Going Commando Page 5

  Now high on the list of life’s necessities were items unknown to most teenage boys: washing powder (dhobi dust), Brasso, Duraglit, whitening fluid for pumps (blanco), nail-scrubbing brush, on/off boot-polish brushes, boot polish, starch and flip-flops. I took one of all of the above, and dumped everything into my newly bought plastic bucket. It left me with 45p to last the rest of the fortnight. The Ferrari could wait.

  The military-issue kit was an assortment of clothing and equipment as varied as our pick’n’mix of accents. We were shown once how to launder and look after our issued clothing. As ever, there would be no second demonstration; information had to be absorbed immediately. We wore hessian-like green shirts for normal duties, as opposed to the smooth stone shirts worn for drill. These needed to be as sharp as a pin, but would crease as soon as you looked at them. They would only iron well with the correct amount of starch. Too little starch made no difference. Too much and the subsequent stains looked like the wearer had become sexually excited. Our trousers, known as ‘denims’ but nothing like jeans, also had to be pressed to the required standard, and ‘immaculate’ was the only acceptable standard. This required arm-jarring pressing of the legs to create creases so sharp you could shave with them.

  On our feet, depending on the activity, we would wear Royal Marine high combat boots (RMHCB), which I loved as they made me at least an inch taller. On the down side, I looked like a glam rocker and they weighed the same as me, so running became especially exhausting. Bearing in mind we ran everywhere, they hardly made me feel like Darren Coe, Seb’s faster brother. We were issued two pairs of RMHCB, no doubt so that we could suffer twice as many blisters. Inside, we would insert plastic insoles that shared their moulding with ‘ACME Cheese Grater Inc’. Burning and rubbing, rather than cushioning and comforting, seemed to be the design priorities; they were so tough they could only be cleaned by scrubbing them with something equally as abrasive - another insole. The friction caused by rubbing a socked foot against the granite-hard plastic abrasions would be the only thing keeping us warm when winter approached.

  Drill boots, or ‘boots AP’ (achingly painful) as they were known, were the bane of every new recruit’s life. It was the first time I ever ironed a pair of boots – to smooth down the toecaps in preparation for the term forever associated with National Service - spit and polish. Shining toecaps to give a mirror finish took time and effort, and those who had the skill could make a few quid as a small-time boot polisher. The method I was shown was to apply a thin layer of polish with a duster or dry cotton wool; the polish then moistened with either some breath, spit or, for us modern types, tap water. Wet cotton wool was then used to smooth to a finish. This was repeated ad infinitum like a battery hen eating grain. It was impossible to get these boots ‘too polished’, and there was no obvious demarcation line between ‘not good enough’ and ‘good enough’. Only the DL would decide that, his opinion determined by his mood. This activity alone could take up a good couple of hours of a new recruit’s evening. On my deathbed I will ask the Lord for at least seven days extra, to make up for the time I lost polishing frigging drill boots.

  Gym pumps, known as ‘daps’, were just the adult version of the plimsolls worn by young children. Even these simple pieces of rubber and canvas required as much care and attention as every other bit of kit. After each workout, the cardboard-thin soles had to be scrubbed, the whitening blanco reapplied and the laces washed. Any marks on the gleaming white material stood out like a racing dog’s gonads to the beady-eyed PTIs and would result in a hairdryer of a bollocking, accompanied by press-ups or burpees or sit-ups; just what we needed before a long session of press-ups, burpees and sit-ups.

  The most significant piece of clothing issued was the beret. Unless we were big fans of Frank Spencer, the chances were that none of us had ever worn one. The Royal Marine recruit beret was dark blue with a red patch at the front, in memory of the beret worn prior to the granting of commando status in 1940. Its shaping was troublesome. Rather than the sleek, moulded beret of our dreams, it often resembled an aircraft carrier’s landing deck. On the red patch we punctured two holes, using a ruler for perfect placing of the globe and laurel leaf cap badge of the Corps. Behind the badge sat two protruding pin posts. Between their eyes sat a pin to hold the cap badge firmly in position. These post pins were just long enough to press uncomfortably into the forehead so as to elicit a headache, and just short enough to stick into the forehead when the DL smacked the cap badge into the skull for having it ‘slightly out of place’. I still have a small indentation in my head from my careless misplacement.

