大象传媒

Having established myself in the Para Regiment, I now had the good fortune to part with the gas-mask in favour of a smaller box type similar to the civvy version in size. This type however had its drawback too for instead of shoulder and neck hanging, its lodgement was deemed better clamped to your webbing belt smack in the small of your back. Here was the ideal position to make more misery of your life and rasp the flesh in proving it: on a run and march routine it was a bouncing ....'pain'. But parachutists equipment needed to be lighter in weight and more compact in most dimensions to be compatible with both speed and mobility - the airborne way to battle.
It was in fact with this smaller style mask that practice procedure saw me enduring my second dose of gas poisoning.

If gas and mask experience was rated as the worst minutes of army training, this form of punishment was overtaken in the Paras by the 'bash' at Hardwick Hall in Cheshire. All para men endured the pounding to gain their 'wings' and all agreed that it nearly killed them.

The 'bash' consisted of a ten mile run and march routine wearing full kit and carrying your rifle and must last not longer than two hours. Known universally as the 'ten mile bash', it could be a killer. It followed an intensive two week physical training course designed to motivate all limbs to the extremes of fitness, and left no room for half-wits or weaklings.

Our course 'bash' began at 10am on what was already proving to be a warm and sulty July day. This is exactly what we didn't need for this final test before going on to Ringway for para training. Failure to complete this two hours slog on time meant a Para rejection ticket. For weeks we'd been training for the privilege of joining the elete Regiment and all that that entailed - the aeroplanes, parachutes, balloons, and perhaps gliders. My flying ambitions were but a 'slog' away.

Of the 300 or so men and teenagers ranged in platoons, my group of 32 set off in the 7th slot. At long last the expected sweating agony had begun. We knew from experience that many would fall by the way, and by the second mile the odd man was already squatting at the roadside verge as 'holding' became out of the question. Sweat was already irritating maddeningly as it exuded from every pore, while the first blister points - the heels and soles - were making themselves know yet again. Other sore points when carrying nuisance accoutrements - like the full water bottle bouncing against your hip - the galling, never used gask-mask incessantly chafing the small of one's back, and the full ammo pouches niggling the ribs, were already indicating the pain to come. Then there was the shoulder where the rifle sling constantly re-dug its customary, never ending groove.

By the end of the third mile some men had already called it a day. Perhaps they were already teetering on the brink of 'chucking' the whole para business, or even beyond their peak of fitness; too tired before they even started out. You easily recognised them for they lay resting on a comfortable grassy bank or sitting on a convenient kerbstone. Those who were genuinely unwell lay flat-out, while those suddenly taken short with the runs were either over the hedge, or often enough due to their urgency - for one had to allow for encumbering gear - well within laughable sight. My exit remained firmly shut, for which that day I was truly thankful for once the rhythm of your 'bash' was interrupted then for certain it would impede your performance. One had principally to remember keeping a good rhythm all the time.

Most felt the blisters burst before or during the fourth mile, a testing time for many of us. Sweat had turned to slush in your socks, and your shirt clung wetly to every stinking part of you not covered by sticking khaki denim trousers. More sweat stung your eyes and dripped off ears and nose, while your thumping head and heart threatened to burst. Your chest heaved and sank rapidly as it searched for ever bigger demands of oxygen, and again you asked 'is all this worthwhile?' For an extra shilling a day - 'No'. But for the extra money and the chance to fly, then the answer was 'Yes!' I had waited too long and strugled too much to allow anything to stand in my way now.

Towards the end of the fifth mile the trailing 'blood wagon' was picking up casualties and damaged men - those who had collapsed and hurt themselves on the unyielding road. Others were merely rolled aside to recover their senses, in which case they could either lay there moaning or, according to their frame of mind, clamber with left-over strength onto a following pick-up lorry. These chaps would have probably failed the Para entry test unless some mitigating factor of health prevented a better performance. Even a common cold could prove too big a handicap. Others might look despondently tearful, and some, utterly clapped-out wouldn't care less - they were beyond caring. The two prior weeks hardships was already too much; they'd had enough: it would mean going into a different regiment where such stringent fitness wasn't needed or necessary. Some where doing themselves a favour.

The sixth mile saw several of my platoon either pull up or pass out as they ran. 'Crash' - down they would go' sprawling rifle clattering heaps and stay there. Some would wobble sideways first, check themselves, then stagger as they desperately tried in their driving desire to 'pass' this ultimate of tests, before buckling into a grazing skid, their helmets banging against the road.
My chest was in full heaving thump too, for there was little worthwhile air about and I had really to work my lungs into finding the vital oxygen. On the run stages it became a continuous process of gasp, blow, gasp, blow, that lasted for ten minutes, before the march short periods gave respite. Then the heart pounding and blood bursting run of gasping for air had to be tolerated all over again. It was a cruel and torturous 'abuse' of organs already at the end of their tether.
Some Hardwick bashes had taken place in rain! - in wintertime. How I envied them on that humid, awful, hot and airless day.

