Commando

by Chris Terrill

  4 September

  The two-week summer break is over and the recruits have managed to drag themselves back to Lympstone for training, but Orlando is fully expecting they will be less than happy to be back.

  'They'll all be suffering the "Lympstone blues" right now.' He smiles. 'Everybody gets it and it normally comes on as soon as they see the barbed-wire entrance. Some of them will probably try to resign this week but I won't let them. I will tell them to wait a week and see if they change their minds.'

  Sure enough, as soon as I walk into Terry John's grot I find everyone discussing how awful it is to be back.

  'I really don't want to be here, Chris,' admits Jordan Slatter. 'I had such a great time at home. Not a corporal in sight and lots of Mum's cooking.'

  'It's just the Lympstone blues, Jordan,' I say sympathetically.

  'Yeah, I know.' He sighs. 'But it ain't nice. Wanted to jump off the top of the building earlier and then I got myself together and felt better but promptly bumped into Terry who says he's going to leave.'

  'What's that, Terry?' I turn to the young St Vincentian who is silently ironing his bedspread.

  'Yes,' he says quietly. 'I think I want to leave again. I have written a letter of resignation.'

  'What does it say?' I ask.

  He reaches into his cupboard and takes out a white envelope. He pulls out his letter and reads it out loud. '"Dear Sir, I would respectfully like to withdraw from my duties as I have serious doubts about continuing my training. I do not feel I am mentally able to become a Royal Marine. Yours sincerely, Culdrick Terence John, P064955B.'"

  'Mate,' says Scott Redfern from the other side of the room, 'don't hand that in. It's the easy way out. I feel just like you but I know things will change.'

  'Terry,' says Theo Browne, his friend from St Vincent. 'You've felt like this before. Just give it a bit of time and get used to being back here.'

  'Yeah, Terry,' pipes up Jordan. 'Scott and Theo are right. Wait till Gym Pass-out and then see how you feel – that's the most important thing for you to concentrate on now. It's only a few days away.'

  Terry purses his lips, puts the letter back in the envelope and returns to his ironing.

  5 September

  Terry remains troubled. He has decided to go and see Dave Deveney, one of the padres on the base, to talk through his dilemmas. Dave, though a Royal Marines chaplain, was formerly a Royal Marines Commando himself who saw active service during the Falklands War. He well understands the mindset of the marine as well as the recruit.

  'Sit down, Recruit John,' says Dave gently in a soft Scottish lilt.

  'Thank you,' says Terry quietly.

  'Just relax,' says Dave with a smile. 'You can tell me anything you want and it is quite confidential. I won't suddenly go running to your company commander saying, "Guess what Recruit John told me." OK?'

  Terry nods.

  'Right then. Over to you. I take it you are having problems with training?'

  'I am. My head is just busting right now,' says Terry, putting his head in his hands. 'I want the Green Beret but sometimes I question if this is really what I want to do.'

  'That's not unusual. Many lads question what they're doing, especially after nine or ten weeks when they still see another twenty weeks to go. But it's a bit like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? on the TV. It seems like there's loads of little questions till the contestant gets to the magic million mark, but actually every question answered right is a massive step forward, isn't it? It doubles the money. That's like training. Every week and extra test you pass you are doubling your knowledge and your chances of having a crack at the big one – the Green Beret.'

  'It's the Green Beret that's been driving me forward,' says Terry, his head still cradled in his hands. 'But then sometimes I think about being injured. Supposing I get my Green Beret and then go to Afghanistan and get seriously wounded. What will I do then?'

  'Well, on that subject you need to gain some perspective,' says Dave, a front-line veteran. 'The fact is there is more chance of you being knocked over and killed on Exmouth High Street than being killed in Iraq or Afghanistan. You can't go through life thinking that way or you'll never do anything.'

  Terry says nothing but listens.

  'It's your choice as to whether you stay with us or go. I am always here for you to talk to but in the end it is up to you what you do. The trainers and instructors can help you get fit and understand tactics but what really matters is what's in your head and your heart. That's down to you. But let me ask you a question. If I were to phone your troop commander now and ask him what your chances are of passing out with a Green Beret, what do you think he would tell me?'

