Break Point Page 2

  John found out that I was talking about joining the Marines and started telling everyone in Burton that he’d be on the training team and he’d never let me pass. Once again, it was someone telling me that I was going to fail.

  I was 18 when I went on the Potential Royal Marines Course (PRMC). That was two years after I’d wanted to join up, for reasons I’ll explain later. I was fit as a flea, smashed the three-day course out of the water and was accepted on 29 May 1989, a date that is etched on my mind.

  I was still suspicious of authority, which some people will find strange. You can’t question authority at all in the military and we’re led to believe that soldiers don’t last if they don’t conform. But failing to conform would be a recurring feature of my military career. Even before I joined up, I was taking little jabs at the bosses. Before leaving for the 32 weeks of basic training, I went and got my head shaved. It had to be done, but I was going to do it in my own time, rather than have it done for me. Far less cool was what happened the night before I left, when I dived off the Trent Bridge and hit the bottom of the river, bashing up my face.

  On the train down to the Commando Training Centre at Lympstone, I bumped into Troy Robson, a black guy with an Afro and a big silver chain with his name on it. We ended up in 576 Troop together and formed a close bond. I loved him to bits, as did everyone else, but being the only black guy meant he was always going to get a fair bit of ribbing. One of the first things we did on arrival was pick up our gun. I couldn’t wait. When I walked out of that room with my SA80 assault rifle, I was proud as anything. Standing in line, I felt like a real soldier already. Then I heard uproarious laughter, followed by the sight of Troy walking out of the room with a spear. Troy found it funny as well, but if that happened today, there would be an inquiry and sackings.

  Training was brutal from the outset, as it has to be. Some recruits didn’t even make it through the first night. The discomfort of being away from home and the intimidation of the training team was too much to bear. The people constantly barking at us were fully fledged Royal Marine Commandoes – gods in most of the recruits’ eyes – and they scared us shitless. Not that they threw us straight into the rough stuff. The first lessons we learned were basic administration and personal hygiene, including shaving, showering and ironing. I regretted not offering to help my mum press those piles of shirts on a Sunday afternoon; I would have picked up some valuable lessons.

  I was taken aback by the meticulous attention to detail that was demanded of us. At times, it seemed pointless. I hadn’t joined the Marines to iron shirts. But eventually I understood that all that shaving, ironing and polishing was essentially a metaphor for operating in a warzone: sloppiness becomes habitual, and your life and your mates’ lives are dependent on the minutest of details, be it the cleaning of a weapon or checking behind a door during an assault on a building.

  The learning curve was steep, with each new skill taught against the backdrop of beastings so savage that no Royal Marine ever forgets them. I certainly didn’t find it easy. No one does. But my passion and drive were just so strong that I knew I’d still be standing after 32 weeks, proud as punch in my green beret. My progress was made that bit smoother by my new buddies. Every Marine thinks their training troop is special. But 576 Troop contained some particularly fine people, none of whom I’ll ever forget and many of whom I’m still in contact with.

  In order to become a Marine, you have to pass the Commando tests. One of the tests is tackling an assault course while carrying full kit and a weapon. And the last part of the assault course is a six-foot wall. For most recruits, that’s not an issue. But for the smaller guys, it can be. We had a guy we called Yoda, because he was short and stout, and he failed to get over the wall twice, which meant he had one final attempt. And we couldn’t have Yoda not passing out of training with us – he was such a great bloke and a fine soldier, who just happened to be a bit shorter than the rest of us. So, Troy and I came up with a plan to get Yoda over the wall by banging a nail into the bottom of it, so that Yoda could push off it with his foot.

  We managed to find a nail but not a hammer to bang it in with, so had to make do with a frying pan instead. The night before the test, Troy and I crept down to the assault course on the bottom field, which was just across from a gate manned by a sentry. Luckily, it was a stormy night, so every time there was a clap of thunder, I whacked the nail with the frying pan. It was like that scene from The Shawshank Redemption, when Andy Dufresne is smashing a rock against the inside of the sewer pipe. My whole body shook from the impact and the noise was terrible. Every time I hit the nail, the sentry came running out and we hit the deck. But after about ten whacks with the frying pan, the nail was finally in.

