on a ship sailing to Indonesia across the Timor Sea.'

  'Don't tell me,' says Hamish, 'you proposed to her twelve days after meeting again?'

  'I bloody well did not,' I protest. 'I wouldn't make that mistake again. No, I think it was at least six weeks before I proposed to Tasha. Didn't last of course, but it was a blast at the time.'

  'You bloody old rogue!' laughs Orlando.

  'It's something about being on the water . . .' I say distractedly.

  'So, when she settles the divorce with old Macca she'll be loaded,' says Hamish. 'Would you ever get back with her?'

  'I would rather put my head in a blender!' I say. 'Not exactly a match made in heaven.'

  'You old tomcat!' says Hamish. 'That's it – "Tomcat" Terrill. That's your Bootneck name. Perfect.'

  'Tomcat!' everyone shouts in unison.

  'Right, you lot,' says Orlando suddenly. 'It's gone midnight – time to move on if I'm gonna trap tonight!'

  'Sorry,' says Hamish, 'I've got to bale out. Promised the missus I wouldn't have another heavy session tonight. See you all tomorrow.'

  Hamish departs with a cheery goodbye. Giddy, disorientated and nauseous, I look round at everyone else hoping they might all decide to follow suit and call it a night.

  'Come on,' says Mick. 'Fahrenheit!'

  To my dismay, we stagger to Exmouth's premier club – a murky cavern of shoulder-to-shoulder drinkers surrounding a small dance floor full of wildly gyrating bodies. To my further dismay, someone gets in another round of beers. I feign gratitude and take a pretend sip but know that if I swallow one more drop of alcohol I 'will collapse in a heap.

  'Gonna take a leak,' I announce as brightly as I can before heading for a neon light in the distance which promises at least temporary sanctuary. Once I am past the dance floor, however, I notice a darkened corner where the flashing disco lights and viciously pulsating strobes are not penetrating. I head straight for this penumbral oasis where magically and mercifully I find a space on a low-slung sofa between two pairs of lip-locked revellers. Squeezing into the middle, I lie back, stretch out my legs, close my eyes and slip into an intoxicated sleep.

  About an hour and a half later I wake up. Fahrenheit is still seething but I reckon it must be safe to resurface now. Surely the team are not still drinking. Even they must have had their fill by now. I venture out from my shield of semi-darkness into the frantic illuminations of the dance floor where the first person I see is Orlando doing a sort of frenzied mating dance in front of some very short-skirted and low-bloused young women. I edge around him, making a mental note to tell him that dancing is really not something he should be doing in public, and promptly spot the rest of the team on the other side of the room chatting idly between themselves. I am finally confident that the night has run its alcoholic course and head for the bar where I intend to get a nice bottle of ice-cold water. But no sooner do I join the drinks queue than I hear a shout from a large group who have just come into the club.

  'Chris! What are you having?'

  It is Bertie Kerr and some of the young officers who must have just arrived from some other Exmouth watering hole or club.

  'Hi, guys,' I say. 'Just going to get some water actually.'

  'Water?' says one of the YOs, a guy called Alex Pound
s. 'Come on, Chris. Have a proper drink with us.'

  I realise, once again, that having walked into another social ambush, I have no choice.

  'Oh, well ... I'll have a . . . er . . . um . . . Stella please, Poundsey.'

  'Stella coming up, mate. But you've got to have a tequila slammer as well – Bootneck-style!'

  I do not know what he means by 'Bootneck-style' but I soon find out. Normally, in Civvy Street, the method is to lick salt off the back of your hand, knock back the tequila and then eat a segment of fresh lemon. Tonight, however, the procedure is to snort the salt up your nose, knock back the tequila and then squeeze the lemon juice into your eye. I am so past caring that I end up doing it twice!

  It is not until 3.30 a.m. that the training team and I lurch out of the club and rejoin the human race. We buy chips and kebabs to soak up the booze and perch on a low brick wall to suck in the bracing sea air.

  'Where's the boss?' says 'H'.

  'He was chatting up some gronk the last time I saw him,' says Matt.

  'He was chatting up anything in a skirt,' says Mick.

  'Hey!' says Jim, pointing to the other side of the road. 'Ain't that him?'

  We look over and, sure enough, there is Orlando lurching into the distance with his arm around a girl teetering along on the highest high heels in the south-west of England – no doubt the 'gronk' (a female who likes to work her way through Bootnecks).

  'Hold on,' I moan, 'Orlando was going to get me back on base. I'm stuck!'

  'No worries, Tomcat!' laughs Mick. 'You're all wasted anyway – so come back to my place and crash on the floor. I'll drive us in tomorrow morning.'

  Mick, Jim, Matt, 'H' and I meander along the street to our resting place for the night – or what is left of it. Within half an hour I am gratefully stretched out on Mick Beards' sitting-room floor. I close my eyes and ride the roundabout in my aching head till I drop off into a booze-induced stupor.