‘All right?’ she said to me, her eyes barely shifting in my direction.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘How you doing?’
‘Great, yeah,’ she said, before turning away to deal with our drink.
‘She’s going out with a copper,’ Terry whispered.
A few nights later, Terry and I were in a pub called The Toad. It was during Euro 2004 and we were waiting to watch England–Croatia. And there was Emilie, sitting among her girlfriends, in a yellow and white flower-print dress. I found myself just gazing stupidly at her. To my amazement she turned and beamed back at me, budging up on the bench so I could sit.
‘How you been?’ I said.
And, just like that, we were talking. And we didn’t stop. The game that I’d been looking forward to watching all week became just a smear of background noise. I felt complete, somehow, as if in Emilie I was seeing all the beauty I’d ever need to see.
At one point in the evening I asked her, ‘What do you want out of life?’
She smiled again and said, ‘I just want to have fun, really.’
There was something about the way she said the word ‘fun’ that gave me a suspicion she might like me. Still, she had a boyfriend, and that boyfriend was a policeman. I forced myself to say my goodbyes and went on my way. I had to meet a man about a passport.
I tried to forget her, I really did. But I didn’t do a very good job. About a week later I was up to my arse in grease, working for cash in my mate’s car workshop, when my Nokia buzzed. It was Emilie, a text message. REALLY GOOD TO CHAT THE OTHER NIGHT. NOW YOU HAVE MY NUMBER. Because my phone had no credit, I couldn’t reply. But when I did finally call her, two days later, she told me that about half an hour after I’d left her the other night, she’d called up her boyfriend and told him it was over.
I suggested a date at a pretty village pub in Danbury called The Anchor. I picked her up in a ‘borrowed’ – a customer’s silver Peugeot 206 from the workshop I’d been working in. Once again, we chatted all night. I was desperate not to mess this up, so decided to be upfront about all the reasons why she might decide I was a bad bet. There was a lot to say. I told her about the army. I told her about my first marriage. I told her about the police being after me. I told her about my plan with the fake passport and my escape to Australia. She listened, never seeming to judge, but never quite giving away what she thought. When we walked to the car, under the moonlight, she thanked me for dinner.
‘You know what I think?’ she said, leaning against the passenger door. ‘You should go to the police. Hand yourself in.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’m looking at eight years.’
‘But you’re innocent. And if they convict you, I’ll wait. I want to be with you.’
‘You wouldn’t wait eight years,’ I said.
‘I know this sounds cheesy,’ she said, ‘but I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. The first time I saw you at the pub I told my best mate, “I love that guy.” I can’t actually believe I’m here with you.’
It was hard to take in what she was saying. Love? I felt like I was being offered the most incredible gift, but also the knowledge that I could never really have it – at least not if I went to the police.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you a passport too. We can both go. It’ll be fun.’
‘Look how successful you were,’ she said. ‘You were a paratrooper, Ant. And look at you now. Do you remember, when we first met you asked me what I wanted? Well, what do you want? Don’t you want to get the old Anthony back? That young lad you were telling me about. He seemed like a decent guy.’
‘What am I supposed to do? I’m never going back to the army.’
‘Is that the only choice?’
‘Well, there is something else I’ve been thinking about, but …’
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s the Royal Marines. But …’
And I couldn’t say anything else, because she’d pulled me to her body and was kissing me.
The next day, at Chelmsford Police Station, I was charged with grievous bodily harm with intent, which is one down from manslaughter. The investigators seemed genuinely convinced I was guilty, and for that I can’t really blame them. When you considered my reputation and the circumstantial evidence, which even I could see looked pretty bad, I’d have probably wanted to lock me up too.
On the day of the trial my accuser made two critical misjudgements. His first was climbing into the witness box caked in cheap foundation, his second was forgetting to charge up his brain cell before he came to court. My brilliant solicitor began her cross-examination by casually asking if his make-up might be disguising a black eye.
