This is the story of 10 brave Staffordshire Wing cadets, given a mission turned down by everyone but the bravest (or the most foolish) of cadets. A story of hard work, of team work, of sacking off work at weekends... of pain, pleasure, the good times, the bad times, boots, blisters, Melanin dressing pads, donuts, Vaseline, and of course... marching.
In October 2004, 50 cadets from across Staffordshire Wing attended a briefing, outlining what would be expected of them if they desired a place in the greatest of all teams, the Staffordshire Wing Nijmegen Team. The only team who train for 10 months to push themselves to the limits of human endurance… for 4 days!
The briefing went well, the cadets all seemed optimistic, and cries of 'easy-peasy' were to be heard emanating from the throng of bodies listening intently to the presentation, which, if the details were taken into account, would guarantee them a place on the team. For all but 10 of the crowd, this information flowed as freely through the second ear as it did through the first. The briefing ended after 40 minutes, questions were answered, and the cadets departed, looking suitably smug at the thought of only having to march a few miles to get this much sought after medal, and the even more sought after handshake and beaming smile from the Wing Commander.
Three weeks later, and the training had begun. 12-15 miles around the Staffordshire countryside didn't seem too bad; you had a good laugh, sang a few songs and burnt off those well-earned donuts from lunchtime. The teams were strong, approximately forty cadets spread between two, and morale was high. It seemed as though we could get two teams to the Cosford March at least. This was a 50-mile march over two days held at DCAE Cosford, usually in early April, which cadets had to complete if they wanted a sniff at the Nijmegen team. Maybe if we got two teams to Cosford, we may get two to Nijmegen! Oh how wrong we were.
Winter was at its peak and after a break for Christmas, the training resumed in early January. The staff were not playing games any more, and the mileage increased dramatically until we were regularly clocking up thirty miles every fortnight, sometimes more.
Cosford was looming on the Horizon, and you could feel the tension in the air. No-one knew what to expect, with only the briefing to go by 7 months previous, rumours spread like foot fungus. We had approximately 20 drop-outs up till now, and two teams of fifteen at Cosford were confirmed. With only a few weeks to go training was stepped up, with two weekends of 50 miles written into the program as a good taster of what was to come. The teams were now allocated team leaders, Sgt Pepper (435 Sqn) was leader of the Blue Team, and Sgt Hill (435 Sqn) as leader of the Red Team. We were all set to go, team T-shirts were ordered, Webbing and Rocket-Packs were loaned, Mini-Buses were hired and in the training leading up to Cosford, 1st Aid on the march was practiced again and again, unfortunately not on practice dummies! Time flew by, until we were getting on the buses at RAF Stafford, trying on T-shirts, and listening to Trance music (don't ask me why!). Everyone was hyped up, morale was good, and there was a certain friendly rivalry between the teams, the Blue Team being the best, of course (the writer being from the Blue Team).
We arrived at the base at 2000 hours, registered, and then settled ourselves in the main gym which was to be home for two days to a large proportion of the male marchers, and all of the female marchers. The rest of the males who arrive later slept in marquees on the surrounding grounds, as the writer learnt to his discomfort the previous year.
Our camp-beds were erected, kit packed for the following day, alarm clocks set for 0300 and we had a short briefing on the next morning before we were allowed some free time. This involved going for a wee, queuing for a kebab, eating the kebab (I now understand why people drink heavily before eating one), stumbling back to the gym, discovering the vicious Warrant Officer has turned the lights off, and making your way to your bed, trying not to step on the sprawled bodies which covered the gym floor like an enormous, smelly, breathing carpet.
We were woken the next morning by the lights flickering into life, my watch told me it was 0300, definitely not a good time to get up! The team collected their gear, formed up outside the gym and marched to the mess for breakfast; only to find themselves queuing for an hour and a half, wolfing down a small breakfast at 0530 to be ready to march for 0600. We knew for the next day!
It was hovering around 5-6°C outside, the sun had just poked its head above the frosty horizon, and whispers of 'gloves' travelled around the squad. These were quickly quashed by our Team Leader; so there we stood, shivering in one layer of S95 trousers and shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. Everyone was wearing their Webbing, apart from 4 members of the team with Rocket-Packs. Water-bottles were filled, packed lunches packed, feet taped up, and freezing hands rubbed frantically against the other, or illegally jammed into pockets as we made our way to the start, the march-past (taken by Air Commodore Jon Chitty), and the impending coldness of 25 miles. Cosford also hosts a Winter March, which is probably a warmer version of its Easter one!
