We flew into Glasgow, and the glamour didn’t stop there. Everyone involved in Kosovo was awarded a campaign medal during a big old ceremony at Arbroath. Watching Remembrance Day parades with Granddad, we’d see all these old boys and young lads with their various colours pinned to their lapels. Now I had one. The colour of the ribbon denotes the tour, and for Kosovo the colours were blue and white. I have to admit, wearing it on my blues – my parade uniform – gave me more of a boost than I had expected it to. I was proud, actually.
I just wished I could have done more to earn it.
I still couldn’t get over that sense of a missed opportunity in Pristina. My desire to serve on the front line was getting greater, not less. Wherever I went after 45 Commando I just wanted to be in the thick of it – although getting away from Scotland had its appeal as well. The SBS seemed the best of all worlds. While we were being global policemen in Kosovo they were running around actually fighting. They were storming buildings, creeping up on targets and slitting throats. And they were based down south, at Poole, in Dorset.
It’s fair to say that of the UK Special Forces, the SAS – the Special Air Service Regiment – is the most famous. The boys from Hereford, as they’re known, are the ones that get the public talking. They’ve been involved in some high-profile operations over the years, and been the subject of plenty of films.
The roots of both services go back to the Second World War. For a long time the SBS – which for a time was known as the Special Boat Squadron – existed in the shadows. Their motto used to be ‘Not by strength but by guile’, and they prided themselves on remaining unknown. Apart from James Bond and Paddy (later Lord) Ashdown, not many people are known to have served in it.
Traditionally, Hereford tends to attract the army boys whereas the SBS has proved more popular with marines, so to me it seemed logical to go with the flow. Operationally, both forces are very similar. If anything, the SBS has the greater range because while it is trained in all the land-based fighting that the SAS covers, including parachute jumps and helicopter assaults, it also has submarine and water-based utility. As specialists go, they are more all-rounders.
Like everything else in the military, you don’t just apply to get into the SBS. You have to attend an aptitude course to see if you are a strong enough candidate for the actual selection process. And so, in April 2001, I found myself in Poole, preparing for the worst week of my life.
Again.
It’s impressive, really, how you think you can’t be pushed any further, can’t be made to feel any smaller, and then the military finds an extra gear. Of course, it was punishing physically. There were upper-body tests, mobility assessments and a hell of a lot of running around. There was also an emphasis on the mental side. You need to be able to digest information and produce results quickly, so they were throwing stuff at us.
Learning curves don’t get much steeper. It wouldn’t be a boat service without a load of water work. We were given rudimentary instructions and diving gear, then literally thrown in at the deep end with diving gear. No allowance was made for those of us who had never done it before; indeed, the instructors actually preferred it if you hadn’t. That way they could chart how quickly you could adapt to a new challenge. For days afterwards I had blisters on my hands from canoeing, an infection from diving in dirty, muddy water, and dizziness from swimming a length and a half of an Olympic-size pool underwater. Did I mention the instructors were bastards?
Psychologically, nothing I’ve ever done in training prepared me for the final exercise. It’s called a combat fitness test and at its core was an 8-mile (13-kilometre) run carrying 55 pounds (25 kilos) of kit plus a weapon. It’s a standard Marines test with a couple of twists. Number one, the time you’re given to accomplish it is reduced. Number two, not everyone is allowed to finish.
We were about to set off when the instructor said, ‘You have to run full speed until one person drops out. If no one drops out you are all disqualified.’
It’s evil. There is no other word.
We set off, and obviously there was more pressure because no one wants to be the one dropping back. You also don’t want to set off at a stupid pace that you can’t maintain. Somewhere in the middle there’s a speed that you can manage that others can’t. It only needs one person to be having a bad day.
The problem, however, is that everyone else is thinking the same thing. You’ve got twenty other men, all equally skilled, equally fit and equally motivated. The speed of the pack got faster and faster, and even though running was my speciality I felt the old legs beginning to wobble. If someone didn’t give up soon I had a genuine fear it could be me.