  'He would say I could pass out,' says Terry without hesitation. 'I know he would.'

  'Well, you need to think about that, don't you? To have won the confidence of your troop commander as well as the rest of the training team counts for something, doesn't it?'

  Terry nods but is clearly at odds with himself. I feel so sorry for him because his spirits have been alternately soaring and plummeting since the day he arrived at Lympstone. He is such a favourite with his troop and, ironically, a huge boost to the collective morale because of his outward cheerfulness and friendliness. It is his own morale that he finds so difficult to sustain at times. After his chat with Dave Deveney I walk back to the accommodation block with him.

  'Has that helped, Terry?' I ask him.

  'Yes,' he says. 'It's good to talk to someone like that. He talked good sense but my head's all in a spin.'

  'I reckon you need to step back from the whole thing and stop agonising so much,' I say. 'You're always worrying about something and you forget to enjoy things. Think about the good things here rather than just the things that upset you.'

  'Actually I was thinking how sad I would be if I left and didn't see the lads in 924 Troop any more – I would hate that.'

  'And so would they, Terry,' I say truthfully.

  Poor Terry. His concerns are very real ones but I also know how important it is to him to succeed here if he can. He dreams of returning to his mother's house in St Vincent wearing his Green Beret so is being pulled in different directions inside his own head, but as Dave Deveney said, only he can decide which way to go. It must be making it so hard for him to concentrate on day-to-day training because there are constant new challenges for him and the whole troop to contend with and these are not challenges that can be approached half-heartedly.

  Indeed, the most immediate challenge this week is the make-or-break Gym Pass-out, something everyone has to pass to be allowed to progress to the Bottom Field assault course – including me if I am to stay on course for the final commando tests. I will have to film the recruits attempting their Gym Pass-out tests so it has been arranged that I will do my pass-out separately the day after in front of Captain Sean Lerwill, the head of physical training. There is still a concern about allowing me to proceed with commando training if I am not fit or robust enough to handle the impact, stress and strain of it. They are watching me very carefully at the moment and already know that I have been having a bit of a drama with the ropes.

  Having said that, I have been climbing much better recently. Thanks to some continued coaching from Dave and Jon, as well as Giles back in London, I am beginning to climb more with my legs than my arms. I know I will never climb like the PTIs who simply seem to defy gravity, but if I can get my mind in the 'zone', as they say, I think I can give it a good crack. I'm not worried about the other parts of the test. I can do pull-ups, sit-ups and press-ups all day – it's just the ropes with which I still need to impress.

  8 September

  The troop line up in the sports hall for the last part of their Gym Pass-out. Two days ago, three people failed either on the Vo2 bleep test or on the pull-up test. One of those was Theo Browne – Terry's friend from St Vincent. Today it's the rope test.

  The supervising PTI calls the recruits to attention and then, divided into four sections, they begin t
o climb in four ranks per section. They have to climb three times each but on the first climb they have to stop halfway up, grip with feet and knees and take their hands off the rope and hold them out sideways before resuming the climb to the top. Some shoot up the ropes without effort. Others struggle but make it. A few struggle and fail. Terry, I notice, climbs with ease so he has got through his Gym Pass-out but I wonder what turmoil might still be raging in his mind. To my dismay I see that Jordan Slatter doesn't manage to get to the top on his third rope climb. He fails by only one foot but it's a fail nonetheless, so that will be the end of him in 924 Troop.

  In all, eight people fail Gym Pass-out. They won't have to leave training altogether but will be backtrooped, spending some time doing remedial training in Hunter Company. (This is an organisation that not only helps recruits who have failed criteria tests, but also rehabilitates injured recruits with a regime that is coordinated by doctors, physiotherapists and remedial instructors.) They will then rejoin mainstream training but in a more junior troop. Nobody likes being backtrooped. This is not only because it means extending the overall length of training but also because it means leaving one's original troop and the friendships that have been forged over many weeks.

