The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (20 page)

There was so much information to take in: medical training, tactics and, above al , contact dril s for kil ing the enemy. We learned patrol ing skil s and spent al night putting them into practice. Then came the assault course.

‘Speed, aggression and safety’ was Ken’s byword, though he never concerned himself much with the third item except on the ranges. We walked parts of the course and learnt the best way to handle the obstacles, before being taken to a section we hadn’t yet seen. I resigned myself to the fact that my body no longer belonged to me and warmed up with the boys behind a shed. Jones took us to the starting point one at a time.

I turned the corner, put on my green helmet and lined up 30 metres away from a wal with a window four feet above the ground. The little incline before the window prevented any indication of what lay beyond.

Ken was eagerly looking on. ‘Now don’t fack about, Colin.’

Jones leered at me and tapped my shoulder. ‘Go.’

I sprinted at the window and dived through head first. There was a sizeable drop, a rattle of body parts and a forward rol . Next came the cargo net. Another leap cleared the first eight feet of it as I punched my arm through and hooked in at the shoulder, climbed up and flipped over the top. This pleased Ken, who jogged alongside.

The next sprint was less fluid. This upset Ken.

More climbing, jumping, swinging and running led to a brick wal . ‘Colin, get up that fackin’ wal .’

I ran in, dug my foot into the mortar line and hopped up, getting a hand on to the top. A big pul , then the other arm, and over to the finish.

The next course was a team event and unsighted. I hooked up with the Bear, Johnny and a lad from another company. We attacked the course and its festering water obstacles before approaching the monkey bars, where Geordie was lurking with a mischievous smirk. It wasn’t long before we found out why. When we were halfway across the bars, he whipped out a high-pressure hose and artful y switched his fire between our eyes, bal s and fingertips.

We had a problem with our heavy Bear, who spent more time swimming the lagoon than on the bars overhead. I went back for him with Johnny and we shoved him on top of the bars, where Geordie couldn’t squirt him off.

‘Ah, that’s quick thinkin’ there, fel as.’

We sprinted to the final obstacle. I vaulted up the high wal with Johnny, but we struggled to drag Bear over, so I climbed back down and shoved him over the top with his boot in my mouth. I was wrenched over as the last man, fal ing in a heap on the other side, where everybody else was already waiting.

I lifted my saturated helmet from over my eyes, got to my feet and col ided with the training officer.

‘Switch on, Col ins. You need to work on your phys.’

An Officer and a Gentleman
it wasn’t …

I loved the Army. It had become the only constant in my career. Back at ‘work’ I had to try and capitalise on my championship title and get a NASCAR drive. When I wasn’t training with the boys in green, I was back on the phone sel ing my soul to the marketing and advertising geni of Madison and Vine. I also had to earn some money and pitched endless ideas to
Top Gear.

Winning the Texaco Trophy had opened the door with their UK marketing agent. Given that Texaco also sponsored a car in NASCAR’s top category, it was a link worth forging. I struck a deal to drive for them in the UK, with the proviso that I would compete in a NASCAR support race at Charlotte at the end of the season.

I joined a new team with a tiny operating budget. As returning champion I had it al to lose. But I stil had a lot to learn about NASCAR racing, so I figured it was a risk worth taking.

The team col ected our car from a pool of spares held by the series organisation and put it together.

Then we set about testing, and my first laps in it confirmed my worst fears. The back end shook around as awkwardly as a John Sergeant mambo on
Strictly Come Dancing
. I couldn’t get anywhere near my own pace from the previous season and we ran out of adjustment on the car trying to fix it.

The first weekend was an exercise in mediocrity. We crossed the line in fifth and sixth positions. I met with one of the series organisers in his ivory tower at Rockingham and pleaded our case. Our car was incapable of winning; we needed to exchange it.

‘You are the
last
person we would want winning the series again,’ he explained as he rocked back on his leather chair. ‘That’s half the problem with Formula 1 these days, right, it’s bloody boring watching the same person winning again and again.’

I knew it. This was al Schumacher’s fault.

‘Wel , I assume that you want Texaco to stay in the series?’ I bluffed. ‘Basical y if we can’t have another car, I’m pul ing out. And so will they.’