  The next morning, we said to Yoda, ‘Mate, when you get to the wall, look down: three bricks up, there’s a little something to assist you.’ We all went down to support the boys, and sure enough, when Yoda got to the wall, he bounced straight over it, like a gymnast off a springboard. The instructors couldn’t believe it. And everyone else who had been struggling did the same. We never got rumbled, Yoda passed and ended up becoming a major. A couple of years ago, I found out that he now runs a climbing wall in Bristol.

  As training progressed, I grew both physically and mentally stronger. In fact, I very nearly broke the camp record for the Commando test’s endurance course, missing it by seconds. I was also handed my first leadership role as a section commander. That was quite a thing for someone so young and it was awesome for my confidence.

  I’d just picked up my section commander tabs when I bumped into John from my home town, who looked uncharacteristically sheepish. I said to him, ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d passed?’

  John looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him up. ‘Erm, I’m in Hunter Troop,’ he said.

  At that time, Hunter Troop consisted of all the people who got injured and rarely made it through. So I was absolutely over the moon. This bloke had told everyone he’d passed and was going to be on my training team, and it turned out he had been back-squaded and was on his way out. Obviously, being the mature person I was, I told everyone who cared to listen, and made sure the whole of Burton knew about it. Exaggerating your experience in the military (known as ‘bloating’) never goes down very well. John never did pass, and I doubt the fact that he inadvertently helped me on my way was of much consolation.

  Seeing my parents at my pass out at Lympstone was one of my proudest moments. Standing there in my Royal Marines parade dress, the peaked cap and so-called ‘Blues’, made me feel so powerful. I felt like a medieval knight in his suit of armour. Before that moment, I’d been a bundle of trouble, causing people bother, failing at school, never giving anything back. But now I felt like I was giving back in a big way.

  Mum loved the idea of me going into the military. When she was younger, she had been accepted as an officer in the Royal Navy, but Dad didn’t want her to join. She’s always regretted it, so I suspect that me going in was feeding that passion. She was also relieved, because only a few years earlier, she’d been dealing with a kid who was off the rails. I could tell that my dad was proud as well, but as far as I was concerned, that day was mostly about my mum, who had sacrificed so much in bringing me up.

  After passing out, I went up to 45 Commando in Scotland, which was renowned as the Arctic warfare unit. It had a reputation for being the hardest, and that’s exactly what I wanted to experience. What a mistake. I should have gone down to 40 Commando in Taunton. While my lot were nicknamed the ‘Arctic Warriors’, the lads down there were nicknamed the ‘Sunshine Boys’.

  When I turned up in Scotland, I thought I was joining up with the best of the best, the absolute cream. I was incredibly keen and naïve. On arrival, I dumped my bag in the guard room, had some dinner and was escorted to my accommodation. When I opened my bag, I found a piece of paper sitting on top of my clothes. On it, someone had drawn a big cock and balls, and written, ‘Welcome to 45, new boy knobber’. I t
hought, ‘What the hell have I done?’ It was someone telling me not to get too big for my boots, to stay in my box. I thought it was quite funny, but I realised that there was probably more to come.

