That’s a war face: Caswell attempts to look brave after a grade one exhibition of cowardice on the exercise area

Report: Cliff Caswell
Pictures: Graeme Main

AS the column of British soldiers advances down the street in full riot gear, I’m beginning to wonder whether my shouts to bring down the British Government might have been a mistake.

Like Roman Legionnaires, the troops are plodding towards us like a giant armadillo, impassive and anonymous behind their protective kit and wall of shields. But my fellow demonstrators seem even more excited by the prospect that this situation might turn into an all-out battle, and up the ante even further.

I’m swept along with them, hurling insults at world leaders, yelling for the soldiers to go home. And before I know it, I’m right up against the shield wall, hammering my fists on the perspex, before sanity takes over and I realise that a smacking from one of the batons these officer cadets are carrying is going to really smart.

The heat is rising from the burning barricades and I can taste the petrol on my lips. A Gazelle helicopter hovers on the edge of our vision like an angry wasp, the sound of the rotor blades punctuating the chanting of the hysterical crowd.

Although this is an exercise, and conditions in Longmoor’s mock village are controlled, it doesn’t take anyone with even a modicum of common sense to realise that the adrenalin, fear and anger are entirely real. And when the situation deteriorates, and the rioters behind us start pelting the soldiers with potatoes – the missile of choice for these manoeuvres – you realise the pain is authentic too.

The false bravado in me has suddenly evaporated and the reality of cowardice takes over. The spuds are raining in around us and a few hardcore rioters are smashing into the shields. It’s all too much. The final straw comes when the soldiers start letting loose with their batons.

I’m off like a jet-propelled whippet in the opposite direction, hugely eager to get out of the striking zone.

“People have been injured on these exercises,” one of the marshals had warned me after the safety briefing for this simulated demonstration, set up to hone the skills of Sandhurst cadets. “There have been cases where teeth have been lost – safety is a prime concern but we need to make sure the training is as realistic as possible.”

He wasn’t lying either. This is unpleasantly realistic and everything is a blur, a cacophony of noise erupting around me. “Seriously injured” – the potential has taken on a new reality. I’m instinctively ducking as blank baton gun rounds are fired. My breathing is ragged, and when I eventually have the courage to look over my shoulder to see what is happening on the front line, my heart sinks when it becomes apparent that the soldiers are still relentlessly advancing towards us.

A whistle sounds – the cue for a petrol bomber – and the action temporarily pauses as a wall of fire explodes in front of the shields. One of the soldiers, his boots ablaze, frantically stamps his feet to put out the flames.

The raging crowd let out a huge collective cheer before the next wave of bombardment begins.

I’m spurred on by this. “Hit them hard,” someone screams, and gathering an armful of spuds, I start launching them towards the troops, feeling a deep satisfaction as I watch one vegetable ricochet off a visor, leaving a messy smear. The soldiers are stunned. The rioters manage to push them back and are holding their ground.

Encouraged by our success I move back into the throng to let off a few close-range missiles but the sudden onset of courage does not last long. A couple of unexpected loud bangs send me scuttling back again. I’m the complete opposite of the man who is currently being told off by a marshal for his over-zealousness.

Another whistle, and there is another whoosh of flames and the sound of boots crunching over broken glass. The air reverberates with clattering as the soldiers pound their batons against their shields to pump themselves up, Zulu style. It’s intimidating and grates on nerves already raw. I’m now relying on my legs to do the work more than my throwing arm, struggling to keep my footing amid the debris.

We have been fighting for the last 40 minutes and in that time the troops have advanced less than 100 metres through the melee. But I’m concerned about the upcoming bend in the street. There is the potential for the soldiers to chase us round and break up the spud throwers. Despite being an amateur military strategist my prediction comes true with a remarkable ferocity. All hell breaks loose, a man with a baton is after me and I’m hacking it up a steep bank, only returning to the fold when I’m told to get back on the exercise area by a marshal.

Despite being briefly dispersed, our rioter-generals do a great job in regrouping our throng and a wheelbarrow full of more spud ammo has just arrived. I’m back in business, engulfed in smoke and smashing the enemy lines.

It comes as something of a relief, however, to realise that the troops, outnumbered two-to-one, have done their job in securing a cordon to carry out a search op. Despite the fact that we can still hit back, their objective is complete. The British commander steps out to try to negotiate a peaceful conclusion.

Personally, I’m very happy with his proposals, and am dismayed when some hardcore rioters start calling for more trouble. I’m exhausted, and further action against this human wall will only enhance my chances of getting a beating with a blunt instrument.
But thankfully our leaders see sense, compromise is reached by negotiation, and we’re told to disperse. I breathe a sigh of relief, thank God I am still in one piece and vow never again to fool around with heavily-armoured British soldiers.

Yet despite suffering the onset of an attack of nervous indigestion, stinking of petrol and caked in grime, this experience has also been a sobering display of the remarkable qualities of these young officer cadets. Even though they are not the finished article, they have shown bravery, leadership and, crucially, restraint in the face of a very real beating. And that, unlike my cowardice, has to be admired.