The assault course at HMS Raleigh is much like any other assault course with all the usual obstacles. We would get three goes it during our basic training and the expectation was that our time would improve with each visit. I’d enjoyed it on our first meeting, but knew I could shave seconds off my time by using a better technique over the scramble netting, jumping from the wall as opposed to climbing down, and one or two other tweaks.
The class was sent over the course in groups of five or six and my group was third in line to go. We watched the first bunch as they performed and saw the second set away before taking our position at the start. The whistle blew and we were away.
All was going well as we progressed down the course, along the ledge, over the scramble nets, climbed the rope and swung across the water. The next obstacle was the wall.
It was obviously too high to go over singly with any speed, so we followed the usual progression: first man (me) runs to the base of the wall and stands hands hooked to form a living step. Second man is boosted to the top of the wall, secures the rope and stays there. Third man goes straight over taking the rope end for the rest of the team’s decent. Forth man joins second man on top of the wall and between them they help the rest of the team over. Lastly, the two guys on top of the wall hoist the first man up before going over themselves and running on. Last man off the wall is the first man to have arrived there. It worked more or less perfectly.
I leapt off the wall in star-shape, with the intention of being right into my stride as soon as my back foot hit the deck. Hadn’t don’t this before, but how hard could it be? John Wayne et al made it look simple enough on the silver screen. My back foot hit the deck, not quite square and I ended in a heap not unlike a sack of spuds.
Knowing the need for speed, I rolled from the fall pushing myself upright. The stabbing pain from my right ankle as I tried to stand was intense. I collapsed in a heap for a second time. I stood, my weight taken by my left leg. I stepped forward and tried the right leg. Pain. Shit!
I limped as best I could toward the climb up to the death slide. A PTI arrived, grabbed me and guided me off to the side of the course before sitting me down and removing my right boot. My ankle was already badly swollen.
They stretched me off to sick-bay where a pair of gentle WREN hands examined my ankle. An officer arrived and I knew by the red band between his lieutenant’s rings that he was a doctor. The WREN gave her opinion that my ankle was not broken; he prodded a little and manipulated the ankle nodding his assent. “Strap him up Cheever” then turning to me said, “I’m going to sign you off for light duties. Try and keep off that for a day or so.”
Walking, even with my ankle strapped, was painful. Marching was out of the question. I made my way back to the mess as instructed and found PO Hollings there waiting for me. He took one look and shook his head, the expression on his face saying “You pillock! How the fuck did you do that?”
I explained all and added what the doctor had said about resting the damaged limb. Hollings quickly wrote out a plan of the classes activities for the next couple of days, adding locations so I’d be able to follow them around. “I suppose we’ll have to arrange for you to do the exped with another class? I don’t see how you’re going to manage otherwise.”
The exped referred to was an orienteering exercise scheduled five days away and involved us being dropped in groups on Bodmin Moor with a map, a compass and an eighteen mile hike ahead of us. I really didn’t want to miss doing this with my class.
The next couple of days were a doddle. I didn’t take part in any physical activity, so just sat and watched while my colleagues drilled, spent time in the gym, etc. and walked slowly to the various lectures. I attended sick-bay and had the ankle re-strapped at the beginning of each day and by the third day after my ‘accident’ was able to walk pretty much normally. On the morning of the fourth day I hatched a plan. I had my ankle dressed as usual, rejoined my classmates and told PO Hollings that I was fit enough to return to normal duties.
A two hour stint on the parade ground caused me little discomfort, although I’ll admit to not performing with my usual gusto. I was confident that I’d manage the coming exped, with a little help.
A visit to the NAFFI stores provided me with one essential part of my plan: a two inch wide roll of surgical sticky plaster. I planned to get my ankle strapped that afternoon and to bind the fresh strapping with the plaster to add extra support. I also intended to beg, borrow or steal a roll of bandage from the sick-bay.
The morning arrived and I dressed without showering as I didn’t want to get the bandaged ankle wet. Buster applied the plaster over the top of the bandage and helped me get my boot over the top. I figured that if I laced my boot tight over the strapping, it would also add support. I packed the extra bandage and what was left of the sticky plaster into a pouch pocket.
The bus took us up onto Bodmin; we were split into groups and briefed with our individual group objectives. The teams studied the maps and discussed their routes. It was 8:00am on a fine Friday morning when we set off.
I was surprised at how well my ankle held up during the day; far from causing me any problem at all, I easily kept up with the pace of the group and indeed forced the pace on a little when it became apparent that we would miss our lunchtime rendezvous if we didn’t get our fingers out.
My passion for being outdoors is almost as strong as my passion for the sea and sights and sounds of the moorland lifted my soul. A couple of the group had undertaken bronze or silver Duke of Edinburgh’s Award and I had done some orienteering with the ATC; between us our map reading skills were more than good enough to get us through the day.
The only mishap of the exped was the near loss of Walters, who had mistaken a patch of boggy ground for tufted grass and stepped straight into a sink-hole. He’d immediately disappeared up to his waist and was sinking deeper as he struggled to get free. His sudden disappearance and the resulting screams alerted the rest of the group to his danger and we set about getting him out as quickly as possible.
The stench rising from the mire as Walters’ legs were heaved free was disgusting; his lower torso was covered in a kind of brown flecked vomit. We had no change of clothes with us of course, so as the day progressed and the sun’s heat increased the fetid Walters was consigned to the rear of the group. Interestingly his No 8 trousers still stank even after two trips to the laundry!
