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parade ground as he shouted the immortal phrase, ‘Royal Marines! To your duties, quick march!’
    My green beret felt good on my head. But I did not quite feel like a Marine Commando. That would come when I could make important decisions on my own. There were still many things inside my head I had to straighten out. Only a month earlier my section of ten noddies had been spread out in arrow-head formation headed up a barren, rocky slope in the middle of Dartmoor. It was past midnight and we were on an advance-to-contact patrol with live ammunition, expecting to be attacked at any time. The ground was sodden and heavily pitted as if an artillery bombardment had struck several years before. Suddenly the still, misty night erupted in explosions as simulated mortar shells flashed and boomed, tossing earth skyward all around us. A heavy machine-gun nest then began firing from the crest. The instructors supplemented the enemy attack with a continuous flow of thunderflashes (like bangers but several times more powerful), literally throwing them at us. We hit the dirt and rolled away in preparation to return fire once a fire control order was given. My ears were ringing. Our section commander for that exercise was about to direct our counter-attack when the senior instructor put his foot on the recruit’s back and told him to lie still and play dead. The instructors had deliberately not told us who was second or third in command, and so for a moment no one was in command and confusion reigned. I lay there, like the others, waiting to be told what to do. Suddenly a voice boomed behind me.
    ‘You! Yes, you. You’re in command.’
    He emphasised the order with a thunderflash that bounced off my back to explode only feet in front of me, forcing me to roll away as I tried to gather my thoughts. It seemed to take me ages to recall the sequence of orders and considerations when under attack. We had practised it often on the camp sports field or on Woodbury Common in daylight with blank ammo, but never under these conditions. I stretched my neck to see where everyone was.
    ‘Get your ’ead down!’ shouted the instructor.
    ‘Gun group, go left!’ I yelled.
    ‘They’ve gone left,’ he continued angrily as he towered directly behind me. ‘Move your fuckin’ self! Your men are dyin’ out here!’
    I squinted ahead to look for the enemy position so that I could give a fire control order.
    ‘Section. Pile of rocks . . . !’
    ‘Which pile of rocks, moron?’ The instructor was causing me more stress than the guns and explosions.
    ‘To your front,’ I shouted. ‘Three hundred metres!’
    ‘Bollocks. It’s less than two!’
    ‘Section! Rapid f . . .’ Before I could get out the word ‘fire’ the instructor shouted above my voice.
    ‘Cancel that!’ Then crouching closer to make his dark words penetrate further. ‘You waste of fucking space. God help any section you ever command . . . Harris! Take over.’
    I numbly joined the others to assault the enemy position. All I could think of was what a useless bastard I had been. The instructor knew exactly what he was doing, though. The Royal Marines had been churning out professional soldiers for over 300 years. He knew that making a fool of me and letting me see myself fumble under pressure would rile me enough to make sure it never happened again. Several years later, while on my junior command course, seventy-five of us were lined up in a ditch in full combat gear waiting to mount a sweep through a forest at the end of a heavy five-minute bombardment. The instructors had given each of the seven sections orders, but had omitted to select an overall commander to launch the attack. That was only apparent when the deathly silence fell after the bombardment and no one moved. It felt like a scene from World War One – waiting to go over the top. But there were no officers to lead the charge. I had never forgotten my pathetic effort in training. Once I realised no one