For nearly two kilometres we kept the pace up, and then finally it happened. A lad who had actually been quite strong all week and had been pacing in the centre of the group suddenly just swore and disappeared behind us as though he’d been sucked out of the back of a plane. I can only imagine how gutting it felt for him, but to be honest I didn’t care. The second he vanished the rest of us virtually ground to a halt. We all needed a breather whether we cared to admit it or not.
It was horrible willing someone else to fail. It went against all the camaraderie that we’d built up over our careers in the forces. Still, rather him than me. Of the thirty people who started the week, I was one of twenty who passed.
‘Congratulations, Marine,’ the trainer said. ‘You’ll get a letter but we would like to invite you to start selection with us in summer.’
Plainly I should have snatched his hand off. The sooner I started selection the sooner I’d qualify for the SBS. But here was the thing. The course was about nine months long. That meant another nine months without front-line action. I don’t know why it was so important to me to get out there but the longer I went without doing it the more obsessed I became. I don’t know if it came from growing up with male family who were all operational: Dad, doing his bit in the Met, Granddad in the Second World War, Harry. At some level, did I want to take my place alongside them in the family annals? Whatever the reason, I knew my chances of seeing action would be greatly increased if I joined the SBS. But after three years in the Marines without achieving what I’d wanted to do, I was in too much of a hurry to wait any longer. Imagine training to be a lion tamer and in three years you never got to see a lion. No more delays. I decided to defer my selection and go back to the ranks.
I just hope I don’t regret it …
* * *
No one has a crystal ball. Deferring my selection for the SBS was a huge call, and I hoped it was the right one. I thought of those lads who’d served eight or nine years in Arbroath without seeing action – then quit before we moved into Kosovo. You have to get the big decisions right. Time would tell whether I had.
When I’d put in my request to leave 45 Commando I’d asked for a posting on general duties in the south. For about two minutes I got what I wanted.
40 Commando is based near Taunton, Somerset. Like RM Condor, the base was split into two, one half accommodation, the other working areas. There the similarities ended. The camp itself is much smaller, but Taunton is a metropolis compared with Arbroath. Coming from another market town, Guildford, I felt more comfortable there than I had up in the Highland wilderness.
I joined Charlie Company as a basic marine, but found there was a basic respect for me from the lads of equal rank and even above because this was my second draft and they knew I’d been operational with 45 Commando. I didn’t tell them how empty it had left me. Or that the experience was the reason why I had decided to leave HQ and go on general duties. Maybe I should have done. On my first day the company sergeant-major said, ‘We’re going to promote you to corporal.’
I couldn’t believe it. They didn’t even know me. It would mean more responsibility and more money, but it also meant going on another bloody course first. How on earth was I going to tell them I wasn’t interested? Who turns down a promotion on their first day?
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant-Major, I’ve just turned down SBS selection because I wanted to work, so I have to turn this down as well.’
Actually, he was relieved, impressed even. He was old school, and believed you should put in six or seven years before you got rewarded. How can you tell others what to do if you haven’t done it yourself?
It was my second big decision in as many weeks. I regretted it almost instantly. We’d just got our orders for the next few months: mountain training.
So I was going on a course after all, with less pay, less responsibility and in the country that warm weather forgot. Scotland (again).
Nice one, Rob.
It got worse. When we reached the Isle of Skye I realised we weren’t even the main event. The Brigade Reconnaissance Force was up there training and they needed something to hunt. We were the ‘something’. In fact, it was a lot of fun. Towards the end the sergeant-major told five of us – me, Pete Howe and three others – that there were three lance-corporal positions coming up. We’d all shown leadership qualities up on the mountain, would we like to undertake an extra task for one of the posts?
God, another decision.
I’ve always loved being tested. The five of us did an extra afternoon’s work and I was one of those selected, on merit this time. It would be a £10-a-day pay rise, which I thought was a fortune, and best of all it was a local promotion. I wouldn’t have to go on any courses and it was only in effect while I served with 40 Commando. Perfect, then.
* * *
Because it is an arm of the Royal Navy, a lot of people assume that the Marines are sea-based. In three years of being qualified I’d done Arctic training, mountain training, even jungle training, but I hadn’t been on water once. Now, in the summer of 2001, that was about to change.
