Going Commando (15 page)

We initially crossed the moors in ‘syndicates’, small teams to collectively navigate our way. As we grew more competent and our skills developed, we were dispatched on our own.
A dark Dartmoor night, with freezing fog wrapping around the body like a sinister cloak, scared the bejesus out of me. Regardless of my figmental fears, I cracked on with overcoming the real threat of deadly bogs, getting lost or not making the checkpoints in time.

It wasn’t the usual location for someone celebrating their seventeenth birthday. The only cake would be the mud that dried on my clothing. It could have been worse though, I could have lost my compass jumping across one of the many small leats that criss-cross the moor.

It got worse.

Although I had always previously attached my compass to my lanyard, on this occasion I didn’t. The only reason I can think of is that I was a dick. The leat wasn’t all that wide, but as I leapt my wet boots gave way on the sodden, sloping bank opposite. Instinctively, I tried to grab some grass to arrest my fall, only to stupidly let go of my compass.

Bollocks!

I was soaking wet, alone, and on Dartmoor without a navigation aid.

Happy fucking birthday!

At the back of my mind was the fact that another charge was forthcoming. The compass was a starred item so it counted as equipment of value. And how the hell was I supposed to carry on without it? I could probably get to the next checkpoint using the reference points I’d pre-planned on my map, but that would mean an instant charge from the corporal at the checkpoint.

I was frantically hand-ploughing the grass, when along came
my knight in shining armour – or at least a heavy-breathing Fred in sweaty green combats, navigating the same route as me. Seeing my distress, like a true bootneck, after calling me a ‘cock knocker’ he forsook his own mission and assisted me in my search.

‘Would it have fallen in the leat?’ Fred asked.

It was arguably the most astute thing he had ever said, (other than when admiring the centerfold of a porn magazine: ‘I can’t see the point in her wearing shoes’). I accepted it was the likely whereabouts of my compass, but been loath to get into the leat in case it swallowed me like a bottomless bog. Now Fred was here he could pull me out if I did sink.

Stripped naked, at night on Dartmoor, I slowly lowered myself into the leat. I felt my feet grow numb as they sank into the freezing water and was slightly surprised when they hit the slimy bottom at knee height. Even more incredibly, my foot had trodden on something hard and metallic – my compass. My often-ridiculed monkey toes managed to pick it up. Naked, wet and cold on my birthday in the fog of Dartmoor, I couldn’t have been more ecstatic.

Off Fred ran. ‘Your toes could peel an orange inside someone’s pocket,’ he shouted.

‘Cheers mate, I love you too! Lots of beer in the NAAFI awaits you on our return!’

‘None of that Southern shandy shit,’ his voiced trailed as he continued into the darkness.

I sat alone once more, this time tying my compass to the lanyard, up to that point safely securing nothing more than fresh air in a pocket containing a half-eaten packet of biscuits and lots of fluff.

Instead of buying Fred a pint at the NAAFI, I decided I should at least attempt buy him a beer ashore. Nods going ashore wouldn’t take their ID but would leave it in the guardroom in return for a personalised shore leave card, which did not have a date of birth on it. While this may have reduced the risk of ID cards being lost or stolen, to my criminal mind it raised the chances of getting served in a pub and allowed into Exeter’s finest nightclub, Tens.

‘Finest’ may be a little optimistic. There may have been far better nightclubs in the town. I certainly hoped so, because Tens was one of those places where you would wipe your feet on the way out. Its clientele was clearly defined into three groups: women that wanted to go out with a Royal Marines recruit, local men who wanted to be a Royal Marines recruit, and Royal Marines recruits. It was no place for high fashion and champagne.

It sat below a pub named ‘Winston’s. Named after Churchill, I am sure the descendants of Britain’s most revered leader of the twentieth century were overjoyed his name lived on through a pub. Winston’s did serve its purpose, however, as the conduit between sobriety and the demise of mental faculties in Tens.

I was in a group of five recruits, including another birthday boy nicknamed ‘Jim’ due to his surname being Davidson. Nervous as I always was in entering a drinking establishment, I handed over my shore leave pass. The bouncer looked at it to confirm I was a nod, which was pretty obvious bearing in mind my haircut and limp.

‘Keep out of trouble, lads,’ said the bouncer, returning my card.