  Back in the accommodation block Jordan is inconsolable and in tears. His childhood dream of being a Royal Marine appears to be in tatters but Jim Glanfield, his section leader, is quick to put his failure into context.

  'Slatter,' he says, 'I know it hurts right now but you are a good recruit and I have no doubt you will get your Green Beret. It won't be with 924 Troop but that does not change the fact that, I believe, you will ultimately succeed.'

  Jordan listens intently but his eyes are still streaming.

  'You now have to show real grit, Slatter,' says Jim. 'Do not wrap! You must not wrap whatever you do. OK?'

  'Yes, Corporal!' says Jordan with a quivering smile.

  My fear now is that Terry, seeing his close friends Theo Browne and Jordan being ejected from the troop, will do exactly what Jim Glanfield has been urging Jordan not to do – wrap! But to my surprise I find him not only cheerful but, once again, committed to continuing with his training.

  'Yes, I'm OK again,' he says with a laugh. 'I go up and down, don't I?'

  'Like a bloody yo-yo,' I say.

  'It's so hard sometimes. I hit these barriers and then I get through them somehow. Right now I just want to put my head down and crack the Bottom Field assault course. I am going to take every day at a time and stop worrying about the future so much.'

  9 September

  It is my turn to face the rigours of Gym Pass-out. My press-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups and bleep-test runs have never posed a problem so it is decided that I just need to show that I am capable on the ropes. Captain Sean Lerwill is the person I have to impress because, as head of physical training, he will have ultimate responsibility for my safety and welfare.

  'Commando training can be bloody dangerous, Chris,' he tells me as I warm up and stretch my muscles. 'You need to show me that you are comfortable on the ropes in here before I let you out on the assault course.'

  'I know,' I say. 'There are more ropes to climb out there, aren't there?'

  'Yes. Just as high but often wet and slippery. And eventually you will have to climb them in fighting order, that is webbing and a weapon weighing over thirty pounds. You have to remember that the whole Bottom Field assault course, and the aerial Tarzan course, requires not only physical ability but also great confidence. Lack of confidence means you may not give it everything you have and that could be dangerous. Hold back on some of those obstacles and you could do yourself serious injuries.'

  I nod my understanding.

  'OK, to the rope!' shouts the PTI officer.

  I step up to one of the thirty-foot ropes and look up at the distant ceiling to which I will now have to climb – three times in succession. I am confident I can do two of the climbs but I am extremely nervous about the third and final one. I feel butterflies well up in my stomach and I swallow hard. The next few minutes will determine whether I will be allowed to proceed with my bid for the famous Green Beret.

  'To the top. Climb!'

  I reach up as high as I can and grasp the rope with both hands. I take a deep breath, pull myself up, find the rope with my feet and kick out. I complete three shifts and then stop to perform the tricky manoeuvre of locking myself on to the rope with my feet before holding my arms out sideways. I hold that position for a few seconds and then, on another order from Sean, continue to climb. Three more shifts and I am at the top of the rope.

  'Under control. Come down.'

  I lower myself down hand over hand till I reach the floor where I wait for the order to climb again.

  'Stand by,' says Sean Lerwill after about a minute. 'To the top. Climb!'

  Once again I pull with my arms, curl with my abdomen and push with my legs. I reach halfway smoothly and quickly but then I feel the strain beginning to tell. The curls become looser and the kicks become weaker. Reverting to bicep power I manage to scale the rope but, as I reach the ceiling, I realise I have expended vital energy and sapped crucial strength. I wonder what I have left for the all-important third climb. I lower myself to the ground and while I await the final order to climb I rotate my arms forwards and backwards in an attempt to pump blood and oxygen back into the strained sinews. My stomach muscles ache like they have been pummelled by 'Hit Man' Hatton for a couple of rounds and my legs feel as heavy as tree trunks.

  'To the top. Climb!'

  For the third and last time I launch myself up the rope. I shut my eyes and concentrate, partly on my technique but mostly on overcoming the mounting pain and oxygen deficit in my muscles as well as the gravity that is pulling at my body with increasing vengeance. I pull, I kick, I pull, I kick, I pull, I kick. I reach halfway but each shift is now winning me inches rather than feet. I fear I cannot make it and stop – hanging motionless on outstretched arms.

