Going Commando (9 page)

So the recruit smartly about-turns and leaves the office. Halting, he about-turns again to have the door slammed in his face like a gypsy offering to tarmac a drive.

He knocks again. No answer. He knocks again.

The door opens and the corporal instructs the recruit to report.

The nod marches back in properly, clashing his heels together to attention.

The sergeant says, ‘Right, let’s start again.’

‘Sergeant, I am PO45740J Tumblefish. Permission to speak, Sergeant.’

‘That’s better. Now, what do you want?’

‘Sergeant, my room is on fire.’

So it was with trepidation that I’d knock every morning to receive my milk. And every morning I found the milk had already been used as a welcome addition to their morning’s teas and coffees. I was sure it was my only contribution to the training team’s happiness, and the main reason I was still with the troop.

By now we were allowed off camp, so we were ordered to the training team’s office to be issued a shore-leave pass. It was probably the only time we ever wanted to visit the team office.

‘Time!’ shouted Corporal Stevens from within the office. I marched in as well as I could with my shitty feet.

‘It says here, “Junior Marine.” How old are you, Time?’ he asked, the shore-leave pass waving in front of my eyes.

‘Sixteen, Corporal.’

‘Have you been out on your own after six o’clock?’

I returned his smirk. ‘Yes, Corporal.’

‘Probably out in the park drinking cider, weren’t you?’ he added. He didn’t realise how close to the truth he was.

‘No, Corporal,’ I smirked again.

‘You are not to drink when you’re ashore, Time.’

‘Of course not, Corporal.’ My smirk suggested I thought he was joking, but his deadpan glare definitely suggested otherwise.

‘If I find out you’ve been drinking you will be charged. Do you hear me?’

The lightheartedness had turned menacing. I had no doubt he was a man of his word. It was quite okay for him to teach me how to kill people, but God forbid I might order a Babycham.

Despite Royal Marine camps being on dry land, getting off camp and into the civilian community was known as ‘going ashore’. As a recruit, it was an exercise in itself.

Most of the accommodation blocks were around 100m from the train platform. But we’d have to trek 400m in the opposite direction up to the Guard Room at the main gate to join a queue more suited to popular theme-park rides. Once at the front of the queue you would report and ask the duty guard commander, ‘Permission to go ashore.’ As part of the
ceremony, the guard commander would then inspect us before we trekked the 500m back to the train stop.

Inspection for going ashore gave
carte blanche
to the bored guard commanders, pissed off that they were working weekends, to deny you permission. Rejection could be for any odd reason and given with equally bizarre explanations.

Wearing white socks:

‘Who do you think you are, John Travolta?’

Trousers too short:

‘Put some jam on your shoes to attract them down.’

Laces twisted:

‘If you were in the First World War you’d have been stabbed in the trenches.’

Or you had a weird accent:

‘Come back in ten minutes and talk properly.’

Pushed for time as we were, any rejection meant running back to the accommodation to fix socks/trousers/laces/speech, before running back to the guardroom to queue up again for more ridicule, in the vain hope you’d catch the next freedom train out.

With uniform haircuts, polished shoes, trousers (recruits were not allowed to be wear jeans) and pressed shirts, we were not only recognisable as nods walking around Exeter but obvious targets for the IRA and, more probably, the fashion police. We all frequented the same pubs. One, The Turk’s Head, was known as ‘The Nod’s Head’. On any given Saturday afternoon you’d think you had walked in on a skinheads’ ‘how to dress smartly and talk in abbreviations’ convention. If your leave pass allowed you out late, you’d then move on to Tens
nightclub – a dark, sticky-carpeted, subterranean nightspot full of easily-pissed recruits desperate for even the smell of a girl’s neck perfume, and even more inebriated women more than happy to allow recruits to smell wherever they wanted.

While encouraged to go out in Exeter, an evening in nearby Exmouth was strictly off limits to nods. It was the domain of trained ranks and training teams. An afternoon visit to promenade along the seafront was allowed, but if a nod was caught in a pub it was seen as a show of insolence and a quiet word would be had, along to the lines of, ‘Off is the general direction in which I wish you to fuck.’

The nod would then disappear in the direction of Exeter, usually with a chit attached to his forehead saying, ‘Please beast me first thing Monday morning.’