The smell of dry ice, Kouros aftershave and stale ale hit my nostrils, while Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’ orchestrated the low-quality dance moves. I looked around keenly to see if there was any female that took my fancy. It may have been the fact that I’d looked at only men within the confines of CTC that made every woman look like Belinda Carlisle (this is 1986, remember).

I was still a virgin. Here I was trying to become a bootneck and I hadn’t yet managed to get hold of a girl’s left knocker. (I had felt a right one once. It was okay.) Surely, here in this pit of debauchery, I couldn’t fail to further my sexual repertoire?

‘Happy birthday, short arse,’ said Jim, holding a shorts glass in front of me.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Whisky.’

‘I don’t drink whisky. I had a bad session on it before I joined up.’ It was true, if a little pathetic.

‘And? Get it down you. I’ve bought it now.’

With the logic that my health and my wishes rated below the unnecessary splurge of a quid, I downed the whisky so as not to offend Jim. It was immediately obvious that this was a mistake.

With that familiar feeling welling up, using skills taught in the ‘Why Things Are Seen’ lectures, I quickly scanned and searched for the toilet sign. Excusing myself, I pushed quickly through the doors. That distinctive public loo smell of shit, sick and piss-soaked fag butts didn’t lessen my need to puke; finding little in the way of open toilet stalls, I barfed my ring up so violently into the urinal that it splashed back onto my
shirt and all over my shoes, much to the hilarity of a fellow nod pissing into the nearby sink.

‘We’ve just bought Jim a death wet,’ said Fred as I returned, teary-eyed, into the darkness. ‘We were gonna buy you one but thought you might actually die.’

The ‘death wet’, or ‘top shelf run’ as it was otherwise called, was a pint of every available spirit on the top shelf, with a splash of either coke or lemonade added to reduce the risk of an appearance at the coroner’s court. Jim stood at the bar, with his cock out for no other reason than that’s what he liked doing. Taking the pint glass, he downed the death wet in one go. It was rather impressive (the drinking, not his cock, although it was certainly bigger than mine).

I stood with my pint of flat beer, not even sipping it for fear of another bout of vomiting, looking at anyone who would return my gaze.

Someone did. She was nice. Very nice in fact, far better than the girl I’d passed en route to the toilets, pissing in the corridor as she couldn’t wait any longer.

She smiled at me. I smiled back. She smiled again. I again returned my smile. I must have looked like a simpleton. With the fuzz of alcohol giving me the required courage – as defined by the qualities of a commando – I approached her.

‘Ayup,’ I said in the poshest northern accent I could muster.

‘Alright.’ Her Devonian greeting made her sound like a pirate.

Silence ensued. That was it. I had failed to prepare any conversation beyond regional salutations. She could see my discomfort.

‘What week you in?’

It wasn’t the romantic opening gambit I’d expected. Okay, so I would have been fortunate for her to say, ‘I saw you standing there and our body language suggested we had a mutual attraction, and my, you are a fine specimen of manliness.’ But I wasn’t expecting her to quiz me on my progress at CTC.

‘Uh, week eighteen now.’

‘You got Silent Night coming up week after next then.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Got your patrolling skills weighed off?’

I was confused. Was I talking to a girl or a Royal Marine dressed in women’s clothing?

It was only at this point that I suffered a little paranoia, wondering if she could smell my vomit-tinged breath. Thankfully, before she could get another whiff, Fred butted in, grabbing me roughly around the neck.

‘Ayup Doris, can I plait your hair with me feet?’

Even I could see Fred’s drunken spittle hitting her.

‘Smart bloke,’ she replied, in a fashion rather too bootneck-esque for my liking, before she walked away to talk to another recruit.

‘Fuck me, Fred, I was in there,’ I lied.

‘Yeah, ’course you were. Mate, stay away, she’s been through more blokes than a dodgy curry. They call her “the Adjutant”. She’s been invited to nearly every passing-out parade.’

To be honest, at my level of sexual frustration I’d have quite happily had my balls fondled by the actual adjutant.

The following morning I actually felt okay. I’d managed to purge myself of most of the alcohol through the medium of puke and had sensibly drunk a bellyful of water before sleeping. I rose from my bed and spotted a few dark splashes on the linoleum floor. Initially, I thought it was blood. But as my senses awoke, I could smell it. It was shit.

