Read Online First Into Action by Duncan Falconer - Free Book Online
Authors: Duncan Falconer
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commando course became, the more I experienced a growing appreciation for the soldier’s life. When it comes to pay, promotion, education, pension, job security and being ordered about, the military offers a freer and kinder existence than most corporations. And only a few civilians can turn up to work on any given morning to find they are off on an another adventure somewhere in the world. The one drawback is longevity. Most soldiers find themselves on the street after twenty-two years, having to carve out another life. But that’s a worry for the old soldier, not the young one.
A few days after receiving my green beret I met the Personnel Selection Officer (PSO), whose job it is to plan the first step in a new Marine’s career. His task is to balance the manpower within the corps by distributing new recruits to the various units, and also maintain a flow of apprentices to the various administrative and support departments, such as cooks, drivers, mechanics, carpenters or illustrators. The PSO noted in my file that I had worked in a Mayfair hotel as a ledger clerk. He thought that was an excellent background for an administrative clerk. What? I said to myself. A pen-pusher? I baulked. He sounded like a car salesman as he explained how the corps was short on clerks and that there were great advantages to be had in becoming one. For instance, if I wanted to be a sportsman I would have loads of time off to train, and promotion was quick and guaranteed. I grew concerned as I listened, even a little panicked. Now that they owned my life, could they actually force me into any career they wanted?
I whipped myself to a rigid attention – I was still essentially a noddy – and blurted out, ‘I want to be a fighting Marine. I didn’t join up to be an office boy, sir!’
He was unmoved. Of course no one wanted to be a clerk; no one who wanted to be a real soldier, anyway. But he had quotas that had to be filled and was used to having to hard-sell this particular berth. He insisted I would be a soldier as well as a clerk. Clerks, he maintained, did everything regular Marines did, even parachute courses. He asked me to look at being a clerk as an added responsibility, on top of being a soldier. I suddenly saw myself charging up a beach, gun in hand, carrying a large desk on my back.
In an effort to convey how much of a soldier I wanted to be and how little of a clerk, I declared, ‘I want to join the SBS one day, sir!’
I could see the letters, SBS, hanging there in front of me like large slabs of concrete challenging me to eat them. The thought of joining the SBS had never entered my head before that moment. I had daydreamed about it a little, just like everyone else who saw the posters or heard the exaggerated stories about the squadron. But I had never for a second thought seriously about joining them.
The PSO scoffed at my outburst and explained what I already knew, that I required a minimum of three years as a regular Marine Commando before I could even think of applying for the lofty heights of the SBS. But he went on smoothly to suggest I could become a clerk then apply to join the SBS after three years, but that, of course, would require signing on for the full twenty-two. At the time I did not know I had the choice of flatly refusing the posting, but he never even hinted at that, letting me think it was as good as an order. However, I could not bring myself to buy his package and so he finally sighed and told me to go away and take a few days to at least consider it.
As I left the office I was confused and depressed. I didn’t want to be a shiny-arse. I decided my primary goal was to get myself into a regular commando unit, and not as a clerk. Surely they could not force me.
Later that evening, my troop was meeting down at a local pub as part of an end-of-training farewell bash. In a few days most of us would bomb-burst to the various commando units which at that time were 40 and 42 in Plymouth, 41 in Malta and
A few days after receiving my green beret I met the Personnel Selection Officer (PSO), whose job it is to plan the first step in a new Marine’s career. His task is to balance the manpower within the corps by distributing new recruits to the various units, and also maintain a flow of apprentices to the various administrative and support departments, such as cooks, drivers, mechanics, carpenters or illustrators. The PSO noted in my file that I had worked in a Mayfair hotel as a ledger clerk. He thought that was an excellent background for an administrative clerk. What? I said to myself. A pen-pusher? I baulked. He sounded like a car salesman as he explained how the corps was short on clerks and that there were great advantages to be had in becoming one. For instance, if I wanted to be a sportsman I would have loads of time off to train, and promotion was quick and guaranteed. I grew concerned as I listened, even a little panicked. Now that they owned my life, could they actually force me into any career they wanted?
I whipped myself to a rigid attention – I was still essentially a noddy – and blurted out, ‘I want to be a fighting Marine. I didn’t join up to be an office boy, sir!’
He was unmoved. Of course no one wanted to be a clerk; no one who wanted to be a real soldier, anyway. But he had quotas that had to be filled and was used to having to hard-sell this particular berth. He insisted I would be a soldier as well as a clerk. Clerks, he maintained, did everything regular Marines did, even parachute courses. He asked me to look at being a clerk as an added responsibility, on top of being a soldier. I suddenly saw myself charging up a beach, gun in hand, carrying a large desk on my back.
In an effort to convey how much of a soldier I wanted to be and how little of a clerk, I declared, ‘I want to join the SBS one day, sir!’
I could see the letters, SBS, hanging there in front of me like large slabs of concrete challenging me to eat them. The thought of joining the SBS had never entered my head before that moment. I had daydreamed about it a little, just like everyone else who saw the posters or heard the exaggerated stories about the squadron. But I had never for a second thought seriously about joining them.
The PSO scoffed at my outburst and explained what I already knew, that I required a minimum of three years as a regular Marine Commando before I could even think of applying for the lofty heights of the SBS. But he went on smoothly to suggest I could become a clerk then apply to join the SBS after three years, but that, of course, would require signing on for the full twenty-two. At the time I did not know I had the choice of flatly refusing the posting, but he never even hinted at that, letting me think it was as good as an order. However, I could not bring myself to buy his package and so he finally sighed and told me to go away and take a few days to at least consider it.
As I left the office I was confused and depressed. I didn’t want to be a shiny-arse. I decided my primary goal was to get myself into a regular commando unit, and not as a clerk. Surely they could not force me.
Later that evening, my troop was meeting down at a local pub as part of an end-of-training farewell bash. In a few days most of us would bomb-burst to the various commando units which at that time were 40 and 42 in Plymouth, 41 in Malta and
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