An afternoon ashore would usually consist of wandering aimlessly around the shops, not really buying anything of use to the layperson apart from the odd music cassette. We nods regularly found ourselves in outward bounds suppliers, buying yet more green string in case the twenty metres in our holdalls got used or lost. I reckon if I had opened a green string shop in Exeter (probably called something like Geez String!) I’d have been able to retire by now.

Occasionally, if you were confident of staying awake in the dark, you might catch a film. One time, Hopkins, the lads and I went to watch Sly Stallone in
Cobra
. Prior to joining up, I’d been refused entry to watch
Commando
, even though I was about to become one. As I queued up I reflected that as a serviceman, a government-trained assassin with a lust for napalm and hot chicks, I’d surely be allowed in this time. But
no, I was relegated to watching the 15-rated
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
. And I still got my ID checked beforehand.

I had the last laugh, though. The general assessment was that
Cobra
was shite, and I’d had a narrow escape. It was probably the only time when being so young was an advantage.

THERE ARE MANY old stories that abound in Royal Marines folklore. Indeed, this ‘dit’ culture of storytelling is part of the Corps ethos. Some may be factual, some a little embellished and some a total fabrication. Whatever the level of veracity, ‘spinning dits’ has become an important factor in underpinning the character of a Royal Marine, whether the story is set at the Battle of Trafalgar or in The Battle of Trafalgar pub.

A DL inspects a recruit troop on the drill square at CTC. The recruits have their dry weapons stripped down and, as per usual, the DL ensures there is not even a gnat’s hair present.

He looks through the weapon barrel of one recruit and spots something within the rifling. He passes the weapon to the recruit for him to look through.

‘What can you see through there, Lofty?’ asks the DL.

The nod looks closely up through the barrel. ‘The officers’ mess, Corporal.’

Whether or not it is true, just the presence of an officers’ mess at CTC is unique. The Army has Sandhurst as an academy to train its officers, the Royal Navy has Britannia Royal Naval College in Dartmouth, and the RAF probably trains its officers at the Ritz for a couple of weeks before heading off on a skiing trip.

The Royal Marines make no such distinction in training establishments, and therefore officer recruits – Young Officers, or YOs – while living in the mess, mingle with non-commissioned recruits on a daily basis, undertaking similar lectures in the same areas, receiving the same level of instruction. This not only provides an instant bond between a Royal Marines officer and his men, but also offers a recruit an insight into the lives of their future commanders, with less of the separation often prevalent in the other services.

A Royal Marines officer on a course at an army barracks is in the mess eating breakfast with officers from all arms of the services. He asks a Guards officer, busy reading the morning’s broadsheet across the other side of the dinner table, ‘Could you please pass the salt?’

The Guards officer ignores the request, so the RM officer repeats it.

The Guards officer looks up. ‘Are you aware that when a Guards officer is reading the newspaper it means he does not want to be disturbed?’

The Royal Marines officer pauses before climbing onto
the dinner table and stamping into a bowl, kicking milk and cereal all over the Guards officer’s newspaper and uniform.

‘Are you aware that when a Royal Marines officer stands in your cornflakes it means pass the fucking salt?’

Again, this is possibly an embellishment of the truth, but it does show how rough around the edges the typical bootneck officer is. Which could not be said about one YO who arrived to commence training.

The press was constantly parked outside the main gate as if some B-list celebrity had been seen entering. We had been told by the camp hierarchy to stay away from them; as if we had time to go up to the main gate and start a conversation with anyone; as if we could even get out of the main gate. Even when ashore journalists would approach us, keen to get a scoop from some young nod with a head full of wild stories about our new Young Officer: His Royal Highness Prince Edward.

We had known of his arrival on return from summer leave. While quite thrilling for many, I’d have taken his presence with a huge dollop of ambivalence if it wasn’t for the fact that his academic qualifications were shit and his presence was based upon birthright and not merit. Regressing to my socialist roots, I thought his commission only denied someone more deserving.

I saw him only on occasion, the rosy red cheeks on his otherwise pasty face giving him a permanent look of embarrassment and adding to an androgyny that would make him popular if he ever ended up in prison. I do recall he wore a very badly-shaped beret like a felt cushion on his
head, and in truth he didn’t look at all like a bootneck officer. Never once did I see him smile and I certainly never saw him pissing in a doorway. The PR gurus at CTC told the press that Prince Edward would be treated just like everyone else going through training, so I was at a loss as to why I never had two bodyguards by my side when I went ashore to buy green string.