The order was given, feet began marking time and the teams slowly but surely moved forward, like an enormous snake, winding its way out of DCAE Cosford and into the beautiful surrounding countryside. The team gave a sharp eyes right, the Team Leaders dropped their salutes, and we had begun. The song book was quickly produced and there followed a rousing rendition of 'Rock and Roll' from the writer, lifting spirits a tad, and reminding everyone that this was supposed to be enjoyable.
The first Rest Stop came and went, water bottles were filled, bladders emptied and we were off to lunch. By this time, partly through physical exertion, partly through the heat of the 11 o'clock sun, hands had warmed and the team were glad of the advice to wear only one layer. When bags were removed they revealed spreading patches of sweat on the wearers' shoulders and back. If the bags were worn incorrectly they could cause injury, and even blisters on the shoulders.
The songs were ringing out, the writer was complemented on his passion in 'A-Ring-a-Rang-a-Roo', a funny hat had been found by the roadside and we had met a Dutch person who had taught us 'Say hello/goodbye to the team on the left/right' in Dutch.
The second Rest Stop rolled on, and with it, lunch. 20 minutes was all we were allowed, as we had worked out we had to be at the third Rest Stop by 2 o'clock to have any chance of completing the day in the allotted 11 hours.
Things were going swimmingly, or marchingly, and we were making good time, overtaking teams with a smile. We had a few blisters between us, and a few people needed a quick morale boost, but we marched into the third Rest Stop quite happily, our feet were aching but nowhere near enough to prevent us from marching. The juice was acquired, shared out, drunk, disposed of and bags were on before I got anywhere near the front of the toilet queue. I was slightly frustrated to say the least.
Still, we marched on, morale at an all time high, everyone was happy that we had nearly completed the first day, until we noticed one of our team leaders was missing. Cries of 'man overboard' went round, and the writer was sent back to find him. He was found walking approximately half a mile behind us, accompanied by two cadets from the GVC. I reached for my pistol, but was assured it was fine, the girls had begun in a team, but were the only ones left. One had very bad feet, and was limping horribly, but the other seemed fit and healthy, and it was a shame that the odds were on for her not completing the march because of the lack of team mates. That's where we came in.
It was approximately 6 miles back to Cosford now, time flew, good songs were sung to finish the day off, and we took in the GVC cadets as some of our own. As we entered the base we were greeted by the GVC team who thanked us profusely before leaving us to our own devices, but not before ensuring their fit cadet had a place on our team the next day.
We retired to the gym, to be greeted by the Red Team who, as a result of their reckless and damaging pace, had finished before us. Needless to say there was banter, but we managed to fob off the Red's and blame our slowness on a late start time and a late arrival, the unknowing GVC cadet.
The evening was a blur, showers blended into naps, which in turn blended into kebabs, foot inspections, NAAFI Beef and Onion crisps and eventually lights out. My eyes closed willingly at the thought of only one more day of marching.
The next day passed much like the previous one, apart from the team managing to arrive at the mess just before opening time, ensuring us a place for breakfast. The day went well, morale was, again, very high, songs were sung, blisters were taped, and by the time we stepped onto the parade square at Cosford we had lost only 4 people, both teams finished, one cadet had managed to develop Achilles Tendonitis (she shall remain nameless) and we were greeted by a well-earned coke and a sit down. As a result of us taking in the lone GVC cadet, the Staffordshire Wing Blue Team won the Yogi Adams Trophy, for the best team spirit. All in all, Cosford went very well, and the staff now had a very good idea of who was suitable for the eventual Nijmegen team. With medals in hand, we made our way to the Mini-Buses, a taste of Nijmegen in our feet; people were now starting to realise that this was not as easy as it looked. The writer found Cosford 2005 a lot harder than the previous year, and a lot of other people struggled but got through. The reality of Nijmegen was sinking in.
