Cast No Shadow, Peter Sharp [books to get back into reading txt] 📗

complied and strode up and down in the cold water, much to the amusement of several passers-by.

After the requisite time had elapsed, Tom gave him the signal to come out, and they jogged back to Eastney Barracks, Kelly squelching loudly in his now sodden boots.

“Right!” said Foley, once they were in Kelly’s room in the Officer’s Mess. “Take off your boots and leave them to dry away from the heat, stuff them with paper, but be careful not to change the shape. Kelly complied then Foley examined Kelly’s feet for blisters.

“Not a single blister! Good show. We’ll make a marine out of you yet!”

Kelly replied with something caustic but was inwardly pleased that he had passed this first test.

There had of course been a method to Tom Foley’s madness, Kelly mused. The boots, once dried, had been a perfect fit and their subsequent marches had been completed in relative comfort. He wondered if every marine marching with him today had endured the same ritual. Probably, he thought.

Then there had been the rifle range training where he had learned to use his recently issued Lee Enfield 303 rifle. Kelly had taken to this easily and had rapidly become a good shot under Tom’s tutelage. As well as learning to shoot he had learned everything about the weapon. How it worked, muzzle velocity, range, how to clean and maintain it. His final test had been to strip and assemble the weapon wearing a blindfold.

In total, the preparation had only taken three weeks, of which Foley had contributed three days in the first week and two days in the second and third weeks. On the other days Kelly had worked hard on his fitness and stamina, and had practised his cross-country navigation skills.

Being a natural sportsman, he had found the fitness regime relatively easy and had in fact enjoyed it. By the end of the three weeks, he had considered himself ready for Achnacarry. Now, as he returned from his reverie, he was beginning to question that assumption.

Time passed slowly in the miserable conditions. Kelly wondered how far they had marched, probably less than he thought; he knew that the mind could play tricks under these conditions. He looked at the three tonners rumbling along only a dozen or so paces in front. Just a small jog would be needed to reach the trailing vehicle and he could return to some form of normality.

He looked around. The faces were grim and set, some looked resigned, others simply fed up. There were clearly no quitters in this group, these were old sweats. If they can, so can I, thought Kelly and resigned himself to the slog. Even so it was hard going. They were carrying about sixty pounds of kit plus a weapon weighing nine pounds. The straps of the thirty-seven-pattern webbing bit into the shoulders and made the back and shoulders ache.

“That’s it! That’s the camp,” Kelly heard someone mutter, as they came in sight of an old grey château. He thought this unlikely, but as they approached, he could make out Nissan huts and tents in the grounds of the estate.

“Squaaaaad, halt!” barked Sergeant Major Abrams, and the squad came to a crashing halt.

“Right lads! Tidy yourselves up, un-sling your rifles and make sure your beret is on straight. We are about to march in.”

There was a bustle as the marines hurried to obey. Once settled, the Sergeant Major braced them, brought them to attention and gave the order to slope arms. He marched the squad marine fashion, regulation thirty-inch pace and arm in line with the shoulder, towards the main gate.

To everyone’s astonishment and delight they were met by a piper, who wheeled in front of them and marched at the head of the column, pipes skirling and kilt swinging from side to side.

As they passed through the gate, they found themselves flanked by imitation gravestones. These bore a series of simple messages …

‘This man’s camouflage was poor.’

‘This man’s weapon was dirty.’

And then a group of three all with the same message ...

‘These men bunched.’

The messages were clear.

The squad came to a halt just in front of the building and the process began of getting them inducted into the programme. There was a tour of the camp before they were shown to the Nissan hut which was to be their billet for the next five weeks. Finally, they were taken off to the QM’s stores to draw their kit.

Eventually they ended up in a makeshift lecture theatre where Abrams and a marine captain, who described himself as the Squad Training Officer, explained the programme to them.

Kelly was glad when, after eating a bowl full of broth in the galley, they were allowed to go to their beds. It had been a long and wearisome day.

Life at Achnacarry was conducted at a brisk, often brutal pace. With the exception of the almost constant weariness, Kelly largely took to the training and committed himself with enthusiasm. ‘Enjoy’ would have perhaps been too strong a word, but there were very few elements of the training which he disliked, apart from the group PE using logs which he felt achieved very little.

He became proficient with virtually every small arm used by the axis and the allies. In addition, he received training in the use of a cheese wire and the Sykes-Fairburn dagger.

He quickly become one of the quickest over both the assault course and the aerial assault course, the latter known affectionately known as the ‘Tarzan’ course. The former consisted of a number of ground-based obstacles such as fences, walls, barbed wire, water jumps, tunnels etc, whilst the ‘Tarzan’ course required participants to climb to about thirty feet, after which their feet literally never touched the ground. The aerial obstacles consisted of rope swings, rope ladders, rope walkways, and narrow planks with no hand support, all of which culminated in the infamous death slide.

Rock climbing, with and without rope support, was an important part of the programme as well as landing craft disembarkation