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45 in Arbroath, unless any of us got a draft to a Royal Navy ship or a career course, such as a cook or clerk: then we would be off to one of many training establishments to learn the necessary skills. I was not particularly close to any of the other recruits, even after six months of arduous training in which teamwork was encouraged as the key to success and survival. But the hardship and attrition had created a unique bond between us.
    One of the lads had organised a competition for that evening and we had all chipped in a pound towards the winning prize, which was a candle-lit dinner for two. The winner would be the man who turned up with the ugliest date. The entrants would be judged by the whole troop. The lad who won, or lost, depending on how you look at it, was the smallest in the troop, weighing in at around nine stone. He entered the pub with a broad grin, holding the hand of a nineteen-stone, no-neck behemoth in a flowery dress. She had no idea what was going on and smiled sweetly while everyone applauded them as the undisputed winners. The lad had spotted her at a bus-stop in Exmouth on his way to the pub and wooed her to come and have a pint. The poor girl looked around at the sea of ghoulish, laughing faces and her smile faded as she realised what it was about. She was not amused. Her huge, blubbery arm must have weighed only a little less than her date when it hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, after which he needed to be taken to the sick-bay with a suspected fractured jaw. We found out later that the lady was a notoriously proficient bouncer in a nightclub in Exeter.
    The following day I was called back to the PSO’s office. It looked like he wasn’t even going to give me the full few days to think about it. I was aware I might eventually lose the fight but I had prepared a detailed argument nevertheless – a speech on wanting to be the best I could be and all that crap. I was OK at thinking up speeches in my head, but when it came to actually making them they always turned to fudge. I was rehearsing it over and over inmy mind as Iapproachedthe HQbuilding, when I spotted Corporal Jakers walking up the main drag of the camp towards the main gate carrying his backpack and kitbags. He looked like he had all his belongings and was leaving, having obviously got himself a draft somewhere. I adjusted my brand-new green beret on my head, called a ‘flight deck’ at that stage, because it was still a little rigid and stuck up on one side (the trick was to soak the new beret and put it on wet, adjusting it to perfection, then keep it on until dry), straightened my uniform and called out to him.
    ‘Where’re you off to, Corporal Jakers?’ I said, thinking he would be different towards me now that I was a Marine.
    He glanced at me long enough to recognise me, and said, ‘Fuck off and talk to me when you’re a man.’
    I should have expected a comment like that from him. Mister Angry, we called him. As I watched him disappear up the road, I wondered if I would ever bump into the bastard again.
    I gathered myself, had a last few seconds of anti-clerk speech rehearsal, and entered the PSO’s office, but before I got a chance to open my mouth what he said shut me up completely.
    ‘Due to a sudden shortage of manpower, I’ve been informed that the SBS is allowing a handful of recruits fresh out of basic training to attempt the selection course. It’s some kind of experiment, and one I don’t approve of, I must say.’
    He did not look pleased, but it was the PSO’s job to fill the slots presented to him and that is what he now had to do.
    ‘Since you have declared your desire to join the SBS, you’re to report to Royal Marines, Poole and attend an acquaint. If you pass that you’ll attend the SBS selection course the following month.’
    It was not until I left the office that it fully sank in and I went into something of a mild shock. By the time I was walking back down the main drag it had turned