In training the next week, it was announced that we would be taking part in the Waendel Walk in early May, a smaller march in participant terms, but the same distance. This was arranged as a fun march, with very little formality, and passed by quickly for everyone (apart from the writer, who was in agony constantly with a pulled muscle in one foot). Everyone enjoyed Waendel thoroughly, and on the last evening, after a Barbeque, the final Nijmegen team was announced. It was to be 10 cadets and 2 staff members, so, in no particular order,
The Staffs Wing Nijmegen Team 2005 -
- Flying Officer Wheatley
- Pilot Officer Reading
- Sgt James Pepper (435 Squadron)
- Sgt Alex Hill (435 Squadron)
- Instructor Sgt Leah Church (1206 Squadron)
- Cpl Thomas Hall (435 Squadron (The Writer))
- Cpl Aaron Church (1206 Squadron)
- Cpl Shawn Street (1444 Squadron)
- Cpl James Stenson (2132 Squadron)
- Cpl Ashley Bagley (435 Squadron)
- Cdt Mark Kelly (1122 Squadron)
- Cdt Simon Kelly (1206 Squadron)
So, the team was ready. These names mean nothing to the reader, but to each of us, to have our name in this list meant enormous pride, meant that we alone would be carrying the Union Flag, and representing Staffordshire Wing Air Training Corps at the greatest march in the world. We would march our own personal 100 miles in front of an estimated 1 million spectators, and along with 47,000 marchers, the largest march ever, all marching their own Nijmegen.
Needless to say, as always, morale was high, and the training leading up to Nijmegen went by in a blur. It was one week before we departed for Holland that the blow came. The past few weekends we had been doing double 25 milers, and were hyped up for the march; it seemed as if nothing could go wrong. Of course, it did. We learned that two of our team had dropped out, the reasons are not important, but as you can understand we were devastated. This meant if one member of our team fell in Holland we would lose the team medal, which was awarded to teams who had lost less than 10% of their members. This also meant that we would need a new team leader, and one was allocated to us after a lot of phone calls and paper work. We were to meet her in Nijmegen. This was a tense time for everyone involved, and our Nijmegen dream could so easily have been crushed in those last few days; so it was a relief when we climbed aboard the coach parked outside RAF Stafford one cool evening in July, ready to face the roads of Holland. We were on our way.
At the end of a very tiring 14 hour coach/ferry journey, we stepped out onto the tracked roads of Camp Heumensoord, the conservation area converted into a military base for the duration of the marches. We were shown around the basic plastic marquees, each holding approximately 500 people, which were to be our home, the toilets, showers, ironing tent, British Military Contingent HQ and shop, bus-stop, souvenir shop, mess, first aid tent and of course, the beer tent. We bought a bus ticket, which would last us the full week, and then attended the briefing with our new team leader, Flight Lieutenant Vey, a squadron CO from Herts and Bucks Wing. We were issued with our security passes which would allow us in and out of the base and a meal ticket for the mess, as well as being briefed on security. The previous year two men had been arrested on terrorism charges, so no chances were taken.
After this the team headed off into the city to get a feel for the atmosphere. I cannot explain it; there were thousands of people, numerous stages with live bands, singers, dancers, street performers, fun fairs, and food stalls, everything you would associate with a national holiday festival. It completely blew us away; the Dutch know how to party!
This carried on for two more days, we arrived on the Saturday but the march did not begin until Tuesday morning, so we filled up the time by travelling into the city and exploring.
Monday evening came, and the team followed much the same routine as the Cosford evenings, kit was prepared, feet taped up, and we were briefed on what was going on the next morning. At 1800 we attended the opening ceremony of the marches, which involved 40 parachutists, lots of marching bands, dancers, several singers, Mexican waves and confetti, all held in the Nijmegen City Stadium.
We arrived back at camp at about 2100, and retired to bed to await the next morning.
At 0230 the team was woken, S95s were donned and we trudged wearily to the mess tent, for a hearty breakfast of ham, cheese and bread. At 0330 we headed back to the block to prepare for an estimated start time of 0400.
Standing in the start queue, morale at its highest, feet at their best, the days route was introduced over a tannoy, the orders were given, the traditional warm-up of the Geordie version of 'Heads, shoulders, knees and toes' was completed (Heed, shoulders, knees and tors, eyes and lugs and mouth and norse)', and 30 minutes later we were marching down the long camp driveway, and out into the streets. I was amazed to see people out at 0500, standing at the side of the road cheering us on, applauding all the teams as they steamed past, a short push before the fatigue set in. About an hour later we joined onto the civilian route which starts from the centre of Nijmegen, and this is where our troubles began. The roads were so packed with people that is was difficult to keep a squad, 'civvies' would regularly break your ranks or cut in front of the team, and where the front of the team could fit through a gap, the rest found they could not, and the team was broken in two, and on one occasion into three.