  'Keep moving, Chris,' says Sean. 'Just hanging there will still use energy. You may as well use it to climb.'

  Suddenly, I am filled with a surge of frustrated anger at my own weakness of mind. I have no more than seven feet to go. Seven feet! I grit my teeth so hard that it hurts but I kick out once more and win myself another foot of height. I do it again and again and again. Each kick is weaker than the last but finally I have but a foot to go. I stare unblinkingly at the leather binding that marks the top of the rope and then gradually, agonisingly, inch my hands towards it. Finally my palms feels the leather's smoothness and I gasp a breath of delighted relief. I have done it. I have conquered the ropes. I have attained my Gym Pass-out.

  'Under control. Come down.'

  I descend but only just in control. I have nothing left in my arms and little left in my legs. I know that the Bottom Field assault course will give me even greater problems but I'm not going to worry about that right now. The main thing is I have cleared the first hurdle on the way to the Green Beret. And if that is as far as I ever get so be it but, to mix my sporting metaphors, at least I will not have scored a duck.

  'Well done, Chris,' says Sean. 'You struggled on the last one but you made it. I'll let you proceed to the Bottom Field but be sensible down there. It's not for the faint-hearted.'

  Half an hour later I collapse onto my bed hurting but happy. It will be a few weeks before we start training on the Bottom Field so I have some time to recover and gain strength for the fresh challenges it will present. Before that, however, we will all have to face the very different sort of trial presented by our introduction to speed marching – one of the most fundamental techniques that has to be mastered by front-line commandos. That will follow 924 Troop's next field exercise, Hunter's Moon, which will represent a considerable step forward in the survival stakes.

  11 September

  I join 924 Troop on the playing fields just outside the commando training centre to board a Merlin helicopter. The large single rotor aircraft is going to transport us in two
loads to the middle of Dartmoor where we will start five full days in the field learning advanced survival techniques.

  I travel in the first load. The powerful Merlin flies us low over the fields and forests towards the wide expanse of Dartmoor, the savagely beautiful yet treacherous landscape that Bootnecks have trained on for generations – and which, because of the similarity of geology, topography and vegetation, set them in such good stead for the vital part they played in the Falklands War in 1982.

  Once the Merlin has delivered the entire troop to a prearranged triangulation point we start towards our first shelter, from which we are going to practise navigation for the first two days and nights. It is still early autumn but the weather on Dartmoor has a mind of its own and has clearly decided it wants to be winter at the moment. It is freezing cold, wet and windy.

  For forty-eight hours we suffer all that Dartmoor and its torrid microclimate has to throw at us. We practise various navigational techniques in the thick, saturated mists that cover the ground by day and also the desolate gloom of the wind-driven nights. Few of us manage more than a few hours of fitful sleep the whole time we are there and all we have to eat are our less than appealing military rations.

  13 September

  We depart by foot for a second location where we are told enticingly by the training team that a memorable meal awaits us. But first we face a ten-mile yomp over undulating, marshy terrain carrying full bergens. Orlando sets the pace.

  This is a hard and exhausting landscape to traverse by foot, especially carrying weight, but we all realise that this is something we have to face if we make it through to the last of the commando tests around nineteen weeks from now. Then, however, we will not be walking over ten miles but running over thirty!

  At the top of a granite tor Orlando stops and gathers us round.

  'Yomping is what Royal Marines do best,' he says proudly. 'It is something we have done for hundreds of years and we win wars doing it. Time and time again we prove the importance of being able to cover distances by foot over difficult ground carrying heavy loads. In the Falklands we did it all the way from San Carlos Water to Port Stanley, that was ninety miles in three days, which the Argentinians thought was impossible. We did it again in Afghanistan when we yomped into the mountains carrying heavy machine guns and ammunition on our backs. Some people say there is no point in yomping these days because of modern transport but as sure as eggs is eggs helicopters will go down and half-tracks will break. Bootnecks on two legs just go on and on. Right, fellas, let's crack on.'