Part of the country’s military readiness is its Amphibious Ready Group (ARG). At any time there is a Royal Navy warship touring the seas, packed to the gills with artillery and a strike force-capable unit. In August 2001 the ship was the flagship of the Royal Navy, the amphibious assault ship HMS Ocean, and the unit was 40 Commando. We were the R1 of the water.
There’s plenty of repetition in the military. I had not expected how much. My first role as a lance corporal was to join the advance party for the company’s roll-out. So, just as I had been in the signals, I was sent out to prepare the ground.
HMS Ocean was massive: 203 metres long, 35 metres wide, with a top speed of 18 knots (21 kph). She carried 18 helicopters, 40 vehicles, and had a crew of 285 plus 180 Fleet Air Arm or RAF personnel. Crucially for us, however, she had capacity for an armed force of 830 Royal Marines. It was my job, along with other corporals, to get on board early to work out where the hell everyone was going to go.
The permanent Royal Navy crew is in charge of the actual running of the ship. We’re not responsible for piloting the thing or manning the guns, loading the missiles or protecting the ship. The Navy has all that covered. We’re there purely to be ferried from A to B and to be the meanest bastards we can be on arrival. That’s not to say we didn’t have a role to play if the ship came under attack. Before the unit arrived I had to be on top of all security protocols and all safety procedures.
The group’s first destination was Portugal. For departure the entire company lined the deck, in uniform, standing to. Once we were at sea the training started. To a large extent it was as though we were on land. The PT drills, the artillery training, the strategy meetings, they could all have taken place anywhere. The only difference was having to familiarise yourself with your station if the ship came under attack.
The cabins were as small as you may imagine. Everyone had a bunk and a locker and that was about it. I shared with a bunch of great lads. Marines mingle effortlessly and it didn’t take long for me, Sibsy, Briggsy and another lad called Rob to hit it off. (Rob was fairly studious, and in fact later became a teacher.)
I could feel the change in the temperature the further south we sailed. When we arrived in Lisbon at the end of August it was like mid-July back home. For the ship’s arrival in port we once again took our stations around the deck. The display is as much a show of strength as an impressive sight. It also let the locals know exactly what they were in for.
As it turned out, there was no strategic purpose to our stopover in Lisbon. We were there purely for rest and recreation (R&R), and when that had ended we sailed down to Gibraltar, then eastwards to Cyprus.
Training of British forces in Cyprus has been going on for years, for the island is perfectly equipped for what we needed to do. Exercise 1 was pure ARG. We were split into sections and, under emergency conditions, ordered to board helicopters and storm the target beach in a full-on aerial assault. We were only firing blanks, but it was exhilarating. Not just for me: C Company was alive. The amount of kinetic energy, the sheer volume of bodies and the display of hardware took me straight back to books I had read about military history. It didn’t matter who we went up against. You could not imagine our being bested by any force on earth.
After the pure amphibious work we relocated from the ship to Camp Bloodhound in the south of the island. We weren’t the only ones there. An American contingent had been attached to the ARG for the duration of the exercises. Before we did anything we had to erect our own tents, and after that the training didn’t let up, with much of it focused on team versus team. Again, the hardware, the energy, the aggression and firepower, they were all up there. It was as much fun as you can have with blanks. Only the ridiculous heat put any negatives on the day. At a time when half the island was still in swimwear, we were bogged down in armour and kit weighing 30 pounds (13.5 kilos).
The temperatures didn’t drop just because it was now September. A few days after our arrival at Bloodhound we were in the middle of an exercise when suddenly it was stopped. No explanation, no clue, just one simple order: ‘Back to camp.’ It was the middle of the day, we were roasting, and any break in work is happily received. Still, there was something odd about the way it happened. Marine training is relentless. It stops for nothing. Something was definitely up. I just didn’t know what.
We made our way back to our tents sharpish. No one knew what was happening. There were no mobile phones or television. Crucially, no intel from above, either, although we were put on standby. It was clear we were responding to some unknown event.