  The field equipment we were issued was a myriad of pouches, sacks and mysterious utensils that would be our life support system out on exercise or operations. To my untrained eye, the various parts looked like an extremely difficult 3D jigsaw puzzle straight from The Krypton Factor. I struggled to fathom what went where, watching the corporal like a hawk as he put the items together with Blue Peter-type instructions, even having a set he’d prepared earlier. The 58 pattern webbing system, as was issued in those days, had been designed by a woman. As I’d yet to grasp the intricacies of a rear-fastening bra strap, I laboured to see how to fix the various items together. Those who received new webbing, as opposed to cast-offs, were further handicapped by material as flexible as a band of forged steel; you needed the grip of Arnold Schwarzenegger to bend the various buckles, pins and fasteners together.

  Streamlined in design, every pouch was designed to hold a certain piece of equipment which was slightly too big to fit comfortably. As I was later to find out on numerous occasions, the pouch would shrink further when wet, just enough to make inserting that certain piece of equipment impossible without a five minute fight of pushing, pulling and swearing.

  I marvelled at the scarcity of equipment that would be our field ‘home’: a sleeping bag that unravelled to the size of a sofa and released the wonderful, musty aroma of damp soil. There was a ‘poncho’ that was nothing like the Mexican version, but when unravelled became our bivouac shelter or ‘bivvy’, and also released the wonderful, musty aroma of damp soil. We would sleep on a roll mat, a thin roll of foam that, when unraveled, released the wonderful, musty aroma of (well, I’m sure you can guess…).

  Also issued were a water bottle and mug, two mess tins scoured, scratched and scored more than an Olympic ice-skating rink, and a KFS (knife fork spoon) in a luxurious faux-leather case. In addition, we were given a holdall to be filled with a three-piece razor and ten blades, a soap, a flannel, a housekeeping needle and thread, 20m of green string, a metal mirror, the KFS, boot polish and brush, comb, toothbrush and toothpaste. The holdall could accommodate a quarter of these items at best, but it grew from the size of an immature courgette when empty to that of a steroid-infused marrow. Of course, it then had to fit inside a pouch the size of an aubergine with muscular dystrophy.

  I was happy to be issued a pick rather than a shovel. It looked easier to pack, and I’d hated shovelling the garden beds as a boy when press-ganged into helping my grandad tend to his prize-winning roses. Also, I reckoned the ergonomic benefits of the pick would be a godsend when it came to actually using it. Surely gravity would assist the downward force of a pick, whereas a shovel needed strength applied to lift things up? On the other hand, carrying a pick over my shoulder would make me look like one of the seven dwarves, hopefully not Dopey (although he wore the most stylish hat).

  Near the end of day one, the timetable listed a ‘washing demonstration’. Even I felt a little patronised to be told how to wash. I was clean; I had my Lynx deodorant to prove it. However, having little choice, our DL called us into the showers – or ablutions, as they were now to be known – dressed only in our towels and crippling flip-flops, holding our wash bags – now known as dhobi bags. Clad only in a green issue towel, the DL stood confidently by the sinks and gave an introductory lesson in shaving that, for me, was quite informative. I’d shaved my pathetic excuse for a moustache when necessary (around once
a month), but I’d only used my stepdad’s electric shaver. I had never actually used a razor, something the DL picked up on straight away.

  ‘Everyone here will shave every morning,’ he said. ‘Some of you hairy beasts may have to do it twice a day. Although I doubt that will be a problem for you… what’s your name again?’

  ‘Time, Corporal.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right, the pikey. Have you ever shaved properly, Time?’

  ‘Not really, Corporal.’

  ‘Not really? What does that mean? It’s either yes or no.’

  ‘No, Corporal.’

  ‘Thought not. Can’t afford a razor?’

  I returned his smile, along with the giggles from the group. I was at least glad to be noticed.

