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  It was on such hills we usually conducted a fireman’s carry or sprints. We eventually found a hill that fitted the requirement, but suffered a few punishments in between like press-ups and burpees. Once there, we played an all-time favourite of the training team: ‘Pays to be a winner!’ On a signal we’d sprint up the hill and, depending how charitable the DS were feeling, either the first two or four to reach the summit would be excused the next climb, or until told to rejoin the punishing routine.

  Totally alert now and wet again thanks to ‘Peter’s pool’, which is a waist-deep stagnant pond on the nearby endurance course, we belted our way back to our trenches. There we were reminded to ‘look after’ each other, which meant keeping everyone awake. By now it was week 23 and everyone had hit a low point in training. Morale was on the verge of becoming an issue and blokes looked unmotivated. I’m guessing this was the case for every troop at that stage in training. You could see the light at the end of the tunnel, but you still had a very long way to go.

  The attack started the next night with a simulated artillery or mortar strike, then, ‘Here they come,’ whispered one of the lads with the common weapons sight (CWS). With the naked eye I could just make out several black shapes that resembled human figures emerging from the grey background and advancing to contact. The tension was building by the minute as we waited for the order to open fire. Weapons at the ready, I could feel myself becoming quite nervous.

  The enemy were moving in a tactical formation called arrowhead, and they were coming for a fight! We could now see that their scout had diverted past the simulated mine field and was leading them straight towards us. Within seconds we heard the ‘pop’, of the first trip flare and could see the dull yellow glow begin to brighten as the dark silhouettes of the enemy dashed for cover. Instantly, using the direct method of target indication, one of the lads shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Eighty metres…slight left…enemy in open…Rapid fire!’ Then all hell broke loose!

  Little did I know that 16 years later, I would be on the receiving end of a very similar weight of fire that lasted for three hours, be wounded twice, and left wondering if we were ever going to get out of it alive.

  At 0600 hours on the crisp Monday morning, dressed in combat boots, denims, webbing weighing 30 pounds (14 kilos) and rifle, we formed up in three ranks outside the gym nervously awaiting our troop PTI to brief us on the morning’s activity: the introduction to the endurance course. In our sections the PTI would lead us on the 4-mile (6.4-kilometre) run to Woodbury Common and to the start of the course.

  The troop gathered round, then the PTI spoke about the cross-country course and ran us around it, stopping at the various stages, and demonstrating and briefing us in detail on what was required at each obstacle. It consisted of several muddy bogs; tunnels which varied in length, difficulty and also water levels; steep hills; Peter’s pool; the sheep dip; and the smarty tubes. The water tunnels, which were two pipes completely submerged in muddy water, took three people to complete the exercise, and were about halfway round. The first person ducked into the pipe and the second pushed him as far as he could, often submerging himself in the process. The third person at the opposite end reached down the pipe, cheek resting on the water’s surface to grab hold of the first bloke and pull him out. All three members rotated through the obstacle.

  This three-man drill was done for a very good reason: the pipe diameter was quite small and some of the larger blokes had trouble getting through in webbing. There was also a point in the pipe where we were on our own; neither of our mates were able to help, and we just had to hope we had enough momentum to cover those crucial centimetres.

  Once we reached our mate’s fingertips he could grab hold of our clothing or webbing yoke to give us a welcoming hand. It did become quite nerve-racking if the drill went a split second longer than we’d hoped. There was also the feeling of anxiety before we entered the pipe. We were already struggling to suck in as much oxygen as possible; then all of a sudden the icy cold water took away what little breath we still had.

  On completion of the course, it was an individual 4-mile effort back to Lympstone and straight down to the 25-metre range, where we were given 10 rounds. The minimum standard was six hits on a very small target that replicated being set out at a range of 200 metres within a short time. For some, completing the course wasn’t too difficult; however, reaching that minimum standard on the range was. If the course was completed well within the time but too many shots were dropped on the range, you would have to endure the whole course again until you passed.

