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there to observe the Marine Commando course even though I was taking part. I had always felt like I was on the periphery and looking in, and this was no different. I would be there at the end, simple as that.
    The first man to quit, about two hours after we arrived, had had his hair cut and styled early that morning in an expensive London salon, presumably believing the Marines would be so impressed with his coiffure that they would bend the rules. The recruit’s hair was heavily bonded together with hairspray and I watched the camp barber as he gleefully concentrated on the job of clipping the recruit’s hair off in one solid, helmet-shaped piece. He got half of it off before it dropped to the floor and lay there like a bird’s nest. The recruit walked out of the barber’s shop and straight out of the camp. The next two quitters walked out of the main auditorium a few hours later in the middle of the camp commander’s welcome speech. He told us that one of us in the room would be likely to be killed somewhere in the world in the next three years if we passed through training. It seemed there were some recruits who knew less about the Marines than I did. I at least had accepted that, being soldiers, they did, on occasion, die.
    During the first two weeks, if we were not doing educational and medical tests, we were sprinting up and down the gym, climbing ropes, or in the barracks-room (grots) learning boot and brass-buckle cleaning, and for some, basic personal hygiene. The Royal Marines were part of the Navy and Navy hygiene was of the highest order. Early morning shaves in the surf on the beach was a favourite way the instructors had to make that point, and those recruits who did not have facial hair had to practise for when they did. Locals passing by appeared to think nothing of seeing a bunch of recruits attempting to shave as the cold waves broke over their heads.
    One day I was sprinting through the camp alone to join my troop after having been for a medical examination – recruits ran everywhere or stood to attention, there was no in between. Up ahead I saw a Marine walking towards me in full dress uniform. I was not sure what to do as I sped towards him. We had not been allowed to go anywhere by ourselves as yet and were marched everywhere as a squad. If we passed an officer the squad was ordered to give an ‘Eyes right!’ We had not been taught how to salute yet.
    I didn’t want to make a mistake and so I rehearsed it quickly in my mind. As I closed on him I hit the brakes stopping a few feet short of him, came to attention smartly and gave him a stiff salute.
    He brushed passed without returning my salute and said, ‘Don’t salute me, you wanker, I’m just a corporal. And anyway that’s how the Yanks do it.’
    The purpose of the first two weeks of training was to get rid of the dead wood, and this they did. We were down to about fifty-five recruits when we climbed aboard the four-tonners to leave Deal, this time in uniform, with blue recruit berets (the green ones were presented only to those who passed selection) and heavy boots, carrying sausage-bags filled with our new military kit (we didn’t have rifles yet, we hadn’t even held one). We were bound for the main Commando Training Centre (CTC) in Lympstone, near Exmouth in Devon. Mine was one of the last troops to do their first two weeks in Deal. The next time I saw the camp at Deal was in photographs several years later, after an IRA bomb exploded there killing ten Royal Marine bandsmen.
    Whereas Deal was old and steeped in Naval history, CTC was a huge, modern military complex more like a small town. My first morning there, whilst heading across the camp for breakfast, I reached the top of a wide flight of stairs and found myself at the back of a large crowd of recruits which was only part of a very long, broad queue waiting to enter the galley. There were over two thousand recruits in CTC and nearly every one of them was here in front of me