by Rob Maylor
My marriage was going from bad to worse; we began to fight a lot and were slowly drifting apart. Finally I thought, ‘I’m getting out of here.’ I caught the bus to Liverpool where I walked into the army, navy and air force recruiting office and straight up to the army desk. The staff sergeant asked if I needed any help. A few unrelated thoughts did cross my mind when he said that, but I came back with, ‘I want to join the Parachute Regiment.’
3
Marching In
I chose the Parachute Regiment based totally on a documentary I’d seen in New Zealand in the early 80s that followed a platoon through their recruit training. I’d loved it. But in Liverpool the overweight, lazy-looking staff sergeant was from the King’s Own Regiment–a local regiment from Manchester and Liverpool–and not quite what I’d imagined a soldier to look like. He gave me a few brochures then booked me in for testing.
I was still living with Carla, even though it was a very rocky time. She came to the recruiting office with me to get a family perspective of military life as we thought getting out of Neston might help our relationship. Neston is such a small place where everyone knows your business–it’s rumoursville–and certain elements take great pleasure in talking about people and then throwing in their own twisted fantasies, so by the time a rumour gets back to you it’s 10 times worse. This can really test a weak relationship.
A couple of weeks later I returned to the recruiting office and was shown to a classroom with some other candidates. We were given a pencil, an eraser and finally the entrance test. Once completed you had to undergo an interview to decide what corps or trade you were considered suitable for. Because I didn’t have any school qualifications at all it was quite a nerve-racking time for me. My feelings soon turned from apprehension to relief as I was told I was eligible for the Parachute Regiment. There were a number of other units and regiments included in that list, the Royal Marines among them.
As I sat in the cold corridor waiting for another interview, a Navy chief petty officer who was working from the recruiting office started to chat to me. He asked me what I was looking at joining and then proceeded to poach me to join the Royal Marines. He showed me into a room and played a video of the marines that went for about 20 minutes. It started by saying the Royal Marines were the navy’s amphibious infantry, which sort of put me off as it wasn’t the navy I wanted to join. But by the end of the recruiting video I had eyes the size of dinner plates. I had never seen anything like it before.
I quickly realised that while the marines were part of the navy, they were a separate entity within that organisation. The video showed marines fast roping from helicopters, patrolling in the Falklands and Northern Ireland, in the jungle and skiing on exercise in Norway. They were riding on rigid raiders, which are small, fast-moving watercraft with a flat hull, to tactically insert marines onto a beach or a rocky coastline. Then it showed the marines conducting sniper training and parachuting. These were also my first real images of sniping. In that instant I pushed the idea of joining the paras aside. It was exactly what I saw myself doing. I was totally sold on becoming a Royal Marines commando.
The chief petty officer then saw the army sergeant who was processing me and told him I’d changed my mind. The tubby sergeant wasn’t too happy. ‘What are you doing?’ he said. ‘I’m joining the marines,’ I replied rather proudly. He asked me why and I told him there was more opportunity in the marines. The real difference is that the Royal Marines are a corps that is self-contained. Whether you’re a clerk, a driver or a landing craft operator you all go through the same course. But right then I didn’t realise just how tough that commando course would be. I walked out with a train ticket for 4 March 1992 to attend a three-day potential recruits course (PRC) at Lympstone, the Commando Training Centre (CTC) in Devon.
Lympstone had three training wings covering recruit training, officer training and infantry support training, plus command courses for noncommissioned officers (NCOs) and other specialist courses. The potential recruits course (PRC) was a series of mental and physical tests followed by several interviews from various staff. I had been keeping myself fit but when I was given the date to start the PRC I increased the intensity of my training and also followed a fitness guide from the recruiting office.
At CTC the testing phase started in the gym at 0600 hours. It was a huge complex that housed a large pool, squash courts, weights and cardio gym, and a large wooden-floored open area approximately 45 metres long and 20 metres wide. It was a place I came to fear over the following months.