The military was going through kit and equipment changes in 1986. We were to be issued the new Mk 6 nylon fibre helmet, which we were told was the best thing since sliced bread. I would have preferred sliced bread on my head.

As we were some of the first troops to be issued this new-fangled head protector, logistical problems meant the first shipments only came in one size: Extra Fucking Large. Unfortunately, those of us who didn’t have a noggin the size of a beach ball ended up looking like an overgrown toadstool.

The new MK6 helmet also came with a camouflaged DPM cover. Logistical problems also meant the first shipments only came in one size: Extra Fucking Small. To get it over the helmet was like trying to put a baby cap over an Atlas stone and our initial attempts were failures, raising the ire of the DL who didn’t want his troops to wear helmets that seemed to turn them into the Hulk.

The DL attempted to fit the cover over the helmet as proof it could be done. With the laws of physics not assisting his argument, he advised us to soak the covers in cold water then
give them a good stretch. As always, we did what he said, which in retrospect may have been a mistake.

When I was a child there were toys that you could put in water and they would grow exponentially. I think they were eventually banned as a child swallowed one and it expanded in his stomach until he died. The MK6 helmet cover was the exact opposite of that banned toy: once it was placed in water it shrunk as if it was in a film called
Honey, I Shrunk My Helmet Cover
.

In no part could we be blamed for the logistical fuck-ups, yet all this ill-sized equipment only led to more beastings. As we were now issued weapons, the beastings could take on a different shade of agony. Stress positions, although deemed ill-treatment by the UN, were an active participation sport at CTC and combined with shoot-to-kill exercises that sounded very Ramboesque, but in reality were painful isometrics where we’d hold the weapon at various degrees of discomfort for a long time, until our bodies could take little more.

The SLR only weighed just over 4kg, but its length meant holding it horizontal with one arm for the duration of an episode of
Coronation Street
was as painful as listening to Deidre Barlow. Shoot-to-kill exercises could be undertaken anywhere due to their static nature, so you didn’t even need space. I even got roped into one after having a piss with my weapon slung over my shoulder, as I’d earlier been seen taking my milk outside the training team office. According to Corporal Stevens, consuming the milk would make holding the weapon out to the side far easier. It didn’t.

Week five morphed into week six that seamlessly turned into week seven. Characters came and went, as new guys joined from troops ahead of us. These ‘back troopers’ could have been injured, therefore undergoing a rehabilitative period, or failed a criteria test, meaning they would have to be sent back to the appropriate week of training. Being back trooped was a humiliation whatever the reason, and it was the sword of Damocles that hung over the head of every recruit that passed through training. With the ever-changing faces, closeness towards back troopers was sometimes a little strained, as if a family member had been replaced by a strange interloper, accepted warily until proving his worth.

This unease wasn’t helped by the spate of thefts that occurred within the troop. This was an immensely destructive element in such a tight-knit group, creeping into everyone’s psyche as well as their belongings to pilfer not only money but trust.

Indeed, I was accused at one point. I had walked into a room to look for Hopkins, only to be surprised by another recruit lying on his bed, hidden behind his locker. He jumped to the conclusion that I was there to steal. Other than being accused of paedophilia, or of supporting Manchester United, I can’t think of any worse accusation, and I was happy to tell him so in such a manner that we had to be pulled apart by other recruits.

The thief was winning. Despite my protestations of innocence, I knew that fingers would be secretly pointed.
The Special Investigations Branch (SIB) was called in to take fingerprints of everyone in the troop. While this was humiliating, I knew it would exonerate me when the real culprit was unearthed.

Most of our outdoor training was conducted on the coarse heaths of Woodbury Common. A dog walker’s paradise, the scrub of the heath was crisscrossed by the many rough firebreaks that turned ankles and shredded skin if we fell. We tended not to use these firebreaks all that often, preferring the small tracks that were the capillary routes between the different areas of training. Mostly though, we were either on our backs, fronts or knees within the heath itself, a thick web of gorse and thickets that pulled, nipped and slapped us like a public-school flogging every time we tried stalking – in layperson’s parlance ‘creeping up on the enemy’, one of the core skills of a sniper.