Of those who'd fallen out, deliberately or through fainting, some cast dull glances at us toughter types as we pounded past them at a run, or, when marching gave us the customary paired fingers in defiance of our rude remarks about their useless or gutless weaknesses. Some were definatley strong lads; I had known them for three months - a few I had boxed: now here they were, defeated, creased up, grovelling in grit, unconscious, or holding their heads between grazed fingers and hands. I could see them wondering why the tiny and weedy boys like me, could keep going - what was driving us, when they thought their altogether stronger and bigger and solidly meatier bodies would outlast us anytime. Me too, for I was the youngest of the bunch at just 18 years.

By the finish of mile seven all platoons had sadly depleted numbers. Ten or so of our thirtytwo had bitten the dust, including a couple of my regular mates. The roadside was beginning to look like a battlefield as, once thr rot sets in, others suddenly weaken and allow themselves to give way. I was determined not to and with another two mates for immediate close company, we kept up the bantering of roadside weaklings and plodded on.
My feet were a mess of blisters by this time, while my back was rasped badly. I alternately swopped my rifle from one shoulder to the other and cursed it twice every minute. In fact I cursed everything, including myself. As for my bloody hard black boots designed in Boer War times! And what I wouldn't do to the blasted man who invented them only given the chance.... But it was raging 'blind' mentality like that which kept many going. A fierce resentment; bloody defiant defiance; sheer will power to out-smart and prove something - to 'win even if it kills me' approach to what was obviously an extraordinary 'bash' and the test of our lives. Even officers training with us had collapsed, to say nothing of training instructors giving the job best and joining the roadside dropouts.

My body was mechanical rubber when the eighth mile was behind us. Medics already punctuating the route ahead of us in anticipation were fully occupied as we slogged past them. My red-out mind registered that yet more of our chaps were going down, and that tears crept down my cheeks to mingle with dried salty sweat that didn't now exude from all places as in the first miles. We were virtually dried out; and even my shirt didn't now stick disgustingly to every part of my upper body. And like the others still loudly cursing the bouncing water bottles, I was very tempted to guzzle the contents, regardless. But I'd have to fall down first - and then get permission; then stay hors de combat. The army rules regarding drinking were stupidly strict.
There was little doubt the humid weather was responsible for this high drop out rate and casulties for we'd had many training sessions with far less. The stifling atmosphere was causing much difficulty in breathing, as I could well feel. Gasping was hardly the word for it. And through my boggled mind the possibility of self-destruction from exertion was now giving me dreadful thoughts; yet others were still going, some seemingly strongly. Reminders that the finish was less than two miles off, now over-road any defeatist ideas of sitting it out. 'Press on regardless' was an army coined phrase long before I showed up, but it applied equally well to us.

How I managed to put the ninth mile behind me I'll never know. We few who were still moving had given up all talk and banter a couple of miles back. There was nothing funny any more. To smile wasn't possible. We were stupid rubber automatons; sick and worn out at that. Wihin yards of the point where the ninth became the tenth and last mile, the tall punctated chap in front of me suddenly went down heavily in complete collapse. 'Crash' went the metal parts and rifle. Unable to slow my running legs I went sprawling full length over his instantly inert body, banging my knuckles and rifle onto the ground. Already crying, I was content to stay down, but Len and David wouldn't hear of it and dragged me upwards and onwards. How they found enough strength to lift me I can't imagine, for my sagging heap couldn't have been any help.
Every bone now ached, made worse by the unhelpful fall: the few moments of inactivity had given a taste of bliss. But it didn't pay to stop; not even for a moment. The last mile was a tearful stagger home for what I remember of it. Twelve of us arrived, dead beat and stinking of dirty sweat. Other platoons had less in numbers. -- What a Marathon!--

After a drink I lay down on my bunk and, sort of slept? The only thing was, I'd left my eyes open! Thirty minutes later a gathering knot of worried chums had collected around me wondering what to do; for I looked dead, yet breathing! I didn't see them, nor answered when spoken to. Finally a good shake brought response: it was time for dinner.
By evening it had become apparent our casualty figure was very serious; exactly how bad we didn't then know. Death was talked of, but nothing was mentioned directly to us. The following morning saw us packing our kit and preparing to move to Ringway for the parachute course. More news became know too, and that our trail of collapsed bodies had overloaded the hospitals and, put three in the mortuary. I could believe it. Coma and blood vessel bursts were numerous enough, while bruises and cuts were more than ample. Heart and arteries bursting accounted for the deaths, while the strain on organs and hearts to the remainder of us would stay unmeasurable. Only time would tell - if lucky?
What was somewhat galling about our 'bash' though was the fact that those chaps who'd fallen out in the last few miles passed the test too! Not that I minded that in itself; I was glad for them. But it's that I could have done the same thing! I could have remained stretched out on that spotty faced chap and still departed for Ringway! I needn'g have run that grizzling last mile! My writhing corpse could have done it on a stretcher. I'll know next time....

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