After what seemed an age one of the American sergeants came into the camp. He summoned all the US contingent and led them into one of the makeshift buildings. The rumours flying around ranged from the bizarre to the ridiculous. None of them, though, was as unimaginable as the truth. The Americans were shell-shocked afterwards as they told us what had happened. Two passenger jets had been flown into New York’s Twin Towers. It was Tuesday, 11 September 2001.
* * *
When British troops were sent into Kosovo, the mood in Arbroath had been one of eager anticipation. If there was going to be a rumble, we wanted to be the ones bringing the noise. But as details about what would come to be called 9/11 gradually seeped down to us, we couldn’t afford to be so gung-ho. Thousands of people had died. We couldn’t forget that. It wasn’t right to get excited so quickly. Especially with some of our American colleagues having relatives and friends in the Big Apple. At that stage no one knew who was dead and who was alive.
More importantly, what opponent could we fight? In Kosovo the enemy was clear. This time there wasn’t a foreign agency claiming responsibility. When it did emerge that the terrorist attack had been the work of al-Qaeda, we were none the wiser. Osama bin Laden, the group’s leader, was apparently a native of Saudi Arabia. We couldn’t go to war against the Saudis, could we? – given Britain’s long alliance with the country.
There followed a stagnant pause during which everything kind of stopped. For forty-eight hours we didn’t train, we didn’t march, we just sat on our beds and surmised. What, we wondered, were the officers doing inside those buildings all day? What were the options they were discussing? I hated being kept in the dark. For the first time since April I found myself missing the signals branch. If I was still on comms I’d be in that room with the officers, and would know exactly what was being said, what plans were in the pipeline. On paper I had more responsibility and rank than ever before, yet I was getting all my gen. on a need-to-know basis, just like everyone else. And I fucking hated it. Had I cocked up by leaving that branch? Was it another decision I’d got wrong?
The only thing that kept me sane was knowing that if we were mobilised I was better served as a general-duties player. But ‘if’ can be a big word.
After two or three days word began to circulate that Afghanistan might be a potential target. Why, it wasn’t clear. Suddenly everything I’d read about that hellish country came flooding back.
‘Anybody that goes into Afghanistan is going to have a fight on his hands.’
‘Yeah,’ Other Rob said. ‘These are not people to be underestimated.’
‘But you know what?’ Briggsy said, ‘I still hope it’s us.’
No one disagreed.
You could have cut the atmosphere in the camp with a bayonet. We were desperate to be called upon. Surely it was only a matter of time. We were on HMS Ocean, the R1 of the Navy, we were just a ride through the Suez Canal away from the perceived enemy and we were primed to the nth degree to go. We had helicopters, weapons, ammunition, we were fresh, we were keen and we were near by. What more could the politicians and strategists back home need?
As the list of New York’s civilian casualties piled up the talk in the newspapers grew more aggressive. There was definitely going to be a response. Our news supply was second-hand at best – actual papers took a week to reach us – but as reports filtered through of ships heading out to the Arabian Sea I started to feel just a little nervous. Oh my God, this is actually real. We’re going to get the call. I couldn’t help smiling.
This is going to be our war.
Finally, the metaphorical white smoke emerged from the officers’ building. They had a plan. It was time to move out.
This is it, I thought. Adrenalin levels were already sky high. There was a chance they were about to tip over the edge.
Then we got the order. We were returning to HMS Ocean. But we weren’t heading to Afghanistan. We were going to Oman.
To train.
* * *
It was Kosovo all over again. What part of R1 was someone out there not understanding? Were they telling me there was a better-equipped, more highly trained force on the doorstep than ours? It didn’t matter that I was in a unit of more than 600 people. When you keep getting overlooked for what’s rightfully yours it’s hard not to take it personally.
We were soon shocked out of our disappointment. The route to Oman was via the Suez Canal. Generally this was a safe passage. However messy Britain’s relationship with Egypt had been historically, fully armed helicopter carriers weren’t generally considered targets. But, a few weeks earlier, nor had Manhattan skyscrapers.