‘Er, yep,’ he said.
‘And how did you get this black eye?’
‘It was a fight. It wasn’t nothing to do with me.’
‘So why did you consider it necessary to cover it up?’
He grinned stupidly. ‘It’s not good for court, is it, a black eye?’
‘So would it be fair to say that it was your intention to mislead the jury?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
And that was it. It was his word against mine, and his word had just been proven in a court of law to be shit.
Case dismissed.
There were two different kinds of people on the train that pulled out of Exeter St Davids at 8.30 on that bright morning in March 2005: your ordinary commuters, zoned out in preparation for another dull day in the office, and the young men, pale and terrified and smartly dressed, with one-way tickets in their pockets. These lads would be getting off at Lympstone Commando, the station in the middle of nowhere that serves just one place: the legendary Royal Marines Commando Training Centre in Devon.
There were about thirty of us that tipped out onto the narrow concrete platform that day, wearing the suits we’d been instructed to arrive in. As the doors beeped and closed and the train eased off, we were hit by the cold wind coming off the bleak, muddy sands of the River Exe that stretched into the distance. In front of us were a high fence, a locked gate and a drill instructor.
‘Intake 898!’ he barked. ‘Single file! Follow me!’
He marched us through the gate and up a long path that wound up a steep hill towards the barracks. We strode past a gigantic assault course through which a group of new recruits were grunting and gurning, their faces muddy, their breath rising in ghostly billows. I passed them hungry with anticipation, noting to myself once more how lucky I was to be there.
Justice had been done back in Chelmsford, but there was no way I was going to be complacent. I knew Emilie was right. I had to change. I had to take on my demons or I was going to end up in prison, no doubt about it. Leaving Essex would be a start. I used to see old guys in their fifties out there who were still fighting, and I knew that would be my fate if I didn’t do something drastic. This meant finding a place that would pull something different out of me. It also meant making the most of this run of luck: things were going well with my relationship with Emilie, I was off the steroids and I’d also put my uncles and aunties at a distance, not because I didn’t love them, but just because I was finding all the constant talk about my dad just too intense. The Royal Marines would be a new start. I felt both lucky and privileged to be able to make it.
It didn’t take long for me to realise that I had found exactly the right place. Our new intake were returning to our accommodation after lunch when the drill sergeant came out into the corridor and called for me.
‘Middleton!’ he said.
I approached him with my heart sinking. How had I highlighted myself already? Was this going to be a repeat of Pre-Para?
‘Yes, Sergeant?’ I asked.
‘You were in the army, were you not?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I said.
‘P Company?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Well, make sure you get your wings sewn onto your uniform.’
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‘Yes, Sergeant.’
It was, no doubt, an insignificant moment to my drill sergeant. To me it was everything. That little gesture of respect showed me that, unlike the army, the Royal Marines didn’t respond to individual achievement with envy. They welcomed it. I wasn’t going to be kicked into a ditch at Lympstone for the crime of coming first. Any strength they saw in you, they’d nurture. Although there were some guys in our intake who were edging thirty, most were nineteen or twenty. I was twenty-four, and having my wings stitched onto my kit earned me everyone’s respect.
Trainees on the thirty-two-week course are known as ‘nods’, because they’re run ragged and then pulled into class for lessons, during which it’s not unusual to see them nodding off. The very newest intake wore orange ribbons to denote their status. I lost count of the number of double-takes I saw, from people clocking my orange ribbon and then the wings on my shoulder. It was a fantastic feeling, and couldn’t have been more different from my time as a hated craphat.
I’d retained most of the weight I’d put on over the many hundreds of hours I’d put in at the gym, and I found the physical training to be punishing but fun. We were doing ten-mile marches with heavy weights, assault courses, rope climbs. The big revelation came in the classroom. In the Paras we’d only been taught dribs and drabs of fieldcraft, but the Commando course was another world. It was like going from kindergarten to Cambridge University. We were learning pure soldiering: battlefield patrolling, live firing, survival techniques, troop attacks, section attacks, map reading, judging distance. I’d had no idea how little I’d known when I was at Aldershot. I could run twenty miles back then, and down a pint and throw a punch, and that was it. I was becoming a true soldier and I was loving every minute of it.