I had no authority to say that, but it paid off. We were granted a new car for the next race a few months later, one that could actual y turn left. In the meantime the soldiering business became a ful -time preoccupation.

After months of intensive training our assault rifles became extensions of our bodies. Contact dril s, our immediate response to enemy fire, were honed from hundreds of rehearsals of choreographed moves designed to inflict maximum damage on the enemy.

We crept across the vast open plains of the firing range on the tips of our toes, rifle in the shoulder.

Every sense was jacked; we could almost smel the targets before they appeared. The river to our left offered potential cover, as did the rising val ey to the right.

The glimmer of a target – the weapon fired and the target dropped.

‘
Contact front.’

Our tiny group dealt out a murderous rate of fire. Live rounds pierced the air as we wove past one other, taking control of the ground. Fire and manoeuvre, al under the watchful eyes of our instructors, who were judging our performances.

‘Baseline, break left,’ Ninja shouted.

I lobbed a smoke grenade and we hurtled into the confines of the river one by one, pepper-potting along it, firing al the way. Sprint, down, fire, up, sprint, down, fire; lead turned into brass.

Burning legs pumped through the river towards my buddies as we broke away from contact. We were so close we were firing past each other’s shoulders. I noticed a flash and heard an unusual noise, the hiss of a close round. Tread careful y.

Magazine changes became a bodily function. You felt the weapon lighten, anticipating the click at the end of the magazine, diving into cover, automatical y slapping home the next magazine, releasing the working parts, re-engaging –
Bang
. We were total y tuned in.

My rounds ricocheted off another target 200 metres away, but it stil wouldn’t fal . Ken pounced on my shoulder. ‘Fack’s sake, hit that fackin’ target!’

I rounded on him. ‘It’s fucking broken, Staff!’

I switched to another and blatted it down.

Al morning we leapt over obstacles, rol ed through firing positions and sprinted from one objective to the next. We bombed up for the next assault, established security and analysed the situation. Sweat poured and hands shook from the adrenalin and the high lactate concentrations in our muscles. Ken was looking for the smal est error.

‘Fackin’ switch on. This is when we’re looking at you, when you’re
facked
. Right. Fackin’ close in, lads.’

We huddled around Ken. Our steaming breath rose from the circle like a halo. He stared intently at each of us, one by one. I took a slug from my water bottle and hacked at the phlegm in my throat.

Ken was the devil to most of us but I admired his perfectionism, and not just the ability to swear several times in every sentence. His relentless abuse was timeless, whether it was lunchtime and someone wasn’t loading rounds into a magazine fast enough, or 3am and someone wasn’t in exactly the spot where they were supposed to be for an ambush. He cared, I suspected, because he had witnessed the consequences of getting it wrong.

‘The next objective is in that fackin’ wood up there. You fight through that position, yeah. Fackin’

whatever it takes, lads. In Para Reg, right, we fix fackin’ bayonets.’

We advanced to contact in sections, losing sight of the far right flank behind the tree line as we cleared the open ground.

There was a crescendo of loud bangs.

‘CONTACT FRONT …’

‘You, you, you and YOU – you’re fackin’ DEAD.’

Unlike the real thing, being ‘kil ed’ on the range wasn’t al bad. I checked my safety and hit the deck.

Johnny and Bernie started hauling me towards cover. The effort was carved across their faces.

‘You two, pick up his fackin’ bergen.’

‘You’re joking,’ Bernie moaned, adding the dragging weight of my pack to my carcass. Out of sight of the DS I kicked my legs as much as I could to help propel my weight.

They dropped me and laid down more fire. People were opening up at the tree line from al sides. I leaned over to my right to get a better view of the advance as the group nearest me switched fire and the flanking section took the position. A searing hot pain entered my armpit, then wriggled quickly down my ribcage to the smal of my back.

Being a hypochondriac, I thrust my hand inside my body armour to check for blood and quickly realised I hadn’t been shot. After plenty of digging, I removed a pair of hot, flesh-stained shel cases that had fal en from Bernie’s rifle. I looked back up to see Geordie and Jones laughing their asses off at me.

‘STOP.’

Geordie gathered us round.

‘So what have we learnt from this exercise, lads?’

‘Should’ve joined the Air Corps,’ Cartman said, catching his breath.