As we approached Port Said the command was for full-alert battle-readiness. The ship’s crew all had their stations. Each part of the ship was split between sailors and their fixed-gun positions augmented by us with general-purpose machine guns (GPMG). There was a weapon primed every ten yards, the full 360 degrees. Orders were clear: fire on anything that comes near this damn ship.
The fact we were on red alert tells you that the officers had concerns. If there was a specific threat it was kept from us. Most the lads were okay with that. I was doing my nut wishing I could be party to the intel. We were about to steer slowly through Egyptian waters and I didn’t honestly know whether they’d played any role in the terrorist attacks. We were completely in the dark.
The Suez Canal is 120 miles (193 kilometres) long from top to bottom. Some of it runs through vast swaths of desert where you’re lucky to see an animal, let alone a human. Elsewhere it’s like rowing up the Seine: a narrow waterway through thriving urban areas. You can almost smell the people on the banks, they’re that close.
The not knowing was the worst aspect. In the really narrow parts of the canal a kid could have lobbed a bottle and it might have hit us. The ship’s that big. Imagine what an aggressor with a gun could do. For eight hours we didn’t dare blink as we cut our way through.
The wider sections had their own difficulties. With nothing to see but orange land and blue sky it’s harder to keep your energy up. I was begging for just a farmer to go by on his tractor simply to break up the monotony. I’m proud that no one let their guard down. Marines sleep when they’re allowed to, not before. Only when we hit the deeper waters of the Red Sea were we were allowed to take a step back. As the coastline disappeared our machine guns became less useful. Anything that occurred now could be handled by the ship’s own defences.
We arrived at Muscat, the capital of Oman, without incident and disembarked. Again we stayed in tents we erected ourselves, this time in a fairly ad-hoc camp. Bloodhound it was not. We were miles from anywhere, cut off from everything. Whatever was happening post-9/11 it was happening with us still in the dark. The mood, as a result, was a mixture of sombre reflection and agitation. We were a strike force without anything to strike. Whatever the brass had lined up for us would have to be exceptional to make up for the disappointment of missing out on front-line service.
We were in Oman for a planned six-week programme. The first part was not dissimilar to the jungle training in Belize. We were working with tanks, and on desert navigation, tactics and warfare. Throw in the heat and new equipment and it was pretty intense. The second part was more role-play, teams versus teams. It was a big deal. The scale of the exercise was mind-blowing, which only made you more conscious of how it could be better deployed on the other side of the Gulf. But would that have been as profitable?
Midway through we were joined by a division of army boys. Now the war games kicked up a gear. They had their Challenger 2 tanks and all manner of state-of-the-art vehicles and artillery. We had our trenches in the ground, our rifles and GPMGs, our bergans and our wits.
Oh, and superior training, skill and expertise. The only problem was, we weren’t allowed to use them. The point of exercise was to prove the unsurpassed capabilities of the hardware – for the simple reason that potential buyers from all over the Arab world were present as observers. If you’re going to be cynical about it, we were one giant advert for an arms dealer – that dealer being the UK government. The last thing they wanted was the Royal Marines, defending against the army and their high-tech weapons and equipment, showing off their natural superiority.
Week after week we obliged. We played the role of baddies to a T. We conducted raids, we attacked, we tracked, we retreated, we did everything you’d expect from a crack military unit. It was all done at 100 per cent effort, the only way we knew how. Ultimately, though, we were overpowered – we had to be: it was in the script – and the army forces and their shiny toys won the day.
It was hard to stomach. There were so many ways I could see that we could overturn a result, had we been permitted. On more than one occasion I was tempted to say, ‘Fuck it all.’
It turned out I was not alone.
On one particular afternoon we were all manning our trenches. The script said that an armoured vehicle – in this case, a Warrior infantry fighting vehicle – would approach our position, open fire and we’d roll on our bellies, feet in the air, like good dead pups. We knew the score, we’d done it so often. It never got any better.
On this occasion the Warrior roamed into sight. It ‘opened fire’ and we all ‘died’. Almost all. When the dust settled and the infantrymen in the tank opened their hatch a lone figure leapt from the trenches. He ran screaming at the tank, pelting the emerging soldiers with rocks. They didn’t know what hit them – although it was obviously rocks. In the end they started scurrying back inside the Warrior, but not before our man scrambled up the side, ripped open the turret hatch and chucked a large stone inside.
