the time. The problem was finally noticed as we did some practice attacks, when the troop sergeant saw the blood dripping down my grid.
‘Time!’ he yelled. ‘Get over here. You’ve got red sweat rolling down your face.’
He took off my helmet, checked the inside and shook his head wearily at me. ‘Put some masking tape over the spike, you wanker,’ he said rather unsympathetically. ‘On your way.’
So off I went, being the wanker I was, continuing to bleed heavily from the incessant spearing of my helmet until late afternoon, when I could actually get hold of some mythical Harry Black Maskers which, as anyone who has ever served in the Corps will tell you, is as rare as hen’s teeth.
* * *
Slowly, we were turning from a collection of selfish individuals into a team. It had been hammered into us from day one, and ‘I’ was finally becoming ‘we’. The buddy system became second nature: if I had to check that my buddy was properly dressed or feeling okay, he’d check on me too – as long as I wasn’t paired with Jackie. In modern street language, we ‘had each other’s backs’, and in the Royal Marines the bond did indeed become gang-like.
With this new-found bond, we inspected each other like chimps checking for fleas, and even when we were woken up by explosions simulating an attack and were forced to evacuate with our kit to another position, we managed to think for each other, ensuring our mates had collected their kit and were all following in the same direction.
These ‘crash moves’ were intended to simulate the emergency evacuation of a position. I was under the impression that, as trainee commandos, we were on the way to omnipotence and this constant crash moving was an irksome folly. Surely we’d just stand and fight, no matter how many Chinese were pouring over the hill? We only had seven hours of night routine: in crash moving three or four times a night, I dreaded the sort of conflict we could be engaged in where this would actually happen. It kept us in a constant state somewhere between somnolence and death during the heat of the day.
The lessons we were receiving, whether in the syllabus or otherwise, were harsh ones. If we didn’t learn from those lessons we knew the consequences would be painful, ortiresome. But they were valuable. We learnt quickly and we learnt well – though not well enough, according to the training team.
Being dehydrated wasn’t something we needed much tutelage in. If I’d been sitting in a stripy deckchair in my vest and pants, wearing a knotted hankie on my head, I’d have required at least four litres of water. We had one warm 1.5 litre-bottle a day, of which we could actually drink very little. Fully clothed, constantly running, carrying 30kg of equipment, stressed and tired, undertaking all manner of physical activity designed to test our endurance, we were all suffering. But in week four, no-one would dare question the training team’s methods.
On the final morning, all that was left to do was de-rig and pack up the training team’s area. They had the privilege of using a field kitchen. Nightly, it would waft out the aroma of bacon and eggs, while we hungry recruits lived on ration packs a stone’s throw away. The field kitchen’s pots and pans required a serious clean before returning to the stores back at Lympstone. I was one of five detailed to the washing up. With no hot water, the washing-up liquid was used with gay abandon, but did the trick sufficiently. With only hydration on my mind, I blew the excess bubbles from the top of the large bowl and drank a ladle full of greasy, fetid water, to the hilarity of the other four.
‘What’s it taste like?’ asked Brum Davies, still nursing a lump the size of a crème caramel on his head.
‘It’s quite nice,’ I replied.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, it’s a bit meaty, like Bovril.’
‘Give us a go then,’ Davies took a large swig and spurted it out all over himself. ‘It tastes like
‘Time!’ he yelled. ‘Get over here. You’ve got red sweat rolling down your face.’
He took off my helmet, checked the inside and shook his head wearily at me. ‘Put some masking tape over the spike, you wanker,’ he said rather unsympathetically. ‘On your way.’
So off I went, being the wanker I was, continuing to bleed heavily from the incessant spearing of my helmet until late afternoon, when I could actually get hold of some mythical Harry Black Maskers which, as anyone who has ever served in the Corps will tell you, is as rare as hen’s teeth.
* * *
Slowly, we were turning from a collection of selfish individuals into a team. It had been hammered into us from day one, and ‘I’ was finally becoming ‘we’. The buddy system became second nature: if I had to check that my buddy was properly dressed or feeling okay, he’d check on me too – as long as I wasn’t paired with Jackie. In modern street language, we ‘had each other’s backs’, and in the Royal Marines the bond did indeed become gang-like.
With this new-found bond, we inspected each other like chimps checking for fleas, and even when we were woken up by explosions simulating an attack and were forced to evacuate with our kit to another position, we managed to think for each other, ensuring our mates had collected their kit and were all following in the same direction.
These ‘crash moves’ were intended to simulate the emergency evacuation of a position. I was under the impression that, as trainee commandos, we were on the way to omnipotence and this constant crash moving was an irksome folly. Surely we’d just stand and fight, no matter how many Chinese were pouring over the hill? We only had seven hours of night routine: in crash moving three or four times a night, I dreaded the sort of conflict we could be engaged in where this would actually happen. It kept us in a constant state somewhere between somnolence and death during the heat of the day.
The lessons we were receiving, whether in the syllabus or otherwise, were harsh ones. If we didn’t learn from those lessons we knew the consequences would be painful, ortiresome. But they were valuable. We learnt quickly and we learnt well – though not well enough, according to the training team.
Being dehydrated wasn’t something we needed much tutelage in. If I’d been sitting in a stripy deckchair in my vest and pants, wearing a knotted hankie on my head, I’d have required at least four litres of water. We had one warm 1.5 litre-bottle a day, of which we could actually drink very little. Fully clothed, constantly running, carrying 30kg of equipment, stressed and tired, undertaking all manner of physical activity designed to test our endurance, we were all suffering. But in week four, no-one would dare question the training team’s methods.
On the final morning, all that was left to do was de-rig and pack up the training team’s area. They had the privilege of using a field kitchen. Nightly, it would waft out the aroma of bacon and eggs, while we hungry recruits lived on ration packs a stone’s throw away. The field kitchen’s pots and pans required a serious clean before returning to the stores back at Lympstone. I was one of five detailed to the washing up. With no hot water, the washing-up liquid was used with gay abandon, but did the trick sufficiently. With only hydration on my mind, I blew the excess bubbles from the top of the large bowl and drank a ladle full of greasy, fetid water, to the hilarity of the other four.
‘What’s it taste like?’ asked Brum Davies, still nursing a lump the size of a crème caramel on his head.
‘It’s quite nice,’ I replied.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, it’s a bit meaty, like Bovril.’
‘Give us a go then,’ Davies took a large swig and spurted it out all over himself. ‘It tastes like
Similar Books