  Introduction to the endurance course over, we got cleaned up and ready for the next lesson, which ran for several hours. But after a massive lunch in an attempt to put back some of the nutrients we had burnt up that morning, we all became very tired and started to nod off during the painfully boring signals lesson. The signals sergeant cracked the shits and then proceeded to run us all down to the bottom field where he made us crawl halfway along the regain ropes and then drop into the icy cold water of the tank beneath. We then did some shuttle sprints just to dry off a little before we went back into the classroom.

  If that gonk monster gets a firm hold of you, you will never be able to resist the temptation to close your eyes, not even for that split second when you think the instructor is not looking. I now know after instructing on courses that it is painfully obvious when someone has been struck by the gonk monster. Their facial muscles relax and droop and their eyes become very heavy. Soon after they’re away with the fairies until subconsciously they wake themselves, but only to return to that semi-conscious state soon after–or they get a very rude awakening from a third party.

  A rude awakening or some physical exercise to introduce more oxygen to the body is generally the best solution, but continuing the lesson when there are people nodding off is a waste of the instructor’s time.

  The following day we conducted a complete timed run through the endurance course. We had 72 minutes to complete the 6-mile (10-kilometre) circuit. But first we had to run 4 miles (6.4 kilometres) from Lympstone in boots, denims, combat jacket, 30 pounds (14 kilos) of webbing and a weapon to get to the start of the course. Once there we set off in syndicates of three at two-minute intervals down a winding gravel track; not a good place to roll an ankle.

  The first obstacles were the dry tunnels. They were constructed using corrugated iron and star pickets and were wide enough to crawl through on hands and knees. However, the floor had many knee-smashing rocks inside. Once out, there was a short run to Peter’s pool, and its depth depended on the time of the year–as a rule it was about waist deep. There was a rope secured at both ends to help pull yourself through, but now we were wet and we had a hard slog ahead. All the time there was a DS running beside us, mostly encouraging us, but from time to time they slipped in a ‘Hurry up you fuckin’ dickhead, you’re letting the team down’, or a very angry ‘Get that weapon out of the dirt, you knob!’ ‘You better make sure you clean that properly before you fire it!’ The DS would always make sure we pulled the barrel through before we fired our rifles at the end of the endurance course.

  A short run from the water tunnels brought us to the sheep dip. ‘Great–more water!’ Then up a muddy embankment where your boots sank into the sticky mud. Now we started to trip over ourselves because in that very short time our energy levels had been sapped by the physical exertion and the undulating muddy trail.

  We then hit the smarty tube, a small but long tunnel that was angled uphill, which snagged your belt kit, slowing your progress. Generally this tube was half full of water, making crawling very difficult, because with every forward motion we made a small wave thick with mud that slapped our faces and got in our mouths and eyes.

  There was one tunnel left after the smarty tubes, and on completion of that we had to cock the working parts of our weapon to the rear and the DS would inspect it. If the working parts or barrel were fouled in any way by mud, gravel or a small twig, we would have to go thro
ugh that tunnel again.

  Having completed all the obstacles there was now the individual 4-mile (6.4-kilometre) run back to camp and onto the range. After an initial short uphill run the road back to camp was mainly downhill from there so we could make up a lot of time until we hit ‘Heatbreak Lane’, and passed the sign on the right: ‘It’s only pain, 500 m to go’. It was hard going on the knees but well worth the effort. All that was left was the range shoot. We quickly checked over our rifles and pulled the barrel through with some cloth threaded through a lanyard to remove any small foreign objects that would interfere with the 5.56 mm projectile. Almost immediately we were given the instructions: ‘Load, action, instant.’1 It was then up to the individual to take control of his breathing and apply all the marksmanship principles to put all 10 rounds into the target (or not). As soon as we applied ‘safe’ on our rifles the time stopped. My time was 67 minutes, and I knew I could cut it down after a couple more run-throughs. Once our rifles had been inspected and cleared from the range by the DS, we had to strip the weapons down and thoroughly clean them before handing them back to the armoury. Cleaning included removing all carbon residue from the ignited propellant, scrubbing the bore with a bronze brush to remove carbon and copper fouling from the projectile, and a detailed wipe-down to remove any dirt. Once done the rifle was oiled and returned.