‘Grenade!’ he yelled. ‘You’re all fucking dead!’
It was crazy, it was brilliant, and for us ‘dead’ marines it was a lifesaver. There wasn’t a man among us who believed for one minute that a battalion of army regulars could touch a crack marine unit. And this crazy man had proved it. For a week afterwards morale was through the roof. Yes, it may have cost a few billion pounds in lost sales, but what’s money?
The man in question I’ll call ‘the Canadian’, for obvious reasons. He’s a good friend of mine and mad as a box of frogs. But you’d want him on your side, not against you, no question. In peacetime he’s entertainment itself. In wartime he’s an animal. Perfect, really. And just what you need to keep your spirits up when you realise you’re never, ever, going to see action on the front line.
* * *
When we left the ship and went into the desert we lost connection with everything. The whole of the outside world didn’t really apply to us any more, for it would have been a distraction. Mail came every couple of weeks, newspapers were a long time out of date, communications were only for the people giving orders. For us, being so far out of the loop was not getting any easier.
Post from home affected everyone, of course. When you’re away for months on end your personal mail is considered a priority, especially if you have a girlfriend who is a bit hacked off because you keep disappearing. It wasn’t a daily service by any means but every so often you’d see a corporal with a postbag in the most unlikely of places. In early November he found me.
I was lying with four other guys in a trench that it had taken us most the morning to dig. We were in full battle kit and sweating a pound of weight an hour, I swear. During a slight lull in proceedings before the next staged attack a shadow suddenly loomed over us.
Two of us got letters. Three didn’t. Maybe next month it would be their turn. I took off my gloves and ripped open mine. I hoped it was from Deborah, my girlfriend, but unless she’d acquired an MOD franking machine I was out of luck.
The letter read simply: ‘You have been chosen for SBS selection on 23 January 2002.’
Shit. Another decision.
* * *
You could be forgiven for thinking that I didn’t want to join the Special Boat Service. I did. A lot. Doing so would all but guarantee front-line action. Just not soon enough. I looked at where I was. Geographically, that was obviously Oman, barely a paddle to Afghanistan, comparatively speaking. Situationally, our six-week war games/marketing exercise were drawing to a close. We had to go somewhere next. My money was on north-east – to Afghanistan, only 1,100 miles or so by air. It made sense. On 7 October the United States had launched Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF) in coalition with the UK. The mission was in response to the Taliban government’s refusal to hand over to America Osama bin Laden and other al-Qaeda members. Its objective: to remove the Taliban government and destroy the terrorist cell. It was only a matter of time before NATO and world opinion joined them. The clock was ticking. As far as I could tell, 40 Commando was on the cusp of going into theatre.
Or was it? Was I jumping to conclusions? The intel around the camp hadn’t changed. We were still being told nothing. The only information passed directly to us was that Christmas – our Christmas, that is – was cancelled.
I needed clarification. I spoke to my sergeant-major.
‘Are we going into Afghanistan?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know.’
‘But we’re not going home for Christmas?’
‘That could mean something or it could not. You know how it is.’
Opinions were divided 50/50. Everyone I spoke to said the opposite to the last guy. We were either skipping Christmas because we were setting sail for Afghanistan. Or we were skipping Christmas to wait and wait and wait, then go in in six months later as a peacekeeping force.
Not for the first time I cursed no longer being inside the inner sanctum of signals branch. What to do? I really wanted to get my hands dirty. If I tried out for the SBS I definitely would. But what if the ARG on board HMS Ocean entered the fray first?
With a heavy heart I accepted the invitation to SBS selection and informed my superior, the company sergeant-major. He was annoyed but wheels started turning almost at once, and two days later I was on a flight back to England. I wasn’t alone. The Canadian and one other marine were going to selection as well. At least the journey home would be lively.
All three of us had suffered the same anguish. By the time we landed in London, though, we’d convinced ourselves that we’d done the right thing.
