Sometime later I wake with a start. It is still dark outside and the others are all snoring in concert but I can also hear a strange ringing in my ears and an odd vibrating sensation somewhere around my upper thigh. I lie back for a moment blinking in the blackness trying to work out whether the ringing and the vibration are somehow linked. I'm slipping back into semi-sleep but then snap awake again. My phone! Of course. That's what it is. Who on earth is calling me at this time in the morning?
I reach into my pocket and pull out my mobile. I see I have a text message so push the button to open it. It's from Orlando.
'Oooer!' it reads. 'She's a bit ugly!'
4
Rabbit Stew
The recruits seem to have reacted well to the lesson of the mud run. They are pulling together a little more and making progress – although, with twenty weeks of training remaining, there is still a mighty mountain to climb. They are spending more time in the field and have now been introduced to firing live ammunition on the ranges. All in all, their training is getting much more tactical in nature – they've certainly come a long way from the first day when they were taught how to brush their teeth and wash their genitals!
I have left the recruits to it for a week while I join Bertie Kerr and the YO batch for Operation Tempest – not on Woodbury Common but in the sweltering subtropical forests and swamps of south Virginia in the USA. Dave Nicholson couldn't come on the trip so I'm travelling with another major called Phil Whitfield who is every bit as friendly and helpful. We hit it off as soon as we met and it is a pleasure being with him. It helps, of course, that I can now speak pretty fluent Bootneck.
The original 924 troop.
Terry on the parade ground.
Jordan Slatter in camouflage on Woodbury Common.
Orlando eating as usual.
Me after traversing the Virginia swamps.
Bertie Kerr in the sweltering forests of Virginia.
US Marine Chinook arriving to airlift YOs from the forest.
Terry John with Bugs.
James Williams getting intimate with his dinner.
11 Troop advancing into Taliban compound.
11 Troop firing back.
11 Troop mortaring enemy positions.
One thousand pound bomb hitting it's target.
Signposts at Kijaki
Taking a break in Kijaki.
On patrol in a Wimik (Weapons Mounted Installation Kit).
Me on top of Normandy with a grenade launcher.
The Kijaki dam.
Me and 11 Troop after the battle.
Sasula and friend with a grenade launcher.
11 Troop fix bayonets.
11 Troop advance through the smoke.
Sgt McGinley helps Marine Mason after being shot.
Bertie Kerr under fire.
6 August
07.30 (Eastern Standard Time)
Today we are waiting at the US Marines Officer Training Base at Quantico to be picked up by two helicopters, which are going to drop us in the middle of a gigantic forest that stretches sixty miles square. It is within this dense forest area that the YOs will have to navigate their way to a number of set points while keeping a constant lookout for the 'enemy' – a company of US Marines who will be desperate to put one over on the Limey Bootnecks.
Two massive twin-rotor choppers roar over our heads and come in to land. It is all we can do to stay on our feet in the colossal downdraught but as soon as the aircraft touch down we pick up our heavy bergen rucksacks, run towards them in two long snakes and climb the tail ramps into their huge gaping bellies.
We take off and head west, skimming the tree canopies for about half an hour before the aircraft swoop into a clearing. As soon as they land we run down the ramps and sprint for the cover of the forest. Within seconds the helicopters are in the air again and heading home, leaving us to fend for ourselves for the next four days. With the temperature well over 110 degrees and the humidity 100 per cent we start a long yomp into the forest each of us carrying about ninety pounds of weight on our backs. Within minutes I am soaked with my own sweat and when I see my first black widow spider I realise this is going to be four days in hell.
The undulating terrain, littered with dead, rotting branches and leaves as well as exposed root systems, is exhausting and treacherous to walk over. I cannot imagine it can get any worse – until we reach an extended area of steaming swamps seething 'with flies and water-skimming insects. We try to 'walk round but in the end accept that we have to wade through if we are going to meet our target times. The swamp water, foul and fetid, comes up to our waists and in places to our chests. Underneath the water our feet sink deep into thick gaseous mud that tries to pull us down, and occasionally, it is all we can do to resist the suction. It strikes me that this makes the mud run look like a pleasant stroll in the park.
Eventually, we reach the area we were aiming for and establish a harbour – a temporary HQ which will be defended and guarded. I have been praying for nightfall because the heat of the day has been so unbearable, but once the sun goes down I find there is little difference in the temperature and no difference at all in the humidity. In fact, the night proves to be much worse because hungry, buzzing mosquitoes descend on us in swarms and, not for the first time in my life, I conclude that for these voracious, iniquitous and benighted creatures the most delicious of all blood is that of an Englishman. I am being eaten alive, but in the pitch blackness (because we can have no lights) still my greatest concern is the likelihood of spiders crawling all over me. Someone else said they were worried about snakes, but wriggling reptiles hold no fear for me – not if there are spiders lurking about, and by the look of some of the monsters I have seen today I wouldn't be surprised to hear that they could take a man's leg off at the knee.
I survive the night and I have all my limbs, even if they are bitten to hell. The YOs spend the day sending out a series of patrols to search for any signs of the enemy. I go with some for a while, but the rest of the time I stay in the protected harbour area – either sleeping, eating or chatting to YOs.