‘Don’t get shot, simple as that. Otherwise you’re al fookared. Right, col ect the brass, pack up and Foxtrot Oscar.’

We absorbed volumes of information on assault techniques, situational awareness, observation skil s, reconnaissance, patrol ing, signals, close-quarter combat, fieldcraft, routines, teamwork. It paid to listen and learn. You could be put on the spot at any moment.

‘Col ins, Johnny, you’re with me in the gun group. The rest of you lads, get fackin’ bombed up for the assault.’

I took the General Purpose Machinegun, Johnny took the Minimi. I carried enough belts of ammunition around my neck to film the entire
Rambo
series. We made a tactical approach to the fire support position overlooking the area where our brothers would be assaulting a range of bunkers and targets.

‘Tactical’ meant the hard way, the steep way, avoiding open ground and maintaining cover, dragging ourselves and our kit across rocks and fal en trees. Ken walked alongside and dished out his usual brand of encouragement.

The Gimpy could dish out up to a thousand 7.62-calibre rounds every minute, and Ken wanted Armageddon. That meant switching barrels regularly to prevent them overheating and I ran the dril in my head. Sometimes the barrel would get so hot that it glowed red and the passing rounds were visible from the outside.

Lying flat on my bel y in the firing position, I set out my stal with spare barrel, oil and ammo. With the butt of the gun pressed into my shoulder, I flipped open the top cover and splashed oil over the working parts like a drunk pissing over his shoes. I loaded a serpentine belt of live rounds mixed with bal and tracer, slapped down the cover, racked the cocking handle to make ready, clicked on the safety and sighted for 400

metres.

In seconds, the boys would sweep into view from the left of my arc of fire. My job was to suppress as many targets ahead of them as possible. Policing the exercise was just as intense for Ken as for us on the triggers.

I stared down the iron sights with both eyes open to take in the periphery, scanning for a target, watching for the assault group. A jammed round or a belt change had to be dealt with as fast as possible to maintain the rate of fire and support the attack. Everything was prepared. Shit. Apart from my earplugs …

Movement, an obscured white object that wasn’t there before
…

‘Staff, target at 400 metres, centre of arc behind the bush, can I engage?’

‘Crack on.’

I flicked off the safety and gave a short burst to gauge the fal of the rounds. Johnny fol owed suit.

The crackle of fire slashed at what was left of my eardrums. The bush exploded as the tracer thudded into the bank just short of the target. I raised the barrel a hair, squeezed and the next burst tore through the target.

Firing in bursts didn’t look as cool as the Rambo method: stripped to the waist and freshly lubed, legs apart, gun under one arm, hosing an infinite belt of rounds across the entire battlefield. The upside of stroking the trigger was the accuracy, which the ‘spray and pray’ method rarely achieved.

Smoke drifted across the area, signal ing the arrival of the rifle group. ‘Get the fackin’ rounds down!’

Ken chanted.

We poured fire into the forward positions at an increasing tempo as they moved towards them. I could make out Bernie and Flash dashing forward and dropping, signal ing and firing.

Our fire intensified, decimating the position. The boys closed in, metres away from the fal ing shots, then just feet. If I aimed a quarter inch to the left the fire would split Bernie’s head open like a cantaloupe. I gripped the weapon with al my strength, as if some imaginary force might draw the barrel towards him.

Ken left it to the last moment. ‘GUN GROUP, switch fire to the right – bunker, 450 metres, rapid
FIRE
.’

I swivel ed the Gimpy on its tripod until the sight met the target. BLAP, BLAP, click.

Ken was on me. ‘Clear that stoppage!’

I cracked the top cover and racked the working parts, which jammed in protest. I pul ed on the lever with al my strength.
Not now, you bastard,open
…

The bolt whipped back, I peeled off the belt and cleared the smouldering link obstructing the feed, slapped on a fresh belt … rack, engage …

The gun chewed through the belt like confetti; targets rose and fel . I must have gone through at least 350 rounds.

‘BARREL CHANGE,’ I shouted, putting Johnny on notice to hold the fort. I fired through the belt and sprung into action, dislodged the smoking barrel, attached the fresh one and carried on. The rifle group closed in again. Grenadiers took out the bunker as we went cyclic on the guns and blew it to smithereens.