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As a fourteen year old Alex had read of the exploits of Britain’s Royal Marine Commandos in the retaking of the Falkland Islands following the Argentine invasion. Growing up on an island he’d been around boats since birth, although he couldn’t see how naval training would equip him with the skills he’d need to see off the wild-eyed fighters armed with AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenade launchers who still inhabited his dreams. The marines seemed like a good compromise. The thirty-two week recruit training course at Lympstone in Devon on the wind and rain swept south coast of England taught him what an easy life he’d lived so far, and if he’d thought his British background would lead to acceptance, he was disabused of such romantic notions when his corporal dubbed him ‘the African Spic’.
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