Seasoned animal hunters will often track ‘scat’ in their quest to find a prey. It is generally regarded as an advanced skill, with an understanding of animal habitat, a keen eye and a lust for vanquishing quarry as must-have qualities. But even a myopic vegan could have easily followed this particular trail of shit.

It led from the doorway to Jim Davidson’s bed in the corner of our room. He was laid on top of his sheets naked, but for a forlornly hanging sock which had seemingly stepped on one of his own brown landmines. He was face down, luckily enough, because his face was also lying in a dried pool of vomit.

‘What the fuck is that smell?’ Fred had by now awoken.

Fred shook Jim, hoping he wasn’t a stiff. In case they all smelled that bad, I made a mental note never to work in a mortuary.

‘
Hnnh
?’ Jim raised his creased head. Realisation then hit him. ‘I think I’ve pissed the bed.’

‘You think? I think you’ve done more than that,’ replied Fred.

Jim looked down to see the overt display of his bodily fluids. ‘Fuck,’ he said, before allowing his head to fall back into his vomit to sleep off his hangover.

It was my first exposure to the Holy Grail of overindulgence,
the ‘grand slam’. I wasn’t to know at the time, but it certainly wouldn’t be my last.

The rest of us agreed we couldn’t think of any better way to spend our Sunday morning than cleaning up our mate’s shit trail. Utilising our newly acquired skill of judging distance through a unit average, it measured twelve metres. And there are people who say there are no civilian uses for military skills.

Day by day, I felt as though I was getting to grips with the tasks and challenges set before me. I now even looked forward to more weapon training. I threw my first live grenade with gusto. I wanted to shout, ‘Achtung pigdogs!’ like in the war comics, but followed protocol and boringly shouted, ‘Grenade!’. I learned about mortars, rocket launchers and machineguns, all pieces of equipment designed to inflict all manner of death. We learnt advanced patrolling tactics, feeling like a real soldier pretending to hunt down or ambush the enemy, so as to further inflict all manner of death. In fact, my portfolio of ways to inflict all manner of death was increasing by the day, and at seventeen it was frustrating that I wouldn’t be able to legally inflict all manner of death until I was at least a year older.

Moral questions of killing had never arisen during training. Killing was in our job description and the various methodologies were didactically written in my innocent-looking red plastic ring binder, known as an affairs folder, just as an apprentice mechanic would describe the diagnostics check on a 1986 Mini Metro.

By now, those recruits who harboured any moral dilemma would have taken a one-way train trip from CTC. I never questioned whether these lessons were ethically right or wrong. The morality of killing was never broached formally and personally it was never an issue, due to my immaturity.

I had, though, progressed past the phase of joining up for ‘Queen and country’. I was now doing this to protect my mates, a camouflaged, portable human shield with only the welfare of my colleagues at heart. How I would handle killing another human, only time would tell.

Week nineteen was Exercise Silent Night, topically leading us into the final week prior to Christmas leave. While shepherds watched their flocks (for fear of them being butchered by Royal Marines recruits) and snow lay on the ground all around, it was no Christmas carol. If I were to be eloquent, I could suggest that my joyful soul was numbed by the mournful cold. Or I could just say it was fucking freezing all bastard week.

Fatter people are often said to withstand the cold better, but before I nipped off to eat a bakery’s allocation of pies, the bigger guys looked as cold as I did. None seemed overly comfortable in the conditions.

The training team had advised us that the conditions were to be ‘wintry’, and suggested that when in town we should invest in some long johns or, even better, tights. I bought both just to be on the safe side. (I would have liked to say it was my first time of wearing women’s clothing, but I would wear my mum’s knickers if I had no clean pants left. Thank God I was never run over.)

I never ended up wearing my long johns. The sheer feel of the light tan material sheathing my legs in a swaddling of 40 Denier ecstasy was enough to make me forget about baggy undergarments. But it was a pity I didn’t venture into some lingerie shop to buy a full body stocking, as my top half was permanently frozen.

If feeling like a German sat on the outskirts of Stalingrad wasn’t enough, on yet another crash move I walked into a tree. On a funny video show it may have looked hilarious. However, this tree, like many in the training area, had branches cut off to assist in the application of bivvy ropes and bungees, leaving sharp, peg-like stubs sticking from the trunk. When pitch black it would be feasible, if not unlucky, to walk into one of these, yet luck was not on my side. A stub poked me directly in the eye, knocking me to the ground in writhing agony.