The experience was quite a shock to the system, the physical training instructors (PTIs) were very overbearing and oozing with confidence, which made us all very nervous. The first test was the US Marine Corps (USMC) test that consisted of 60 press-ups in 2 minutes, 100 sit-ups in 2 minutes, 18 pull-ups and 40 burpees (full body exercises). A few of the lads had to vacate the gym to vomit after the burpees.
At the end of each of these tests we stood to attention and when our names were called we had to shout out our score. ‘Maylor!’, ‘Seventy, staff!’ I shouted. ‘Fuckin’ listen in Lofty, you were told to do 60!’ I was proud of my 70, but I had finished my press-ups well before the 2 minutes was up and kept going.
Almost immediately after the USMC, and still breathing hard, we were lined up outside the gym with a physical training instructor (PTI) barking instructions in his well-practised and high-pitched PTI voice for a timed run. Three miles (4.8 kilometres) in total, we ran the first half as a squad, then the second half as a timed individual best effort around the ring road of the camp.
After getting cleaned up we proceeded to a classroom where we were given a maths and English test. This worried me more than the physical side. The rest of the day consisted of interviews with staff from various branches, such as the medical staff from the sick bay and career advisers. That evening we familiarised ourselves with the rest of the potential recruits, asking questions about backgrounds and family.
Suddenly I was awoken by a strange buzzing noise, then plink, plink, plink the fluorescent bulbs in our room began to warm up. I still hate that sound today. It took me a second or two to realise what was going on as I peeked through my barely open eyes. ‘Get up you lot, you’ve got a big day today, and it starts by cleaning the heads!’ the duty directing staff (DS) asserted. I peered at my watch. ‘Fuckin’ hell! It’s only 5.30 a.m.,’ I whispered. At first I thought my watch was wrong, but then I heard other moans and groans that suggested otherwise. As I got into the combat trousers and jacket that were issued to me the day before I could hear the squeak of footsteps from combat boots as the DS made his way back down the tiled corridor ‘Hurry up, get moving!’ he shouted. ‘Best you start moving your fingers, Lofty, if you want to get to the galley for scran [marine slang for food]! You lads can’t afford to fuck around if you want to join the corps!’ Other motivational one-liners and naval terminology echoed through the concrete building.
At the rush we gathered cleaning stores and began washing down the urinals, toilets and floors of the hoods (ablutions). Once that was complete there were mirrors to clean and copper pipes and taps to polish. This was all inspected by the DS when we were finished. We did this every day we were in barracks.
We all knew how much energy we expended the previous day so we tucked into the scran that was on offer in the galley. Not a good idea! Soon after we had eaten we were herded into the back of a Bedford 4-tonne truck that was bitterly cold and driven up to Woodbury Common where we were met by the PTIs. They took us through a few warm-ups which resembled a physical training (PT) session in itself, and then ran us around the endurance course through bogs, tunnels and streams. It wasn’t long before I passed several lads who were bent over on an uphill stage staring at their breakfasts for the second time. The physical challenges continued throughout the day and the following morning, but by this stage some of the lads were starting to doubt their performance and were looking quite weary.
The PRC was hard going but
I was quietly confident that I had performed well. And when the news came, some lads weren’t so lucky, they were either told to improve in certain areas and to retry in three to six months, or were just bluntly told they were unsuitable. I was rewarded with a date to start training at the end of that month along with a handful of others from the same PRC. We couldn’t stop talking about what we were going to do once in the marines and what commando unit we wanted to go to.
It seemed an age before 30 March came around, but nervously I met some of the other lads once again at Liverpool Lime Street station. Once on the train heading south reality hit home and we all began to feel very apprehensive about what was to come. Of course no-one would let on, but the tone of the conversation and the way we were all fidgeting made it very noticeable.
