Sniper Elite (4 page)

We started to learn about the various weapons the corps had and how to use them. Our personal weapon was the SA80 rifle made by Enfield, which we kept throughout our time at Lympstone. I thought it was an unusual design but very capable of carrying out what it was built for. It is a gas-operated 5.56 mm semi-automatic assault rifle. The size of its barrel bore is 5.56 mm; the projectile is slightly larger than the size of the bore in order to form a gas-tight seal. When a round is fired it produces a lot of gas due to rapid combustion of the propellant inside the cartridge case. This gas forces the projectile down and out of the barrel; some of the gas is diverted within the rifle back towards the bolt and internal working parts. This gas then forces these internal organs rearwards, which re-cocks the trigger mechanism. A return spring that has been compressed then pushes these parts forward to pick up another round from the magazine and guide it into the chamber. The bolt is locked in place and the weapon is ready to be fired again. Just pull the trigger, and the process starts again.

Gruesome Twosome, our second field exercise, came around all too quickly. This was conducted on Woodbury Common, the marines' 2,500-acre field training area. Woodbury Common is rolling countryside mostly covered in gorse bush, a spiny shrub that can grow up to 2–3 metres tall. It also has plenty of vegetated areas and open ground that is shared by the general public. All cuts and scratches had to be disinfected at the earliest opportunity as the ‘Woodbury rash' would lead to infection. Apparently there was a chemical in the ground left over from World War II. Once there, the DS took off their usual angry heads and replaced them with even angrier ones, and over the following four days we got absolutely hammered.

Gruesome Twosome served several purposes: it gave the DS a good idea of what we were all made of, and it gave the blokes who really didn't want to be there the opportunity to part from the corps and go back to civilian life. They physically challenged us at every opportunity. They would conduct spot kit inspections for the whole troop and throw dirty items into the bushes while giving some poor sod a face ripping. Individuals were never punished, it was always the whole troop that would suffer a random physical exercise. If the DS couldn't think of a new one, off-hand press-ups was always a favourite. Everything we had learnt so far was driven home by exhausting physical exercise incorporating a particular activity.

One night they led the troop into a false sense of security, and told us to get some rest as we would need it for the following day. This exercise was the first time many had slept out in the open for more than one night, and was the first step in teaching the marine to look after himself and his equipment in the field. The training team also hammered home the importance of personal admin and the ‘buddy-buddy' system of working together. We all slept–we had just fucked up! We forgot to place sentries on our night harbour position, and very early that morning we were woken by a torrent of pyrotechnics to simulate being mortared, followed by the deafening crack of blank small arms ammunition. During the pauses the instructors were shouting orders and dragging recruits out of their sleeping bags.

As we bugged out from our compromised harbour position, some of us realised that in the confusion a few blokes had left items lying on the ground, like sleeping bags and webbing, which contained important items like ammunition and water. Unfortunately, no-one saw the rifle that was left behind by a stunned recruit.

We all suffered immensely for the next four hours. They made us sprint up and down hills with packs on and packs off; we leopard crawled everywhere once again with packs on and packs off; we practised fire and movement, packs on, packs off; all pretty hard for the lad who didn't have a weapon.

It was light when that punishment finished and they ran us back to our ‘compromised harbour position' to look for items left behind. The lad without the rifle was in a state of panic. We searched the area for a good 20 minutes. We found tent pegs, a roll mat (a thin foam sleeping mat used to insulate you from the ground), a poncho, and other small items, but no SA80.

The training team moved us from that area to a gravel track and lined us up along it. They knew who this poor bugger was but gave him the opportunity to confess to the crime, which he did. He had no choice; he was the only one standing there with hands empty. I can't remember what they said to this bloke but it scared the shit out of me; my rifle was one item I was never going to forget. His punishment wasn't over; he was told to sprint back to the harbour position and collect the Elson.

The Elson is a steel toilet. It has a half decent toilet seat but the inside is really nothing more than a steel bucket. Every troop takes one onto Woodbury Common. You have to–a new recruit troop is inducted into the marines every two to four weeks, so if the Elson isn't used then you can imagine just how much human waste would be covering the common.

He returned minutes later with the steel dunny. The DS got him to hold it above his head while dressing him down once again. The poor bloke then dropped it, which spilled its contents onto the gravel. He panicked and in a flash dropped to his knees and began to scoop the shit and sweet corn back into the steel bucket. The training team were stunned! We were all stunned. They stopped him and told him to take the dunny to an admin area and wash his hands. This bloke did stay on with the troop and to his credit marched out with the rest of us at the end of training.

We continued to get punished for various infringements throughout the day and were all glad to hear that we were to speed march back to Lympstone once the field stores had been packed up and put on the Bedford 4-tonne trucks. Speed march is a run/walk activity based on a 10 minute per mile pace designed to get soldiers from A to B carrying equipment with a sense of urgency but without injury or totally flogging themselves and unable to fight at the end. The shortest distance back was 4 miles (6.4 kilometres) but we hardly ever took that route. At that moment we didn't care how far it was–we were heading home!

Unfortunately we didn't anticipate just how physically knackered we were; none of us had been pushed this hard before. This resulted in us dragging our feet on the speed march back, probably delaying the training team from getting home at a reasonable hour. The troop sergeant took offence at our sluggishness and when we reached base marched us straight down to the mudflats of the River Exe. Once lined out on the edge of the mud flats in full combat uniform, belt webbing, weapon and helmet, we began to leopard crawl through the mud towards the outgoing tide 20 metres away. It was quite a struggle battling through the gluey mud. It stank too.