On week fifteen us nods were finally allowed out for a drink, strictly between the hours of 18:00 and 23:00. I’d made friends with this big South African guy named Daniel, and we decided to get the train down to Exeter for our first beers in months. We had a brilliant evening, during which I told him all about Emilie, Oakley and my misadventures with 9 Para. We were walking back to Exeter St Davids when this guy, rushing for the train, barged past us, knocking me on the shoulder.
It took a fraction of a second, probably less. The switch switched. My fist went out and he was on the ground, mouth open, eyes gaping, not a muscle moving. The next thing I knew I was handcuffed and being bundled into the back of a police van. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. This was it. ‘I’ve lost my career,’ I thought, as the van door slammed shut, leaving me in the unforgiving steel darkness. Somehow I was going to have to tell Emilie that, after all the faith she’d put in me, I was going to have to get my job back at the garage in Chelmsford.
When the police officers realised I was a new recruit they had me driven back to Lympstone for my superiors to deal with. The next morning I was pulled in to see the troop commander, an old-school type who’d worked his way up the ranks over the course of twenty years. He was a rangy man with dark eyes and a thick vein running down his forehead, and was sitting at his desk with a pile of forms and files in front of him.
‘Middleton,’ he said. ‘I can’t have my men assaulting people in the streets. No ifs nor buts nor maybes. I just can’t allow that to happen, it’s as simple as that. If you can’t control yourself, you have no place here. We don’t want men who are unpredictable. We’ve no use for them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘So if you don’t want to end up in civvies, I suggest you get that head screwed on. Do you understand? I expect a man with your background to be setting an example.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
He spoke slowly and looked me in the eye. ‘Be a shepherd, not a fucking sheep.’
I hadn’t felt this way since I was five years old, when Dad had forgiven me for kicking Simon down the stairs. From that point on I became resolute. That was it. Never again. I made an absolute vow to try to be deserving of the respect that the Royal Marines were giving me. That would mean fighting my demons. We all have dark forces living within us. They’re part of being human. But they feed on damage. The more pain and injustice we go through in life, the stronger our demons become. Mine had been with me since I was five, but it had taken that pile-up of failures and the meeting with my dad’s family to draw them out. And how low they’d taken me. Nearly to prison, and to a life of shame and blood.
I couldn’t let them win anymore. I’d rein in the drinking. And I’d begin using every spare moment seeing Emilie. If I was given twelve hours off, I’d take the four-hour train service to Chelmsford, spend three hours with her, and return. After a few weeks of this my confidence began to blossom. I’d never felt more at home, or more accepted, just for being who I wanted to be.
The difference was stark. Every tribe has its own internal rules. In 9 Para you gained status by showing how many pints you could drink, how many fights you could get into and how much shock you could inspire in everyone at the next horrendous act you dreamt up. In the Marines you gained status through hard work. In 9 Para, and the wider green army, they were always pushing at your weaknesses and trying to bring you back down. The Marines were about building on your strengths, talking positively about each other, building each other up. The typical conversations you’d overhear around Lympstone would be like, ‘He might be weak at this but he’s fucking good at that.’ I’d found my tribe, and I was thriving.
Around halfway through my Commando training a sniper course began. I was standing at the armoury on the first day when I became aware of an electric charge of excitement crackling through the air. Out of the door in front of us came a huge, broad-shouldered man wearing a green beret with a distinctive emblem that showed a raised dagger and two horizontal stripes, adorned with the motto BY STRENGTH AND GUILE. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. None of us could. This was a member of Special Boat Service. The SBS is to the Royal Marines what the SAS is to the army – its most elite fighting force.