I thought I’d be good at stalking. As a small child I often went strawberry nicking after the fields were closed to the public. I would, in military terms, ‘leopard crawl’, using the strawberry mounds as cover and secretively eating as many as I could until the nausea of overindulgence took over. Only once did I ever get caught. Trying to flee from a farmer’s salt pellet-filled shotgun with the weight of a hundred strawberries swilling around my stomach led to me vomiting red sick down my front. My gran thought I’d been shot in the face.

I also thought being a short-arse would be an advantage,
but never realised that, once laid down, we’re all pretty much the same height. I usually did well on the stalking stances, although with my inclination to chance things a little further I’d often be caught trying to get too close, which would result in a bollocking as bad as for those seen from a huge distance. There was no need for me to get so close and blow my cover. Carrying a weapon with a battle range of 300m, there was little point in getting to 60m and being shot. In any case, it meant less time spent crawling amongst the painful undergrowth.

This permanent contact with the gorse often resulted in many recruits developing the infamous ‘Woodbury rash’. With bodies worn down by perpetual activity, it thrived on our lowered immune systems, leaving skin looking like bubble wrap and each pore a yellow pustule. Like many, my spare time was often taken up by squeezing, repeatedly amazed at what the zits would offer. It was like opening up a Kinder Surprise egg, only I wouldn’t be rewarded with a dodgy toy, but with pus, blood and, if especially lucky, a gorse needle.

The thighs and knees took the brunt, but some recruits found the rash on their arse, which left a nice dot-to-dot puzzle for anyone brave enough to complete. Some even suffered symptoms on their genitalia, although this could have been a questionable excuse. A few would suffer huge black boils akin to the bubonic plague, and would be immobilised or back trooped due to severe infection.

Years later, a Royal Marine recruit would die from the rash and was soon followed by an elderly woman who passed away from a single scratch. Studies showed that the gorse itself can
cause a Group A streptococcal infection, which can lead to all manner of nasty diseases. So, although the most dangerous thing we had knowingly faced was a pusser’s pasty, we were unknowingly being attacked by deadly flora that should have made a guest appearance as a
Doctor Who
baddie.

While up on Woodbury Common, we would often be handed a bag ration. Probably not named after the 18th century Georgian Prince Pyotr Ivanovich Bagration, a ‘bagrat’, as it was commonly known, was the lunchtime meal issued when troops were not on camp, usually in a non-tactical environment. Just as well really, as the bagrat consisted of the noisiest snacks known to humanity.

The brown bag itself was made of a paper so thin that, even if the air turned a little humid, or condensation built up on a nearby water bottle, the bottom would rot to pulp and allow all its contents to fall out. Eating a packet of crisps is about as quiet as the Hiroshima bomb and the rustle or crunch seemed to amplify in quieter surroundings. If we were lucky the crisps would be soft due to celebrating the second birthday past their best-before date.

A juice box was our refreshment, with a straw that could never pierce the silver circle and necessitated the use of a knife, resulting in clothes dowsed with sticky juice to become a target for any flying insect within a mile radius. Should you actually manage to get the straw in, the echoing slurps of reaching the bottom of the box would make the crisp packet rustling seem like a lullaby in comparison. The chocolate bar always was the ying to a ratpack ‘Rolos’ yang. Always melted, amazingly even in the winter, I can only assume they must have been kept
in the oven prior to being bagged up, leaving the consumption making for a messy tongue wrestle with the wrapper.

The fruit would usually be an orange or apple that looked as though it had just it’d returned from fighting at a football match: battered, bruised and with chunks often missing. The sandwich would be even worse. Only eaten to stave off starvation, the selection was immense: cheese and pickle, or polony and pickle. The cheese would be wafer thin or as thick as a brick, depending of on the boredom level of the sandwich maker, or the cheapest of polonies where visible pieces of a pig’s mutilated cock or eyelid, complete with lashes, were as prevalent as the bits of bone. On occasion we could hit the jackpot and even find a small amount of meat. For whatever reason, possibly in the name of being ‘continental’, the polony would often have a circle of stuffing in the middle. The contents of that stuffing were something known to only the guardians of Area 51 but at a guess it was a mix of cigarette ash, bum fluff and sage. In the meat processing factory, I can only suggest that there are three conveyors graded ‘Fit for Human Consumption’, ‘Unfit for Human Consumption’ and ‘Food for Royal Marines’. In normal circumstances, guys on restricted privileges usually made the bagrats, so their culinary pride was hardly on a par with Fanny Craddock, making eating any sandwich a cautious lucky dip.