chain-gang the way we dragged our feet in jagged file up the road and around a steep bend. Earlier on the course during a beasting session in a muddy estuary we had passed a group of civvy hikers who stopped in horror to watch us. They were so disgusted they telephoned the camp and insisted on speaking to the commanding officer. They got the adjutant, who listened while they gave their eye-witness account, exposing how we were treated like Roman galley slaves. The adjutant assured them something would be done about it. When he hung up the phone the complaint was promptly filed in the dead registry – the wastepaper bin.
As we turned the bend in the road a hundred yards from the last stop, to our surprise there was the truck. Old Noah the driver climbed out to greet us with a flask of coffee. Noah was the oldest Marine in the corps, never interested in promotion, who had been everywhere the Marines had in the last twenty years. He had been a driver for the SBS the past few years, a job he wanted to keep till his time ran out. He always felt sorry for those on selection, as if we were prisoners and had no choice. Although it was strictly prohibited, he operated like a resistance worker against the evil DS and sneaked us a sip of hot tea and a sliver of useful information whenever he could.
‘This is it, lads,’ Noah said. ‘You’ve cracked it. I’m here to take you ’ome.’
The pub and the next ten miles was a last-minute bluff. Even Mister Nasty had his limitations. I’ll never forget the relief when I let my pack drop from my shoulders. I thought I was going to float up like a helium balloon.
‘How far did we walk, Noah?’ someone asked.
‘They were going to pick you up after fifteen, but no one had wrapped, so they kept you going. This is twenty-one miles.’
In the back of the truck, on the journey home, we all had our boots off and were tending to our feet. You did that every opportunity, cleaning and sterilising them, then applying plasters for protection and powder against foot-rot. If your feet fell apart then so did you. The DS knew our feet would be in a bad way and so they would give us a couple of days’ light PT before the pressure went back on. The men who had quit sat stone-faced in a group at the back of the truck. There was an invisible wall between us now. They never bothered with their feet. It did not matter any more. They would have all the time in the world to recover. The relief of dropping their packs minutes before the rest of us had cost them their dreams of a future in the SBS. Quitting is a hard thing to live with and a hard thing to admit to afterwards. I knew something of how they felt that moment seconds before they quit. About six weeks into the course I almost quit myself.
I don’t know what had got into me that day. I was not tired, mentally or physically. We had just got out of bed after a full night’s sleep and the course was mustering outside for the usual early-morning workout. It was icy cold and, as per normal, we were not allowed to wear any more than shorts and short-sleeved T-shirts. We were going for a run which would include frequent stops for sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups and throw-ups, and end with a swim across a frozen-over quarry lake a quarter of a mile from the camp. The ice covered its sixty yards’ width as it had every day that week. On reaching the other side it was a stiff run the last leg back to the grots past main-gate sentries who either thought we were mad or toyed with the idea of having a go themselves one day. I had done it a dozen times already. We had done far worse. Perhaps I was low on energy or had been bitten by the quitting bug that flew thick that morning. Eight had voluntarily withdrawn (VWed) that morning and had gone back to their cosy beds. The ripple effect had been at work. There were no second chances once you quit. If you were not on the road doing PT you were off the course and on your way to a commando unit soon after. I sat
As we turned the bend in the road a hundred yards from the last stop, to our surprise there was the truck. Old Noah the driver climbed out to greet us with a flask of coffee. Noah was the oldest Marine in the corps, never interested in promotion, who had been everywhere the Marines had in the last twenty years. He had been a driver for the SBS the past few years, a job he wanted to keep till his time ran out. He always felt sorry for those on selection, as if we were prisoners and had no choice. Although it was strictly prohibited, he operated like a resistance worker against the evil DS and sneaked us a sip of hot tea and a sliver of useful information whenever he could.
‘This is it, lads,’ Noah said. ‘You’ve cracked it. I’m here to take you ’ome.’
The pub and the next ten miles was a last-minute bluff. Even Mister Nasty had his limitations. I’ll never forget the relief when I let my pack drop from my shoulders. I thought I was going to float up like a helium balloon.
‘How far did we walk, Noah?’ someone asked.
‘They were going to pick you up after fifteen, but no one had wrapped, so they kept you going. This is twenty-one miles.’
In the back of the truck, on the journey home, we all had our boots off and were tending to our feet. You did that every opportunity, cleaning and sterilising them, then applying plasters for protection and powder against foot-rot. If your feet fell apart then so did you. The DS knew our feet would be in a bad way and so they would give us a couple of days’ light PT before the pressure went back on. The men who had quit sat stone-faced in a group at the back of the truck. There was an invisible wall between us now. They never bothered with their feet. It did not matter any more. They would have all the time in the world to recover. The relief of dropping their packs minutes before the rest of us had cost them their dreams of a future in the SBS. Quitting is a hard thing to live with and a hard thing to admit to afterwards. I knew something of how they felt that moment seconds before they quit. About six weeks into the course I almost quit myself.
I don’t know what had got into me that day. I was not tired, mentally or physically. We had just got out of bed after a full night’s sleep and the course was mustering outside for the usual early-morning workout. It was icy cold and, as per normal, we were not allowed to wear any more than shorts and short-sleeved T-shirts. We were going for a run which would include frequent stops for sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups and throw-ups, and end with a swim across a frozen-over quarry lake a quarter of a mile from the camp. The ice covered its sixty yards’ width as it had every day that week. On reaching the other side it was a stiff run the last leg back to the grots past main-gate sentries who either thought we were mad or toyed with the idea of having a go themselves one day. I had done it a dozen times already. We had done far worse. Perhaps I was low on energy or had been bitten by the quitting bug that flew thick that morning. Eight had voluntarily withdrawn (VWed) that morning and had gone back to their cosy beds. The ripple effect had been at work. There were no second chances once you quit. If you were not on the road doing PT you were off the course and on your way to a commando unit soon after. I sat
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