When we reached the watermark we were told to conduct a series of low-profile movements until we were chest deep in the freezing murky water of the estuary. We were then to hold our breath and submerge ourselves underwater for the count of 10, which was very difficult due to the freezing water. If someone surfaced before the end of the DS's count we all went under again. This happened several times and I was really starting to get pissed off. Finally the main culprit drew on his last energy reserve and passed the 10-second test.

At last it was over. With water still draining from our clothes and equipment we made our way back across the bottom field to the accommodation totally exhausted and feeling very sorry for ourselves. But every man knew there was still work to be done before we could knock off for the day–weapons as well as stores had to be cleaned and returned; weapons and webbing had to be completely free of mud and grime, as these items would be inspected and no-one wanted a repeat of that day's treatment. We ended up taking our gear into the showers with us–probably not the best thing for the drainage system especially after you've squashed the build-up of mud and grass down the drain with your toes, but that was the most efficient way to get our kit cleaned.

Finally, work done, we got to knock off; I can't remember what we did that weekend; probably slept for 48 hours straight, a great way to spend my 25th birthday.

On Monday there were a few empty places in the ranks and we were left with the guys who really wanted to be there. The DS reshuffled our three eight-man sections and appointed recruits as section commanders and 2ICs. Each section was then broken into two fire teams of four men, nominated Charlie and Delta fire teams. I was chosen to be a section commander–a daunting thought as I had never been put in such a position of responsibility before. However, I remained in that position throughout our time at the training centre. It was now week five and we were looking at more weapons training, harder physical training sessions and longer field exercises over the coming weeks.

Week 10 saw the exercise Hunter's Moon, a survival exercise that started with a 14-kilometre pack walk (yomp) into the training area on Dartmoor. The weather was dismal for the yomp in and everyone got soaked to the skin, but it cleared up in the following days. Early that morning we were searched and stripped of any luxuries then instructed how to make shelters from the natural material found in the surrounding environment and from the contents of our survival gear.

Once they were convinced we had taken all this in, they divided us up into fire teams and showed us to an area where we could begin building our own rudimentary shelters. We organised work parties to gather materials for the construction, and every hour or so stopped work for more lessons on finding and purifying water, making and preserving fire, signalling for help, hunting and trapping, and celestial navigation.

They showed us what we could eat and how to prepare it. To call it ‘food' was a bit of a stretch. There were dried worms to be crushed and made into a soup, nettle tea and boiled snails. If Napoleon was right and an army marches on its stomach, you wouldn't get far on that menu. It might have been appetising back in the Dark Ages (if you were starving) but I prefer to forage for my tucker in a supermarket. However, we all had to take part in finding this ‘survival food', make a fire to cook it, and then eat it.

Then came the rabbit. One of the corporals from the Mountain and Arctic Warfare training wing gave a demo on how to prepare a freshly caught rabbit. He showed us a very quick and clean way to kill the animal as humanely as possible but half the troop still managed to fuck it up. Some had three or four goes at it; some couldn't do it at all.

After a good feed of rabbit washed down with nettle tea, we got our gear ready for the night's activities, but first we checked the snares we had strategically placed to catch an unsuspecting rabbit as it ran under a fence or into some bushes. Empty! At night we conducted navigation to a rendezvous (RV), where we were met by one of the training team who gave us coordinates (map grid references) to another point, small amounts of food or information to be taken back to our shelter area.

The rabbits must have sensed we were in the area because night after night the snares were empty and the worm soup was no substitute. Then one morning to our surprise and delight one of the snares had caught a rabbit. This was great for morale, but one rabbit didn't go far between four. Our bodies were now starting to break down through lack of nutrition and we were getting lethargic. A small bowl of worm soup and a morsel of rabbit just wasn't enough fuel to cover the energy we were expending.

As the final task of the exercise, they gave us the scenario that we had been compromised and a large enemy force was on its way. With no time to waste we had to dismantle our shelters and cover up signs of our presence as best we could, once again not leaving anything behind. Everything in training was done with a sense of urgency, so when we were organised we got together as sections again and were quickly led with packs onto the base of a very large and very steep hill. Quick instructions followed and we were off racing the others to the top of the hill. During the ascent everyone dug deep and managed to find an energy reserve from somewhere, God knows where, but we found it. With arms pumping diagonally across our bodies trying to aid with momentum, and snot and saliva tracking horizontally along the sides of our faces like a crusty snail trail, we encouraged each member on and helped the lads who found it more of a struggle.

There was no time to rest once we reached the top. A very vocal and fit staff member who ran with us was urging us to keep going. It was a welcome relief to be on the descent, but we still had to watch our footing; a twisted or broken ankle would result in removal from the troop and weeks or even months of rehab to become fully fit again. At the base of the hill we refilled our water bottles from our webbing, sucked in as much oxygen as possible and prepared ourselves for the walk out. We all struggled over the following hours but we put mind over matter and made it to the finish line.

Our bodies were going through a radical change. Not only were we looking different, but we were also becoming fitter and stronger by the day. The physical training was relentless and the PTIs always pushed us to the limit. We had all reached a similar level of fitness, but as human nature dictates, you will always get people who are naturally stronger than others, and some who will always struggle. The training program at Lympstone has been purposely designed over many years of experience not only to give you the best chance of success to finish training, but to turn you into a very strong willed and physically fit Royal Marine capable of great feats of endurance.

It didn't seem like it at the time; it felt more like a physical beasting, and I remember feeling quite nauseous before every phys session, as the PTIs just seemed to punish your body lesson by lesson. We feared the PTIs, as they were beholders of mega amounts of pain that could be forced upon you at the drop of a hat. And if you were a ‘slug', you got extra treatment!

Unbeknown to us, this was a great team-building tool, and slowly we began to work together more efficiently by helping each other and conducting our own mini-inspections, also rechecking the training program to see if there was any extra kit we needed for the next lesson. God help you if you turned up to the lesson unprepared.