  We also had the bottom field or the ‘battle fitness’ test, to contend with. This included climbing ropes, the assault course and a fireman’s carry for 200 metres that had to be completed in less than 90 seconds, all with kit and rifle. Then our focus shifted to the final exercise that was rapidly approaching. We were both excited and apprehensive about it–excited because it was the last big hurdle we had to get over, and apprehensive as we knew it was going to hurt. This final exercise tested us in everything we had learnt throughout our time in training. It started with a huge yomp into the Dartmoor training area in appalling weather, which remained with us for the entire exercise. To make things worse I badly hurt my foot on the walk in, but continued on as I didn’t want to get back-trooped at such a late stage. We lived in the field for the 10 days and were always on the move. We conducted troop attack after troop attack until it became second nature and everyone was completely exhausted. The exercise finished with a deliberate attack on Scraesden Fort near Plymouth. The fort was built in the mid-1800s. It was heavily overgrown, making it relatively easy to conduct our reconnaissance to plan the attack.

  On completion of final exercise we were all inspected by a couple of medics. Some lads had large, bright red sores on their lower backs and shoulders where the skin had been worn off by the constant rubbing of the issue personal load carrying equipment (PLCE) bergens, and nearly all of us had painful chafing between the thighs. A few lads had huge blisters to contend with and some had worn all the skin off the soles of their feet.

  Back at Lympstone the training team sent me to the sick bay to get my foot looked at, and an X-ray revealed that I had a cracked metatarsal. I was absolutely gutted, as this could mean months of rehab and the end of a long journey with 637 Troop. The training team advised that rehab was the best thing to do, but I was adamant that I was going to march out of training with the rest of 637 the following month.

  To get me over the line I had to strap my foot heavily and live on painkillers when we started the commando tests that haven’t changed since the original commandos of World War II. They are run over four consecutive days and are all completed with a minimum of 30 pounds (nearly 14 kilos) of webbing (when dry!) and a weapon. They began with a 9-mile speed march on roads and tracks, which had to be completed as a troop in less than 90 minutes, followed by a full troop attack on Woodbury Common.

  We conducted the troop attack on football fields across the road from CTC. This emphasised the importance of speed marching as a means of delivering a body of men fit for battle when they arrived. Once we had completed the 9 miler it was traditional for every troop to march into CTC led by a ceremonial drummer from the Royal Marines Band Service.

  Then came the combined Tarzan and Assault courses. The Tarzan course is an aerial confidence test of rope and wood obstacles up to 8 metres above the ground and beginning with the ‘death slide’. Once completed this leads straight into a circuit of the bottom field assault course and finishes at the top of a 10-metre wall. All of this has to be completed in less than 13 minutes.

  Next came the endurance course pass out, which had to be completed in 72 minutes; and finally the 30-mile speed march south across Dartmoor from Oakhampton Camp to Shipley Bridge completed as a section and carrying additional emergency equipment. I finished all the tests, but ended up on crutches and couldn’t participate in the easiest activity of all: the King’s Squad Pass Out Parade. Only 14 orginals finished with the troop. The average ‘pass out’ rate is less than 50 per cent.

  I had made some good mates at Lympstone but you don’t necessarily get drafted or posted to the same unit. Three of us from training went to 40 Commando: Daz and Jacko went to Bravo Company and I went to Charlie Company. We lost touch shortly after. Most of the other lads from 637 went to 45 Commando based in Scotland.

