A Fighting Spirit. Paul Burns
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over the UK, I rubbed shoulders with Rhodesians and New Zealanders and even an Australian submariner who had decided he wanted a change of scene. New recruits are known as ‘Crows’, ‘Joe Crow’ being the personification of the new recruit. The youngsters who had come together in the Parachute Regiment Depot at Browning Barracks were there with the express intention of making the transition from a Crow to a Tom.
We were a pretty motley crew, even after those few guys who realized they’d made a big mistake had exercised their ‘discharge by right’, which meant they were allowed to leave within the first eight weeks on payment of a £100 fee. For a lot of young lads, it is their first time away from home. Going from a nice, cosy house where your mum makes your bed to having your hair shaved off and being under the watchful eye of one of Recruit Company’s training corporals—some of the regiment’s most respected and fearsome members—can be a bit of a shock to the system. No wonder that a fair few decide rather quickly that the Army is not for them.
But I was used to it, from my time as a junior soldier. In fact those of us who had already spent time at Aldershot were excused the first couple of weeks of training, during which new recruits were issued uniforms and taught the basics of Army life. The same went for my closest friends, two lads who had joined up as junior soldiers at the same time as me, and were now in the same section of Recruit Company. Their names were Ian Wood and Jeff Jones—Woody and Jonesy—and I also made friends with guys from other sections, like Taff Davies, Taff Elliott, and Graham Eve. Woody, Jonesy and I hit it off the moment we met. Like the rest of our intake, they were straightforward, friendly guys. Woody was a cheeky little chap, always smiling, always happy. The kind of lad who’s always fun to have around. Jonesy was the tallest guy in the Company. I was the second tallest, so when we were on parade we were always next to each other. The three of us were billeted together in the juniors, and thick as thieves in Recruit Company. There was an amazing camaraderie among us, I suppose because we all wanted the same thing—we were driven, professional and hungry to succeed, even though most of us were very young.
We were taught regimental history—about Churchill and the Parachute Regiment’s exploits during the Second World War and afterwards. It was important stuff, not because the training corporals wanted to turn out an intake of historians, but because they wanted to hammer home the Paras’ belief in their own excellence. I remember being taught the words of Field Marshal Montgomery:
What manner of men are these who wear the maroon beret?
They are, first, all volunteers, and are toughened by hard physical training. As a result, they have that infectious optimism and that offensive eagerness which come from physical well-being.
They have jumped from the air and, by doing so, have conquered fear.
Their duty lies in the van of battle: they are proud of their honour, and have never failed in any task.
They have the highest standards in all things, whether it be skill in battle or smartness in execution of all peacetime duties.
They have shown themselves to be as tenacious and determined in defence as they are courageous in attack.
They are, in fact, men apart.
Every man an emperor.
It was stirring stuff, and although it would be true to say that during the rigours of Recruit Company we didn’t feel entirely emperor-like, it was certainly inspiring to know that if we worked hard enough we could become part of this elite band.
Recruit Company’s aim was twofold: to train the wannabe Paras and get their skills and fitness up to scratch; and to weed out those recruits who weren’t fully suited to joining the regiment. As well as the intense training, we had tests at regular intervals. Anyone who failed to meet the grade at any of these levels would be ‘back-squadded’, or made to retake that part of the course with the group who had joined after them. It happened to a lot of the guys, who found themselves unable to progress, either through lack of fitness or through injury. As the six months wore on, our numbers began to dwindle. I worked hard, but I also had my fair share of luck because the training became increasingly physical and increasingly brutal. We were put through our paces like never before, but we also underwent mental challenges such as sleep deprivation in an attempt to weed out those recruits who weren’t mentally tough enough to progress. We were sent on forced marches—mile after mile with full kit and personal weapons, with the promise of a truck waiting over the next hill that never seemed to be there. It sounds harsh, but it was necessary. As a soldier, you never know what difficulties you’re going to find yourself up against. (This is even more true now than it was in the days when I joined up. In Afghanistan, our young soldiers have to live in one of the harshest environments in the world, and each time they step outside they know they are going to be shot at.) The Parachute Regiment has a reputation for being able to cope with any situation, of being harder than any other regiment. Our training was specially designed to make sure we lived up to that reputation.
The days seemed to fly by. We were up at 0700 hours, and stood down at 2000. If you weren’t training during that time, you were studying; if you weren’t studying you were trying to get some ‘scoff ’ down your throat in a desperate attempt to put back some of the calories you’d lost during your fitness exercises. And when the lights went out, you slept the sleep of the dead.
We were beasted. Not bullied—at no point during my career in the British Army do I remember anything remotely resembling bullying. Beasting is different. It’s a way of keeping you on your toes, of making sure that you’re at the peak of physical fitness. A beasting could happen any time. You might be grabbing a rare moment of relaxation in the block after a hard day’s wading through rivers with full pack and rifle, when you’d hear a scream from outside your room.
‘Corridor!’
Instantly you had to present yourself in the corridor, where an instructor would have that look on his face that you just knew meant something unpleasant was around the corner.
‘Position!’
This meant you had to lean back against the wall in a sitting position with your arms out straight in front of you, but there was nothing to support your legs. Your knees would tremble; the muscles in your legs would burn. And you had to maintain that position for as long as you were told. Why? No reason, other than to make sure you were up to it. When you were up for inspection, you had to have yourself and your locker absolutely spotless, your boots gleaming, the floor of the barrack block polished to perfection. No matter how flawless you made things, you could bet that your locker would be emptied out all over the floor, or your boots flung out of the window, and you’d have to start all over again. Our days became a constant flurry of runs—over assault courses or through water up to your waist—and press-ups. The fitter you got, the faster and longer you were expected to exercise. Make the slightest mistake in a drill and the shout would go up: ‘Down and give me ten!’
If you were the right kind of person for the Paras, these beastings would make you more determined that they weren’t going to break you. If you were the wrong kind of person, you’d up and leave. That was the whole point.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Lots of guys left, but the more that fell by the wayside, the more confidence it gave those of us who remained. It felt good to be the ones who were left. Of the seventy-odd members of our Recruit Company who started out, only about twenty made it through, including myself, Woody and Jonesy. And as our training progressed, the bond between the successful recruits grew strong. We lived together in four-man rooms, and that four-man unit was the basis of everything we did. The tougher things became, the more the connection between us developed. We were all going through the same thing, so we understood how our mates were feeling. As we were pushed really hard in our training, we played equally hard in what little free time we had. A lot of drinking went on—Aldershot became a pretty entertaining place on a Friday night when all the soldiers came out to play—but our downtime was in many ways as important as our training time, because it all helped to strengthen the bond between us.
Looking back, I can see why this was an essential part of the training process. In operational situations, it would be crucial that we were able to communicate effectively