‘There’s no fucking way Charlie Company is going to Afghan,’ the Canadian said.
The two of us agreed.
Ten days later I turned on the news. HMS Ocean was powering her way through the Arabian Sea.
Her destination? Afghanistan.
* * *
I’ve suffered a load of lonely Christmases during my time in the Marines, but 2001 was the worst. I was with my family, I was with my girlfriend, I was with my friends. But I wasn’t where I wanted to be. C Company, 40 Commando, according to the news, had landed in Afghan and boldly secured Bagram airport for the coalition troops. Whichever way you looked at it, my Decision 4 had been a disaster. Not that anyone else realised.
‘C Company?’ Mum said. ‘Isn’t that who you used to work for? You’re lucky not to be there.’
Thanks, Mum …
Had I just grown homesick? Is that what my decision had boiled down to? I rang the Canadian. He was as pissed off as me, although more phlegmatic.
‘It was a shit decision, we all know it, move on. Just knuckle down for selection.’
Christmas was frustrating but the weeks afterwards were worse. Every day I’d run and run and run and then run some more. Up hills, down hills, carrying weights, not carrying weights. All of it on my own. It’s not like I had a choice. Everyone I knew had a job. They had somewhere to be during the day. In the Marines you never train on your own. At least in the evenings I could go out and try to obliterate the brain cells that made had such crappy decisions.
* * *
Selection for the SBS is another set of tests. A lot of tests. You have the hills phase which is four weeks, two weeks of advanced weapons training and PT, six weeks in the jungle, then two weeks of counter-terrorism training, so about fourteen weeks before you get the chance to start SBS training proper. Deborah wasn’t thrilled that I’d be away that long but at least, she said, ‘You’re only training.’ It’s not like I was in the line of fire.
Before my selection I hadn’t met anyone who’d passed. As miserable as I was at not being operational, I was confident that I had what it took. If I could just get there.
I’d already got through the week of aptitude tests to get loaded on to selection. Apparently, there was another hurdle – surprise, surprise! – a horrific fortnight’s physical beat-up down in Poole. We did so much running with backpacks that just putting a shirt on hurt the blisters on my spine. But only then was I allowed to progress.
Selection, finally. I’d sacrificed so much to get there it was actually an anti-climax to find just another Marines-style horror show at the end of it. We were up in the Brecon Beacons in South Wales, in an environment and climate that fitted the occasion. I’d like to say I that aced everything, but it was bloody hard. And indiscriminate. Crossing a river, men stronger than I were washed downstream because of the terrible conditions and weather. But I got through the first week, the second and the third. And I nearly made the fourth. Test week consists of six marches averaging 30 kilometres a day, with the last being ‘Endurance’. This is a beast: a 68-kilometre run with a full 25 kilos of kit. Not for the faint of heart or, it turned out, the unfortunate. On day 1 I was doing okay, on target for time when suddenly I felt my ankle give. I was running so fast I didn’t see the rabbit hole. As tough as my boots were, with the extra weight on my back, the ankle joint just gave out. It felt as though my foot had been ripped clean off.
Somehow I made it across the line within the time. That evening, though, my ankle was the size of a melon. Sick bay said you’ve not broken anything so in theory you could start this march. I went back to my dorm and pulled on my boots and 25-kilo pack. I could not even stand. The next morning I tried again. Even worse. Even if I were able to get to the start line, what were my chances of completing a run of something over forty miles miles?
Regretfully, I had to withdraw. Most of the other hopefuls were crushed on my behalf. Mike Jones, another marine and a great lad, was one of those who said, ‘You have to try out for this again. Promise me, as soon as you’re healed, you’ll apply again. Don’t give up on this.’ Even so, one bastard, an army man, took a different view. ‘They don’t make marines like they used to,’ he said. Luckily for him he said it out of my crutch’s range.
I was put on a bus back to SBS HQ in Poole, reflecting en route on yet another disastrous decision. When I arrived at Poole the officer in charge admitted that he didn’t know what to do with me.
‘Can’t I rejoin C Company?’
‘They’re over in Afghan.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, obviously not then.’
‘Please?’