Morale on the first day became quite strained, with tiredness and blisters setting in, short Rest Stops meaning toilet stops were a regularity and misunderstandings due to ignorance leading to some tears. This was quickly sorted out with a talk from the staff, and morale was back to normal as a result of the civilian support, the stew from the RAF cooks at the Rest Stops, and the sweets given in return for material responses to cries of 'souvenir!'. The end of the first day came quickly, and the evenings were spent preparing for the next day, packing kit and wrapping up injured feet. The worst part of the days for me was the march from the civilian finish to our camp, a 5km long road with no support, just at the time when feet were at their worst, but this gave us a chance to prepare for our entrance into the beer tent. All teams marched into the beer tent at the end of each day, the stamping of feet was mandatory, and usually a plastic cup of beer was too, in response to a short finishing act or song by the entering team. We usually sang our favourite song, 'The Old CO', at the top of our voices. This brought cheers from the crowds, especially the Americans.
The next two days passed much like the first, just a blur of heat, pain, songs, patches of heavy rain, and the 7 hills on day 3, until eventually the last day came. It did not seem like 5 minutes since it was Tuesday morning, but now it was Friday, 75 miles had come and gone, and we had one day left. We started the day with the obligatory 'Rock and Roll', and then were gone, eating up the road, willing the team to reach the landmark third Rest Stop, and then to Charlemagne, the military finish.
We marched on, through the first Rest Stop, through the second, and finally, emerging from a small town to fly-pasts from four F-15s, with an enormous cathedral stretching into the sky to the left of us, we saw the third Rest Stop. Seating stretched up the hillsides to each side of us, thousands of people cheering as the thousands of marchers passed before them on their way to the finish. We marched over a pontoon bridge, constructed by the Dutch Navy, and settled for 15 minutes before embarking on the big 7 mile push to the finish.
You could feel the excitement in the air as we set off from Rest Stop 3 on day four. Morale was at its highest ever, sweets were abundant, as were casualties, but the medics were not going to let anyone drop today!
As we approached the finish and the banner of Charlemagne was on the horizon, moving sights met our eyes. Teams carrying people to the finish determined their friends would finish the march, civilians hugging and kissing strangers as they marched past, willing them to continue. It was a very moving time for the whole team.
As we trudged across the field towards the two white posts which signified our finish, and the 100 mile mark, 'The Old CO' rang out to the other teams finishing with us, some joining in; we marched between the posts and realised it was over.
Shouts of jubilation filled the air, hugs were exchanged and the team sat down on the grass for a well-earned rest. We received our medals a few minutes later, joined the British Military Contingent, and marched 5km down into the centre of Nijmegen as part of the march-past. Stadium seating lined the streets, a million spectators cheered as we paraded our flag through the city. Above the seats were numerous 'live statues', people were hanging out of windows, off balconies, on top of cars, all straining to see the teams which had just completed the 89th Nijmegen Marches.
We travelled back the next morning, to our waiting parents, squadrons, and, for some of us, promotions.
Nijmegen is the best experience I have ever had in the Air Training Corps, and outside.
It has widened my experience of the world, of people, and of my limits, and given me a lot more confidence in my abilities.
But I couldn't have done it without the amazing people in the Staffordshire Wing Air Training Corps Road Marching Team 2005.
Cadet Sergeant Thomas Hall
435 (Newcastle-under-lyme) Squadron
My thanks go to the following people for making Nijmegen 2005 possible –
- Pilot Officer Reading
- Flying Officer Wheatley
- The Team
- Flight Sergeant James Pepper
- Flight Sergeant Alex Hill
- Instructor Sergeant Leah Church
- Sergeant Thomas Hall
- Corporal Aaron Church
- Corporal Shawn Street
- Cadet Ashley Bagley
- Cadet Mark Kelly
- Cadet Simon Kelly
About this article
This article was posted on November 1, 2005 at 949hrs and filed into the 'Adventure Training' category by Plt Off Anthony Starkie.