  ‘The first thing you need to know as a Royal Marine is that when we shave, we always do it topless,’ said the DL. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck if you’ve been shaving all your life with your top on – it stops now. It doesn’t matter if it’s minus forty, we take off our tops when we shave. If I ever catch anyone shaving with a shirt or jumper or even a vest on, you can standby. Do we understand?’

  The communal ‘Yes, Corporal!’ suggested we did.

  After he finished, he called me up to show him I’d understood his demonstration. Standing next to him I felt rather childlike; his arms had more girth than my legs, his chest had hair. While not the most difficult task, I still managed to get it wrong, necessitating his shaving me. Rather than cutting my head off, as I feared he might, he was genuinely gentle and shaved me to perfection on one side before allowing me to finish off the other.

  He then sent me back to the line and addressed the group again. ‘Right, men, don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get naked. If there are any beefers amongst you, hold back. You can have a wank after I’ve finished.’

  I laughed along with the rest, though I had no idea what a beefer was. With that, the towel was gone. I don’t think it was the first time he’d stripped naked in front of fifty men, as his confidence was startling in spite of him having a cocktail sausage for a cock. He then guided us through the importance of washing properly, demonstrating correct procedure in the shower. Reaching under his balls, he pulled out a large globule of what looked like shit that sat at the end of his finger.

  ‘See,’ he said. ‘If we don’t shower properly we might miss bits. If shit stays there it will cause infection.’

  With that, he looked more closely at his finger before putting it into his mouth and sucking off whatever was stuck on the end, much to our disgust.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, with a grin, ‘I can’t remember eating onions.’

  * * *

  The first two weeks of commando training are known as induction. I loved it. No parents and I was allowed to stay up as long as I wanted. In fact, it was actively encouraged. How two washing machines, five irons and four ironing boards would suffice for fifty-two recruits to get their kit immaculately prepared before an early bedtime was anyone’s guess. Ironing starch, boot polish, Brasso, and white blanco paste were my weapons of choice in those fledging weeks, and within the first few days I could polish a tap better than any sixteen-year-old I knew.

  As the youngest of the intake I was at the bottom of the social order, one of the runts of the induction litter. We were the last to claim any piece of equipment or machinery to expedite the evening’s administration, and we soon learnt the meaning of ‘twos up’ as a form of verbal queuing; ‘twos up’ would be followed by ‘threes up’, ‘fours up’, et cetera. I was often about ‘forty-sixth up’ for anything of use. But I consoled myself with the thought that, while my loser civvy mates back home would be in bed at 3am, I was enjoying ironing my crease-prone clothing through bleary eyes, trying to avoid the dangers of Irish pennants (those tiny threads that protrude from new clothing) and tram lines (unintended creases caused by careless ironing).

  Cocooned within the induction block, fifty-two beds sat smartly in a row behind cloned lockers, our nice new shirts, boots and field equipment laid out exactly the same, our clothing folded to the size of the Royal Marines magazine, the famous Globe & Laurel.

  On the third day, we had our first locker inspection. We stood to attention while the DL strode around with a menacing glint in his eye. Already there were several empty lockers, the legacy of guys who had already dropped out. Apparently, the Royal Marines wasn’t for them – though how they could know that after just cleaning stuff I don’t know. My pity for them extended only so far as to try and scrounge the washing powder they no longer needed.

  I stood with my head as immobile as that of the recruit opposite, whom I knew only as Hopkins. At this early stage, we were still addressing each other formally by our surnames; nicknames were yet to be developed (mine would have been Dracula, as I was usually up all night).

  The DL certainly didn’t rush, taking an age to inspect the first few guys. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see lads flinching as their clothes were strewn over the floor in front of them.

  After an hour or so of flying clothes and the DL’s enlightening use of swear words, I realised that my feet ached. I hadn’t stood still for so long since I’d won a musical statues contest at a school Christmas disco. On this occasion, I doubted I was going to win a stocking-shaped chocolate selection box. To my left, the DL was working himself into a nice lather.