  There were a lot of beatings going on, usually after a night on the piss. I was aware that the new boys got the beats, it was just a case of when. My initiation came when I returned from the pub early, fell asleep and a guy called Ray jumped on top of me and planted his knee in my face, smashing my nose to pieces. I was supposed to be going on my first exercise to Holland the next day but ended up in hospital instead. This had been my dream, my passion, and this was my first taste of it. I expected some sort of initiation, even a bit of rough stuff, but what I couldn’t understand was why this idiot had done what he’d done when he’d only recently passed out himself. Oh well, welcome to the Royal Marines…

  What the commanding officers thought was going on and what was actually going on were two different things. Because Marines are extremists by their very nature, there was all kinds of ridiculous shit happening that made rugby club antics look tame. The new boys would have to drink a ‘death wet’, which was a pint of the top shelf of spirits, all mixed together and downed in one. That can kill people. Another time, we were drinking in town and one of the older guys tried to set me up with this girl. She wasn’t really my cup of tea, but this guy kept egging me on, telling me to chat her up and take her home. Despite the copious amounts of drink, I managed to resist. The next morning, this guy said to me, ‘Good job you never went with her, she’s got HIV!’ I thought it was a joke. It wasn’t. It turned out her nickname was ‘Mary the Marine Tester from 45’. The humour was just so very dark, sadistic and raw.

  If you didn’t go along with the initiations, the banter and the dangerous drinking, you didn’t fit in. And if you didn’t fit in, you might find yourself being relentlessly picked on. It was par for the course, the natural thing to do, to the extent that even people who were actually quite nice ended up being bullies, just to be accepted. The Falklands War had happened in 1982, eight years before I joined the Marines, but it wasn’t usually the guys who fought there who dished this stuff out, it was mostly the guys who joined later. Maybe it was simply because they were younger, maybe it was down to the frustration at missing out on war.

  Making people do stupid things after a few drinks, singing songs and wearing daft clothes is fine. In fact, there is a longstanding tradition in the Royal Marines of dressing up as women. Legend has it that every Marine has a suitcase under his bed full of beautiful dresses that even their mums would be jealous of, as well as stockings, suspenders, wigs and nail varnish. The attention to detail is meticulous. Even I got involved once or twice and looked absolutely knockout. (I once went to a fancy-dress day at school as a fairy, so it was second nature.) That sort of stuff is pretty out there, but it’s harmless fun.

  When I’d been in for a few months and was considered to be a bit of an old sweat, by rights it was my turn to dish out some beats. Instead, I sent one of the new boys – Tim McAllister, who would later be best man at my wedding – out to hire a sunbed. That was a slightly nicer initiation than getting the shit beaten out of him. The whole dorm ended up with nice tans and we even made a few quid out of it, because we’d charge lads from other dorms to come and use it. What that story also tells you is that I always possessed a modicum of business acumen.

  Beating people up and pissing on them while they are asleep, to humiliate and demoralise them, isn’t harmless fun at all. It’s outright bullying, and I hated it. In case you were wondering, Ray, the guy who smashed my nose, didn’t end up being a mate, he ended up getting done for manslaughter.

  I joined the Royal Marines out of a deep passion to serve my country and test myself to the limit. This was an organisation I had idolised since I was a kid. So, seeing blokes who were supposed to be on my side doing things like that made me feel discouraged and a bit disappointed. How could I have admiration and respect for these people? They probably would have characterised their bullying as ‘character-building’. But it was horrible, knowing that every night your door could be bust open and people could rush in and start dishing out beats. I’d known that fear before. It didn’t exactly stoke my enthusiasm. Instead, it chipped away at my faith.

  2

  WILD CHILD

  Through an opening in the canvas, I could see a beautiful circle of sunlit grass, closed off by lorries and neighbouring tents. In the centre of the clearing, something was moving, although viewed from the darkness of the shelter, it was nothing more than a black smudge, its edges blurred by the searing sun.

  As if in a trance, I left the safety of the canopy and crept squinting into the light. The sky was an unbroken swathe of blue and the heat made my skin prickle. I blinked away the sun spots, the edges sharpened, and soon the black smudge took shape: it was a baby chimpanzee, quietly hoo-hooing to himself, between mouthfuls of assorted fruit that lay scattered around his feet. At that moment, my whole world was made up of me and that baby chimp. It was a little bit of heaven and nothing else mattered.