The Royal Marines’ basic training is the longest of any NATO combat troops–30 weeks–so we had a right to be nervous. In fact, some say it’s the toughest in the world. It now takes 32 weeks to become a Royal Marine commando as they include Viking armoured vehicle training in preparation for operations in Afghanistan.
We were met at Lympstone station by one of the induction corporals in uniform, who instantly got stuck into us about being ‘civvy twats’ and to hurry up and get into ‘fuckin’ single file’. ‘What the hell is single file?’ I thought, then some more of the switched on ‘civvy twats’ started to form a line. I followed suit feeling rather disorientated and wondering what I had got myself into.
We were marched up the hill past the bottom field where the 30-foot (9-metre) rope tower, regain ropes and assault course were situated. It made me feel sick in the gut as it had pain written all over it; we’d already had a taste during the PRC. Then up the gentle slope of the main street of the camp were accommodation blocks, or ‘grots’, as they were called, offices, shops and the induction training wing, our home for the next two weeks.
First impression of the camp was of a low-security prison. It was surrounded by a tall wire fence curved at the top away from the camp with three to four strands of barbed wire running horizontally along the top of it. I wasn’t sure at that stage whether it was to keep us in or unwanted guests out.
The camp was orientated east–west and the railway line ran north–south at the back of the camp. On the opposite side of the track was an estuary that was tidal from the English Channel and also fed from the River Exe to the north. We became very familiar with the thick, deep sludge they called mud in the coming months.
During the following couple of days they assembled us into our training troop, which was designated 637 Troop. We were 28 strong. However, over the course of the next seven months the troop numbers changed significantly, mostly due to injuries. During the first few days we were issued uniforms and field equipment and given lessons on how to prepare and care for this kit. Some very late nights ensued–cleaning gear, washing clothes by hand and then ironing them to a very high standard. The creases on your trousers, shirts and PT shorts had to be razor sharp. This at first seemed impossible to achieve, as I had never touched an iron in my life before. But there and then the standard was set; if your kit wasn’t up to scratch then you could stand by for an absolute physical beasting–an extra physical training activity used as punishment to instil discipline and team building. So I struggled with the iron for ages, only to produce ‘tramlines’ instead of the single crease. But after a while I mastered it. Working together and helping each other out was very high on the marine’s ethical list; failure to do so resulted in another beasting for the whole troop. Emphasis was also placed on personal hygiene to avoid passing on sickness, to keep fit and healthy in the field and removing some of the nasty smells a body can develop after physical exercise or living in the field.
We wore bright orange tabs on our epaulettes to indicate to the Lympstone staff what stage we were at in training. This was something of a lifeline against military discipline, since it was accepted that recruits in those early stages would make small mistakes. For example: forgetting to march around the area, leaving your beret in your pocket after leaving a building, and of course the most common offence of all, forgetting to salute an officer. We were called ‘lumi nods’: ‘lumi’ due to the orange tabs and ‘nods’ because recruits nodded off to sleep during lessons, particularly after lunch, due to the long hours and strenuous physical activities. The learning curve was steep and friendships were forged.
At the end of the two weeks our fitness training was in full swing: we had started with basic circuit training in the open gym concentrating on cardio and coordination. We were becoming more familiar with the corps and its history and discipline, how to launder our uniforms correctly to that all-important standard, how to march, and most importantly, who and how to salute. Not saluting an officer resulted in a horrific ‘face ripping’, which is a total invasion of one’s facial space by the offended officer who ‘inadvertently’ spat all over you amid his outpouring of verbal abuse. He would then report you to your training staff, who also spat all over you during their verbal barrage.
I have never been keen on soldiers saluting officers. I think many of them use it as a tool to fuel egos and to make them feel superior to the rest of the human race. I definitely think there is a time and a place for it but it shouldn’t be abused. Traditionally, to salute an officer was to show that the soldier was not carrying a weapon, it was also an acknowledgement of the commission they carry from their respective commanders-in-chief, not the officer themselves; in practice, I always felt it was respect for the individual, and that respect had to be earned.