  ‘What in the name of fuckety-fuck is going on here?’

  It was one of those questions impossible to answer. To do so could only dig an even deeper hole. Sensibly, the recruit, a bigger and much older lad than me, stood silent.

  ‘Name?’

  He was on safer ground with that one. ‘Elliott, Corporal.’

  ‘Do you know better than me, Elliott?

  ‘No, Corporal.’

  ‘Then why have you laid your locker out differently to how I told you?’

  Another one that just couldn’t be answered. Elliott remained schtum.

  ‘You…’

  A jumper flew through the air.

  ‘…can…’

  A shirt followed it.

  ‘…stand…’

  Elliott’s water bottle hurtled past my face.

  ‘…by!’

  His webbing was kicked across the floor with an action that suggested the DL wasn’t in the Corps football team. He closed in to eyeball Elliot, who arched backwards. With his body off balance, the DL pushed him with his index finger – not violently, just enough for Elliott to fall back. Catching his heel on the foot of the locker, he fully lost his balance and disappeared inside. The locker swayed to and fro with Elliot trying to steady himself, but only increasing the momentum. Hopkins found it funny, as did I. Not just funny – hilarious. Vastly against our better judgement, we started giggling.

  To be fair, we tried to suppress it, but everyone knows that when you try to stop laughing all it does is hold the laughter cells in a queuing system in your throat where they call their mates along for a go. We tried to stop – oh, how we tried. I watched Hopkins turn a deep red, tears streaming from his eyes. I could see something had to give, and it was his nose. Within seconds it was bubbling with snot. I realised, to my horror, that I looked exactly the same.

  Elliott’s locker fell like a tree backwards, with the guy fighting all the way to keep himself upright. Green streams of snot were cascading volcanically down either side of Hopkins’ philtrum. He was desperately sucking the slime into his mouth to hide the silent giggling but his teary eyes were a dead give-away, swivelling left and right like an eagle-eye Action Man (which I’d longed for but never received) from the DL to me to the locker-clad Elliott, frantically trying to scramble free from his chipboard tomb.

  Like a shiny-booted obscenity tornado, the DL laid waste to anyone and everyone’s locker. Seemingly bored of shouting, when he approached mine he simply stared at my snot-covered face and threw out all my belongings without so much as a courteous introduction.

  Around the induction block, when the shiny floors weren�
��t covered in recruits’ clothing, everything was immaculate and ordered – a not-so-subtle hint for us to achieve the same. The walls were perfectly lined with pictures of Royal Marines participating in feats of derring-do, and Corps history posters; all well before the corporate world got hold of smug motivational posters with words like ‘teamwork’ below a picture of ants lifting a leaf or some other shite. These posters were there to invoke the esprit de corps, the primal glue that bonds together the men of the Royal Marines.

  With us all packed tightly together, we got to know our comrades quicker. We were making the first steps toward camaraderie. This togetherness was underpinned by lectures about the history and traditions of the Royal Marines. The importance of these lessons could not be underestimated. We needed to know what we aspired to be part of and where we stood in the grand scheme of things.

  Learning a new language was also included in splinter lessons. Although sat apart like a dog in a cattery, Royal Marines are officially part of the Royal Navy, so we learned ‘jackspeak’ slang to embed us further into our new culture. Those lucky few who made it through the course would be known as plain ‘royals’, or, more commonly, ‘bootnecks’ – so called for the leather neck collars worn in days of old by our forebears to prevent mutinous sailors from slitting their throats whilst on guard duty. One assumes this led to a rise in stab wounds to the chest.

  As mere recruits we were nicknamed ‘nods’, perhaps due to our persistent nodding off from being awake twenty hours a day. Sailors were ‘matelots’. Army personnel were called ‘pongos’, because their questionable hygiene levels gave rise to the old military phrase, ‘where the army goes, the pong goes’. The RAF, the most civilian of the forces, were known as ‘crabfats’ due to their uniform being exactly the same colour as the lotion used by military personnel to get rid of pubic lice. It’s amazing what you could learn even before the advent of the internet.