  5

  And If You Thought That was Cold

  Like many a new marine, Norway was my first real exercise abroad. At 0400 hours on a cold Monday morning in early January 1993 dressed in ski march boots, denims, Norwegian army shirt, olive green ‘woolly pulley’ and green beret, we boarded the coaches that were to take us to the docks in Plymouth. It was drizzling (naturally) and you couldn’t see anything out of the windows because of the condensation on the inside. I was quite excited by the fact that I had only been out of training several weeks and was already heading overseas on a major exercise.

  As we reached Plymouth it was starting to get light and the condensation on the windows was nearly dry, which allowed us to see part of this historic city. This was the port that farewelled the Pilgrim Fathers in 1620 as they set off on the Mayfair to establish a colony in the New World that turned out to be America. I felt I was heading for a new world too, and it couldn’t come quickly enough.

  We pulled into the ferry terminal where we got a glimpse of the ship we were to travel on: Royal Fleet Auxiliary Landing Ship (RFA) Sir Galahad, the replacement for the vessel that was sunk in the Falklands in 1982. I was disappointed by the size of it, as I had imagined it to be a lot bigger. It was still drizzling. Suddenly the doors opened and cold air blew into the warmth of the coach. With it came the company sergeant major (CSM) who advanced past the first two rows of seats. Everything went quiet, ‘Okay lads, hopefully this will run smoovly, but remember we’re dealing wiv fuckin’ matelots [navy personnel] so be patient,’ he said in his thick cockney accent.

  He explained what was going to happen over the next few hours, and then moved to the next Charlie Company coach to brief them. The majority of 40 Commando were waiting on the dock to board. It was all laughter and piss-taking as we boarded via the back ramp and into the smell of diesel and carbon monoxide inside the tank deck. We carried on our large brown kit bags over a shoulder and dropped them into troop lots. Inside the tank deck amid the hive of activity most of our vehicles were already parked with precision–Bedford 4-tonne trucks, Land Rovers and the Hagglund BV 206D tracked snowmobile, which looked like a box on rubber tank tracks.

  There wasn’t much accommodation, which meant we were all tightly packed into the ship and literally living on top of each other in bunks. I imagined this partly resembled the living conditions of marines on board ships for the last several hundred years.

  After finding a bunk space it wasn’t long before we set sail out of the Sound and turned left into the English Channel and a rising sea. For the first two days we were hammered by stormy weather and very rough seas. I didn’t mind it too much but 90 per cent of the blokes were extremely ill during that time. Things started to settle down once we sailed into the shelter of the fjords of southern Norway. I couldn’t believe the difference in conditions, and in no
time at all the lads started to appear out of the woodwork to walk around the ship, get some fresh air and to do physical training on the deck.

  The fjords were amazing, steep-sided hills that ran straight into the freezing deep water. I expected to see more snow on the hills but it was still drizzling, which didn’t give the snow chance to settle. We began to see more snow the further north we travelled and also noticed we had more hours of darkness, until there was only one hour of light a day–or so they said; it seemed dark all the time. As we disembarked one of the lads suddenly pointed out the northern lights: a slow, swirling reflection of light. I’m unsure what causes it, but it looks very similar to an eerie thin cloud. The journey had taken four days and when we reached our company location we were split up: the ‘sproggs’ (marine slang for new or young), me included, and the ‘old hands’. The old hands had been to Norway before so they stayed in location, and the novices moved to Malsevfossen, which was just north-east of Ose where we would complete the Novice Ski and Survival Course. This consisted of learning to cross-country ski with emphasis on safety and survival in the Arctic.

  One of the first things we learnt was an acronym called HAVERSACKS: Have a map, compass and first aid kit; Always wear the correct clothes and carry spares; Victuals in case of emergencies; Ensure you have the proper equipment; Remember international distress signal; Seek local advice; Always leave a route card; Conserve your energy; Know your limitations; and Safety in numbers. All pretty obvious to me now, but as a young marine who hadn’t done anything like that before it was very important advice, so I listened intently.