After the two-week induction phase we moved into our new troop accommodation where we were to spend the next 28 weeks. We met our new troop DS or staff as they were called. Some were Falklands War vets and more recently had seen active service in the first Gulf War. All had completed tours of Northern Ireland, some more than others. I had great respect for these guys.
We all felt as proud as punch when they told us to take those ridiculous lumi tabs off and start acting like soldiers. We were now just called ‘nods’ and now the hard work really began.
We started to learn about the various weapons the corps had and how to use them. Our personal weapon was the SA80 rifle made by Enfield, which we kept throughout our time at Lympstone. I thought it was an unusual design but very capable of carrying out what it was built for. It is a gas-operated 5.56 mm semi-automatic assault rifle. The size of its barrel bore is 5.56 mm; the projectile is slightly larger than the size of the bore in order to form a gas-tight seal. When a round is fired it produces a lot of gas due to rapid combustion of the propellant inside the cartridge case. This gas forces the projectile down and out of the barrel; some of the gas is diverted within the rifle back towards the bolt and internal working parts. This gas then forces these internal organs rearwards, which re-cocks the trigger mechanism. A return spring that has been compressed then pushes these parts forward to pick up another round from the magazine and guide it into the chamber. The bolt is locked in place and the weapon is ready to be fired again. Just pull the trigger, and the process starts again.
Gruesome Twosome, our second field exercise, came around all too quickly. This was conducted on Woodbury Common, the marines’ 2,500-acre field training area. Woodbury Common is rolling countryside mostly covered in gorse bush, a spiny shrub that can grow up to 2–3 metres tall. It also has plenty of vegetated areas and open ground that is shared by the general public. All cuts and scratches had to be disinfected at the earliest opportunity as the ‘Woodbury rash’ would lead to infection. Apparently there was a chemical in the ground left over from World War II. Once there, the DS took off their usual angry heads and replaced them with even angrier ones, and over the following four days we got absolutely hammered.
Gruesome Twosome served several purposes: it gave the DS a good idea of what we were all made of, and it gave the blokes who really didn’t want to be there the opportunity to part from the corps and go back to civilian life. They physically challenged us at e
very opportunity. They would conduct spot kit inspections for the whole troop and throw dirty items into the bushes while giving some poor sod a face ripping. Individuals were never punished, it was always the whole troop that would suffer a random physical exercise. If the DS couldn’t think of a new one, off-hand press-ups was always a favourite. Everything we had learnt so far was driven home by exhausting physical exercise incorporating a particular activity.
One night they led the troop into a false sense of security, and told us to get some rest as we would need it for the following day. This exercise was the first time many had slept out in the open for more than one night, and was the first step in teaching the marine to look after himself and his equipment in the field. The training team also hammered home the importance of personal admin and the ‘buddy-buddy’ system of working together. We all slept–we had just fucked up! We forgot to place sentries on our night harbour position, and very early that morning we were woken by a torrent of pyrotechnics to simulate being mortared, followed by the deafening crack of blank small arms ammunition. During the pauses the instructors were shouting orders and dragging recruits out of their sleeping bags.
As we bugged out from our compromised harbour position, some of us realised that in the confusion a few blokes had left items lying on the ground, like sleeping bags and webbing, which contained important items like ammunition and water. Unfortunately, no-one saw the rifle that was left behind by a stunned recruit.
We all suffered immensely for the next four hours. They made us sprint up and down hills with packs on and packs off; we leopard crawled everywhere once again with packs on and packs off; we practised fire and movement, packs on, packs off; all pretty hard for the lad who didn’t have a weapon.
It was light when that punishment finished and they ran us back to our ‘compromised harbour position’ to look for items left behind. The lad without the rifle was in a state of panic. We searched the area for a good 20 minutes. We found tent pegs, a roll mat (a thin foam sleeping mat used to insulate you from the ground), a poncho, and other small items, but no SA80.