I find Bertie on sentry duty manning a general purpose machine gun, or GPMG.
'How are you enjoying this, Chris?' he asks.
'Apart from the heat, the humidity, the insects, the yomping and the swamps you mean?'
'Yes,' he laughs. 'It is a bit extreme, isn't it? Good training though.'
'I guess it's going to be pretty hot in Afghanistan,' I say.
'Yes, in the summer. But if I go out it will be in the winter and it can be perishing cold at night apparently – especially in the mountain areas.'
'You still want to be deployed to Afghanistan then, Bertie?'
'Yes, more than ever now. It would be incredible to get some real action straight away – not this pretend stuff. I mean, this is all great preparation but the one thing that is not realistic, and can't be, is the ammunition. We have to use blanks for obvious reasons. Blanks don't hurt you or kill you. So, to be in a real battle situation has to be our main ambition, otherwise it will always be war games.'
'And how about real war itself? You have a philosophy degree – does that ever make you ponder on the nature and morality of war?'
'Yes, of course. We all think of that – not just me because I have a degree in philosophy. We talk about it a lot but, at the end of the day, we will be serving marines and so we have a duty to perform. I certainly think the conflict in Afghanistan is a just one from our point of view. We are there with a purpose to underpin the government, support the democratic process and help rid the world of the terrorist threat.'
'What will you do if you're not deployed there?'
'I'll do what I'm told, I guess. But I really hope I do go and I should receive my orders almost as soon as we get back to the UK next week.'
As I chat to Bertie and find out more about his background, I realise once again that he, along with all his fellow YOs, is 'living the dream'. After deciding he wanted to be a Royal Marine when he was
five years old his desire never faded throughout school or university. Before he went to Bristol University he attended the Oratory Catholic school in Reading on a music scholarship where he became both school captain and captain of rugby. His headmaster, Clive Dytor, an ex-Royal Marines officer himself, winning the Military Cross in the Falklands War, also encouraged the boy's ambition. Bertie Kerr, it seems, was all but born to be a Bootneck.
The next three days in the Virginian forests are spent trying to hunt down the 'enemy'. The YOs manage to capture a prisoner and on the last day there is a brief firefight following an American ambush, but the Royal Marines withdraw and launch a counter-attack. In the end it is honours even. Most of the time we simply yomp through the unforgiving forest doing our best not to succumb to the murderous heat and humidity.
Finally, after four long days that have felt like weeks, we are mercifully airlifted back to the base. One of our guys and three of the Americans have gone down with extreme dehydration and have been rushed to hospital. On landing at the base, I pick up my bergen, webbing and camera kit and do my best to walk to the accommodation, but by now my legs are heavy with fatigue and the inside of my thighs as well as my hips are red-raw with chafing. I make slow and agonising progress but eventually make it to my grot where I hurl my gear onto the floor and head straight for the shower. It is one of those wonderful American showers – powerful, constant and always at just the right temperature – and I stand underneath it for a good forty minutes in a trance of exhaustion. When I come round I spend another quarter of an hour scrubbing off the camouflage cream that is ingrained into my skin. I have lost over a stone in body weight.
10 August
I have flown back from the States ahead of the YOs as I have to link up with 924 Troop on their first survival exercise. We are living under bivouacs at a place called Stallcombe Woods – comparatively benign after the savage heat and spider-infested forests of Virginia, but nonetheless, our living conditions are rough and basic. The recruits are now being exposed to increasingly pragmatic, no-nonsense training that is providing uncomfortable insights into the commando lifestyle on operations. The instructors are qualified mountain leaders – some of the toughest marines in the corps because they are the ultimate survival experts as well as being the most unforgiving and demanding of mentors.
'Am I fuckin' boring you, fella?' shouts one ML to Adam Collins who fails to stifle a yawn in the middle of a demonstration of shelter building.
'No, Corporal!' stammers the former stuntman.
'Why were you fucking yawning then? Twenty burpee bastards should wake you up!'
Adam steps aside and starts the now familiar punishment.
'Right, as I was saying,' resumes the ML, 'survival in the field is what commando warfare is all about and it is what makes us different from the pongos (army) who nancy around living in tents and eating pre-packed rations. You guys will have to live off the land and use the natural vegetation for shelter and concealment. So these are the sorts of shelters you can make from what you might just find around you . . .'
The recruits make notes intently. They know they are receiving information that one day could save their lives. The ML demonstrates how to build a variety of simple refuges using anything from branches, leaves, mud and parachute silk.
'Make sure you don't put these things up near roads or footpaths. Stay off the beaten track. In places like Afghanistan people are mega in tune with their environment and will spot anything out of place. In Africa once I was cammed out to fuck and hidden in the trees. I thought I just looked like another fucking leaf in the fucking forest but then some locals walked by and waved to me!'
The recruits laugh along with the ML but he quickly returns to the serious tone of the lecture.
'Also, remember that domestic animals like dogs may sniff you out. If they do you may have to kill them. Any questions?'