It didn’t matter how I phrased it, linking up again with 40 Commando was not an option. I was left to stew for a couple of days, and then a junior officer handed me a letter with my new posting: HQ & Sigs.
Oh fuck …
* * *
Number 1, I was sick of signals. Number 2: UK Amphibious Group HQ is not even a Commando unit.
I really thought my decisions couldn’t get any worse. HQ & Sigs is a support group for the big boys. Not only does it not do strike-force operations, it mostly doesn’t even want to. Most of their work is specialist and, although crucial, oh so dull. It includes specialist vehicle mechanics, specialist drivers, specialist logistics experts and, obviously, specialist signallers. There was one section, however, that didn’t smack of suburbia, as it were.
Almost hidden beneath the HQ & Sigs umbrella is the Brigade Patrol Troop. Now this definitely is not dull. These guys are the surveillance and reconnaissance unit for the whole of 3 Commando Brigade. They sit somewhere between conventional forces and the SF guys, and they are never short of action. If I wasn’t going to go mad at HQ & Sigs, I had to get on board.
When I turned up at Plymouth’s Stonehouse Barracks, which, if I’m honest, is a fine place to turn up to (known as ‘the spiritual home of the Royal Marines’, the main buildings date from the eighteenth century), I came straight out with my request. The provost scratched his head. ‘The next aptitude test for Patrol Troop is full. Ask me again later.’
That sounded positive.
‘What shall I do in the meantime? Have you got anything similar?’
He smiled. Never a good sign.
‘Just wait over there a minute, would you?’
Which turned out to be one of those special military minutes. Forty-eight hours later I found myself out on car park duty. Specialist car park duty, no doubt. From potential Special Forces recruit to running a car park, all in a matter of days. I’d say I was gutted, but it was worse than that. I found myself with a lot of spare time to think on guard duty, and I realised a truth that I had been ignoring for too long.
I’m in the wrong job.
And I didn’t just mean that car park. The Marines had led to nothing but disappointment. I was conning myself if I thought that would ever change.
It did change, though – for the worse. A few weeks later they finally worked out what to do with me: stores, or ‘logistics’, as it was euphemistically termed. If you needed a pair of green combat trousers, I was the guy to come to. If you wanted fresh bedding, you would come and see me. I wanted Brigade Patrol Troop and I got blankets. It was so far from what I should have been doing over at Bagram Airbase in Afghanistan that it was funny.
A lot of people would have been offended by my attitude. Luckily for me, the guys running stores were diamonds. The ‘Two Georges’, as they were known. One of them, George, was the commando quartermaster – in charge of issuing all stores. He had served in the Falklands campaign of 1982, and having done his time in the front line was perfectly happy to have it out of his system. The other, George, was in charge of the air defence troop. He had a similar story. Along with another guy, Mark Wicks – curiously, not ‘George’ – they ran my life.
They could have made it very difficult for me, but all three recognised my frustration. Yes, they all knew that it was my own stupid decisions that had got me there. They also knew that the Marines would treat you like a pawns on a chessboard if you let them. So they were out to buck that. If there was a single opportunity for me to get outside stores and go on a visit, drive a vehicle, fire some weapons, one of the Georges would always put me up for it. They could not have been more helpful to me. I think they recognised a kindred spirit, albeit one quite a few years behind them in the system.
Yet however great my bosses were, I couldn’t escape the truth: I was a marine not being a marine. A fully trained potential killing machine doing the work of a sales assistant in Topshop. How had it all gone so wrong? Knowing that the answer was because of my own bloody decisions didn’t help.
I was in such a fug that when George 1 came in one day with news I barely listened.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you got your wish.’
‘What’s that?’
‘HQ & Sigs – we’re going to Afghan.’
I think he expected a few cartwheels, or the like. Honestly, though, I didn’t have it in me. By rights I should have been in Afghanistan already. I should have been fighting my way through Bagram. I should have been getting my hands dirty. Not going over to work in a glorified clothes shop.
‘That’s great, George,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
I was. So pleased that later that night I posted my application to join the Metropolitan Police.
Decision No. 5.