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birthday when I stepped on to the train at Charing Cross Station carrying a small suitcase. I had said goodbye to my father at home. He gave me an awkward hug and wished me luck. I think he was about as surprised at me joining the Marines as I was. I still knew nothing about what I was getting into. I had not received any instructions other than where to report – no programme, no descriptions, no list of requirements, nothing. I had not even bothered to find out any more about the Marines. All I knew was what I saw on their posters – they wore green berets and cam-cream. I felt I was embarking on a journey to a new world and I did not have a clue what to expect.
    On the train I picked up a discarded newspaper to pass the time. The first article I read was about the North Sea and the huge oil and gas fields that were opening up there. Oil company executives were worried about where they were going to find the divers they needed to work on the platforms. The North Sea offers some of the worst diving conditions in the world because of the cold and constant storms. The thought of being a deep-sea diver one day appealed to me, but I had no idea there were other implications in that article that, six months later, would change my life.
    I walked through the train to see if I could spot other likely recruits. I had this idea that I was not quite big enough for the commandos even though I’d been selected to try them out. I counted half a dozen who fitted my picture of a Marine, all much bigger and harder looking than me.
    When the train finally stopped at Deal, I stepped off it and headed along the platform to where a large Royal Marine corporal was barking for recruits to come forward and hand him their joining papers. I merged with the converging crowd of young men and held up mine. Those around me looked like boys too and were all shapes and sizes. I don’t think any of the men I had selected on the train were amongst them. I did not realise the corporal was reaching for my papers and that my hand was drifting away from his as I looked around. He lunged forward, snatched my papers then lowered his face inches from mine.
    ‘You little germ,’ he said, as bits of spittle hit my face. ‘You just went to the top of my list to straighten out – if you make it through today that is.’
    He kept glaring at me as he collected the rest of the papers. I was already a marked man.
    Seventy-eight of us piled into the back of several four-ton trucks outside the station and we headed for the camp. As we drove through the town I looked out the back down on to the ordinary people in the streets going about their everyday lives. I felt different from them, as if I was off to serve some kind of sentence. For all that, it did not seem as if I was in the wrong place. I didn’t want to be anyone other than myself at that moment. I found the whole experience fascinating and that fascination stayed with me throughout my career. No matter where I went or who I met, even the rich or famous with their fancy lifestyles, I knew they did not envy me, but nor did I them, not when all was totalled up. Today, when I smell diesel exhaust fumes, I often have flashes of those early days in training as a young man riding in the back of a four-tonner, and inside I smile.
    When we arrived at Deal camp we piled out of the trucks and were shouted at by half-a-dozen Marine instructors to form ranks and march. This was our first attempt at anything military and of course we were useless. I was still curious about my new-found colleagues, many of whom did not look like my idea of a Royal Marine Commando. It seemed obvious to me that many would fail and I wondered what would make them quit. I never wondered that about myself. It’s not that I had made any deep pledge to myself not to quit, or that I was gung-ho and consciously determined to pass. I just never considered it, nor did I think for a second about what I would do if I failed. I felt as though I was