James Williams puts his hand up.
'Are there any other no-nos in places like Afghan, Corporal?'
'Yes. Stay clear of wadis. These are the dry riverbeds that look like they would provide hoofing shelter but don't go near them – certainly not to sleep in. They are prone to flash-flooding so you could wake up fucking drowned.'
Lee Smith puts up his hand. 'Corporal, presumably we can't cook stuff.'
'No, you can't,' says the ML, 'because flame and smoke would give you away, though if you know you're a long way from the enemy light a fire at night – this is to cook on but it's always good for fucking morale as well. In places like Iraq or Afghan though – don't even light a cigarette because the fuckers will find you and you won't have the Geneva Convention to fall back on.'
'What's the best way of dealing with capture?' says Adam Collins, still breathing heavily from his burpee bastards.
The ML shakes his head and draws his right forefinger across his throat. 'There isn't a way, yawner!' he says. 'If you get caught in any of the places we're fighting – forget the war films where you're bunged into a war camp. You get fucking locked in someone's basement, spend a few weeks getting fucking videoed and then get your fucking head cut off. You are guaranteed to die because the sorts of people we are fighting want to prove a fucking point and they know it shocks Westerners. No, mate, you get caught you are fucking brown bread – so don't get fucking caught!'
This exercise has been as eye-opening as it has been disconcerting.
12 August
At last I am back at Lympstone. It is a beautiful summer evening and the YOs, back from the States only this morning, are milling outside the officers' mess resplendent in their scarlet mess jackets, blue waistcoats and trousers. Accompanied by elegant girls in long flowing gowns, everyone is sipping at fluted glasses of champagne, Buck's Fizz or Pimm's. It is the night of the summer ball and even though it is only days since we were suffering the heat, humidity and voracious insects of the Virginian forest swamps, that is now all but a distant memory. The Royal Marine marching band strikes up and everyone relaxes into an evening that promises nothing but distraction and merriment. Bertie has brought along his girlfriend Kate and most of the other YOs are similarly accompanied, though a few remain single and are already roaming with glad eyes among some of the extra female guests that have been imported from Exeter University.
I am accompanied by Laura who has come down from London for the event. I thought it would be a good way for her to experience Lympstone and meet some of the characters she has already got to know by logging the film I have shot here so far. Earlier I took her down to 924's accommodation block and introduced her to some of 924 Troop as well as the training team. The recruits were all packing to go home for two weeks' summer leave but everyone was, as I expected, very attentive to Laura – in that eye-bulging and tongue-hanging-out sort of way that comes with living in an all-male community for too long. It was brave of Laura to come down to Lympstone – and even braver of her boyfriend, Doyle, to let her come.
If the recruits thought Laura looked attractive this afternoon, they should see her now. She is wearing a bright red ball gown, full in the skirt and cut so courageously low in the bodice that I would not be surprised if she is mentioned in dispatches. All eyes are on Laura and I am very proud that she is on my arm tonight. Even though I am still working, as I'm filming this event, it is nevertheless a delightful and carefree evening – a long way from thoughts of survival, concealment and avoidance of capture on operations!
By midnight the ball is in full swing. An Abba tribute band is playing at full blast in the main dining room – now a disco for the night – and the bars are churning with port- or beer-drinking YOs and attendant women friends. For me, however, the witching hour has come and I have to leave for London. I must deliver Laura back to Doyle and then get at least a couple of hours' sleep because, for my sins, I am meeting Glenn and some of the guys from the Fitzroy Lodge at 10 a.m. as we are competing in the London triathlon. It occurs to me sometimes that I have some of my priorities a little confused!
I go back to
my room to change and get my car keys. As I walk back down the corridor to collect Laura I see a notice pinned to one of the officer's doors. 'No shagging in this grot. Security cameras operating. If I find you in my room I will pork your girlfriend and then you. You have been warned?
I drive out of the main gates to head for London and leave behind what I assume will be a night of carefree abandon fuelled by alcohol, summer madness and testosterone.
14 August
It is Monday morning and I have just walked into Bertie Kerr's room overlooking the Lympstone parade ground. I am hurting from my exploits in the triathlon yesterday and Bertie is still nursing his head from the summer ball and a weekend of continued partying, but he has called me up to tell me something.
'I've received my orders, Chris.'
'Well?' I say. 'Is it what you wanted?'
'Yes. I leave for Afghanistan three days after I pass out in December.'
'Congratulations, Bertie,' I say, shaking his hand. 'Have you told your parents?'
'Yes. Dad's OK about it but Mum's not best pleased. Bit upset actually.'
'But you're pleased?'
'Oh yes! It's an amazing opportunity – I'll be a troop commander on the front line a week from passing out. I can hardly believe it!'
Neither can I. It seems extraordinary to consider, as we sit here at Lympstone overlooking the very parade ground on which we celebrated the summer ball and on which Bertie will pass out in a few months' time, that he will then immediately fly out to a war zone and face an enemy intent on killing him. It seems even more extraordinary to me that, if all goes well, I will be joining him.
Commando Page 10