We pinned ourselves to the wall, as if the sheer power of his presence might be enough to knock us all over. We were utterly silent in respect and watched as he stopped to make sure his weapon was clear. When he’d gone, the whispers started. All I could hear was, ‘SBS, SBS, did you fucking see fucking SBfuckinS?’
One of the lads said, ‘Did you hear about that experiment they did? They took, like, ten Marines who’d only just passed out and put them straight into Special Forces Selection, just to see what would happen.’
‘And what happened?’ I asked him. ‘Don’t tell me, they all fucking died.’
‘One of them passed,’ he said.
‘You’re shitting me?’
‘No, he did,’ he said. ‘Just one. That’s what I heard.’
That morning passed as if in a dream. How did you get to be that SBS guy we’d seen, who had the power to make tough young men fall silent and trained killers cling to the walls? How was it possible? Could I do it? If one newly minted Marine had passed Special Forces Selection on one occasion, then why couldn’t I?
I completed my Commando course in December 2005 and proposed to Emilie over the Christmas break with a diamond ring from Hatton Garden. When I formally passed out, in January 2006, I was honoured to be awarded the King’s Badge award for best recruit, which I’d wear on my left shoulder for the rest of my career. I was posted to Bravo Company, 40 Commando in Taunton, and Emilie and I were moved into married quarters, a smart house two miles from the barracks. We said our vows on 3 May 2006. Sixteen months later I was cutting the umbilical cord of my first daughter, Shyla. I had everything I’d ever wanted: my dagger and my wings, my maroon beret and now my green beret. I also had a beautiful wife and an amazing baby daughter. Then, just ten days after she came into my life, the prediction that nameless Para made in Macedonia when we’d all crowded around that tiny portable television came true. It had all kicked off, and I was posted to Afghanistan.
My tour of Afghanistan with the Royal Marines was when I realise
d that the key to leadership lies not just in beating your demons. That’s just the start of it. In order to have the edge and strength that a leader needs, you’ve got to make friends with them too. Lots of people deny their demons. They float through life believing that they’re lovely and gentle and wouldn’t harm a fly and, when they inevitably do harm that fly, they try to shift responsibility and blame other people. These men and women are not leaders. These are not the people you want guiding you out of that foxhole and through that storm of bullets. If I hadn’t understood that, I’d never have made it to the SBS, with whom I served two further tours of Afghanistan.
In the Royal Marines the rules of engagement were strict. We were only allowed to fire our weapons if we were being fired at. This meant that if a man in a field pointed his weapon at us, fired a couple of rounds in our direction, then put his weapon down, we weren’t allowed to shoot. If we did, we’d be looking at a court martial and perhaps a prison sentence for murder. It wasn’t unusual for men to receive fire from Taliban who’d then simply drop their gun, run to the other side of the field and pick up a rake. There was nothing we could do, and they knew it.
The first time I killed a man it was an ambiguous situation. I’d entered a Taliban compound and a darkened room that was part of it. Out of the shadows came a man in a white dish-dash. He turned towards me and pulled an AK-47 from beneath his clothing. I didn’t fire. How did I know he wasn’t about to drop it? In that moment I was controlling that demon. But the moment he pointed it towards me, he showed me it was a kill-or-be-killed situation. That’s when I accessed my darkness. Two presses on the trigger. Direct hits to the mouth. He was down.
If I hadn’t had my demons to call upon I’d probably have hesitated. Was this man a father? Who would he be leaving behind? What devastation would I be inflicting on innocent people? What if I was mistaken? It might have made for a pause of less than a second, but it would have been sufficient to get me killed. And, likewise, if I’d had access to my demons but no control over them, I’d have been spraying bullets everywhere. There are people like that in the services, but I’m not a bully with a weapon. I’m not a person who’ll go into a chaotic situation with bad people who I recognise are a threat and kill them automatically. Even in a war zone.
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