  I held my breath and ventured closer. My mouth was dry and my heart felt like it might burst through my chest. But excitement overrode apprehension. I stood over my new friend who looked straight up at me. He had beautiful, big brown eyes and looked so innocent and vulnerable. We stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity. It was as if we had become locked together by some strange, animal magnetism. I finally remembered to breathe.

  The chimp looked away, breaking the connection, and sniffed at the grass, before picking up a piece of fruit and passing it to me. It was a thrilling moment. Here I was, hanging out with a wild animal. I’d entered David Attenborough territory, the stuff of dreams. I took the fruit, pretended to eat it but threw it over my shoulder instead. The chimp didn’t seem to mind. He hoo-hooed contentedly, while I beamed back at him. I’d never been so happy. I felt like I could cry.

  The serenity was broken by what sounded like a fighter jet tearing through the sky. Even now, when I recall that shriek, it makes me want to clamp my hands over my ears. My eyes were drawn to a shape shuffling under a lorry, the shadow it cast becoming suddenly bigger and smaller as it went about its business. Before I could hazard a guess at what it might be, it had shot from the shadows and into the clearing. It was another chimp, but ten times as big as my new best buddy. And evidently far less friendly. The ambush was on.

  The big chimp ploughed towards me in a sideways gallop, her enormous arms crashing into the turf and her legs swinging seamlessly behind them. Her shrieking became louder and louder, as if she was trying to bury me in sound. Soon, she was so close I could see her enormous teeth, unsheathed for battle. Seconds earlier, I had been bathing in bliss. Now, I was in a state of terror.

  My animal instinct kicked in and I contemplated escaping. But when you’re faced with a 50-kilogram ape, you can’t contemplate for long. The big chimp came around the back of her little friend, as if measuring the distance, and when it had got to within about 20 feet of me, decided to pounce. What had been a beautiful bright blue was suddenly black – and getting blacker fast. It was as if the sky had collapsed and was falling in on me.

  The big chimp landed right on top of me and pinned me to the floor, like a cartoon boulder. She swung her thick arms above her head and brought them down with great force onto my chest and face, like a drummer in a rock band attacking her kit. She buried her face in mine, gnashed her teeth and swivelled her neck from side to side, like a dog with a rag doll. I covered my head with my hands, but when I opened my eyes and looked through my fingers, I saw that those teeth were dripping with blood. I could feel no pain, but I instinctively knew it was my blood, not the chimp’s.

  It was at that moment – the most horrendous moment of my life – that pure, blind panic was replaced by the urge to live. I realised I had a choice: either I stayed on my back and let this ape beat me into an early grave, or I attempted to escape. In other words, I had to make the
situation worse in order to make it better.

  The baby chimp was chained to a peg, so I hoped beyond hope that my attacker was as well. I somehow managed to twist my body, which knocked my attacker off balance and created a little bit of space between us. I brought my foot up and smashed it into the chimp’s chest, before scrambling back a couple of feet. The chimp regained her footing and came hurtling towards me again. But just as she was about to come crashing down on top of me for a second time, the chain that was indeed attached to her collar went taut. The chimp had lost none of her ferocity. Her shrieking was as loud and horrific as ever. Blood was everywhere, and I had no idea what part of my body it was spurting from. But I was out of harm’s way, albeit by a matter of inches.

  You might be wondering where I was serving when this incident took place. After all, chimpanzees are pretty thin on the ground in the Middle East. The truth is, I was only ten years old and the chimps were part of a circus visiting Burton-on-Trent. Which goes to show, your most pivotal moments – those moments that change the course of your life – can last for seconds, spring from the most unlikely of situations and be almost impossibly surreal.

  My soul has been laid bare in Special Forces Selection; I’ve raided boats laden with drugs and hardened criminals, out at sea and under the cover of darkness; I’ve had machine guns pointed in my face and been under siege. But none of that came close to dicing with death with that angry circus ape. That snap decision to escape – a decision that was instinctive, that I was barely aware I was making – was what kept me alive. That was my first break point.