Warrior Training (6 page)

The next challenge was 100 unsupported sit-ups, then we were taken outside and briefed on another test, a 2.6-kilometre run. We were wearing PT kit and carrying our rifles. We would only be informed whether we had passed or failed the run at the finish line. The course, a hot gravel track, ascended a series of ridges. I finished in the top eight with a time of nine minutes and 54 seconds. Three-quarters of the course failed to make the cut-off time of 10 minutes and 30 seconds. The heat was unbearable. I felt sick.

Surely that's it
, I thought. But this was SAS selection, so of course there was more to come.

We were told to start running up the track to a parked truck. The first 20 guys were to jump in the back, and everyone else was to keep on running. We had no idea how far we'd be expected to run. I was the 23rd or 24th guy to the truck, and my heart rate was through the roof. I had missed the cut so I kept running. Those who made it to the truck were soon yelled at and told to get out and get going too.

We ascended false crest after false crest. I longed for the finish line. I tried to anticipate how far, realistically, we would be made to run. I was thinking 20 kilometres. There were a couple of drink stations but the white plastic cup of
water at each one was barely enough to moisten my parched throat. I knew I was overheating, and my head began to ache.

The red, gravelly track continued on and up. My legs felt weary and my brain like a fried egg. We ran for 11 kilometres, all the way back to camp. When I arrived, guys were guzzling from 20-litre jerry cans. I had a turn but only managed two or three gulps before I thought I was going to vomit. My legs and hands were shaking; I was definitely suffering from heat exhaustion.

We showered and readied ourselves for dinner. There was no down time. Everything was rushed, every moment was hectic. At the completion of the third day we had lost almost half the course. At least 60 or 70 guys were gone. Some had suffered injuries and some were asked to leave, but most left because they'd had enough.

I couldn't eat that evening. I dry-retched after putting a single piece of chicken in my mouth. The lasagne fared no better. So I filled my stomach with fluid and hoped my headache would fade soon. I went to bed feeling like shit. But I had made it to the end of day three.
Just 17 or 18 days to go
, I thought.

Day four began with a 90-minute PT session. In groups of five we were given a large truck tyre to guide around the gravel tracks of Bindoon. Our team decided to have two guys pushing from behind, a guy to the left and right to steer, and one off to the side resting.

On a flat road it worked pretty well. Going uphill was hard work but the tyre was easy to control. Downhill was another story. Up to eight hands would be pressed down on the rubber as the tyre gained momentum, in a
feeble attempt to slow it down. Most guys lost a fair portion of skin off their palms. Rogue tyres sometimes broke free, only slowing down when they collected the group in front.

There was no shortage of prying eyes watching our every move. The DS constantly pulled notebooks out of their trouser pockets and scribbled away. I tried to take no notice. I placed my efforts and attention solely on the task we were completing.
If I do this right
, I thought,
everything else should take care of itself
. Trying to second-guess what someone thinks of your efforts is a waste of energy. And the thought of kissing someone's arse, especially in the SAS, never entered my mind.

In the Regiment I socialised with guys I liked, regardless of their rank or position. Trooper, corporal, sergeant, warrant officer or ‘Rupert' (an officer) – what did it matter?

I remember chatting to Todd (a good mate) and Buzz (our team commander) at a function at the Gratwick Club – the SAS watering hole at Campbell Barracks. A drunken sergeant approached us and said: ‘When you guys are finished kissing your team commander's arse, I'd like to have a chat to him.'

His comment incensed me, almost to the point where I thought about landing one on the prick's chin. Todd was an angry bastard at the best of times, and I could see he was thinking something similar. We'd only been in the troop for 12 months, but as far as we were concerned, we were free to talk to whomever we liked. Buzz was a sergeant, but so what? He was also a mate.

Buzz saw our faces change. As a good leader does, he took care of it. ‘Hey, these boys are fucking solid and I'm chatting to them. The Gratto's their pub, not ours.'

Thankfully, there wasn't much of that sort of attitude in the Regiment. The only pecking order that most guys cared about was performance.

Am I anti-authoritarian? I don't think so. I just don't believe that rank or social standing gives you the right to speak down to others. Condescending language is the language of the inept – bigoted souls with something to prove.

The guys of Eight Squad were team players. From the outset we all had a strong sense of camaraderie. Many squads had already folded because of withdrawals, resulting in the merging of two or more groups. Our squad, with only a couple of withdrawals, remained intact.

After breakfast on day four we were driven to Julimar. The trucks stopped and let us off, we threw on our packs and webbing, then the trucks drove on again. It was hot and the sun was burning into the shoulders of our camouflaged shirts.

‘Follow me,' ordered the SI, taking off down the track.

The pace was hectic. After 15 minutes the lead group of a dozen soldiers was told to stop and join the back of the line. Twice I worked my way to the front, only to be sent to the back. I then decided to stay in the middle. The pace remained fast, and some soldiers struggled to keep up.

After 45 minutes I removed a water bottle from my webbing to take a drink, but my ankle rolled on the side of
a large tree root. I had not re-strapped it after the pool swim, which was a decision I would come to rue.

Fuck
, I thought. The pain was pretty intense. Someone helped me to my feet and I kept walking. For five minutes I felt nauseated and my ankle throbbed, lacking stability.

Ten minutes later I rolled it again.
That's that
, I thought.
Only made it to bloody day four
. I tried to stand up but my ankle couldn't bear my weight.

My DS – a fair man – approached me and asked what had happened. He could see the distress on my face. ‘Look, mate,' he said. ‘I reckon those trucks are only a couple of hundred metres up the road. Reckon you can make it?'

‘Yes, sir,' I replied as I got to my feet.

Then the WSM arrived, and he was not so positive. ‘Would you like to remove yourself from the course, trainee?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Then why were you sitting down?'

‘I rolled my ankle, sir.'

He didn't believe me. ‘I think you should re-evaluate your volunteer status.'

‘No, sir, I will never remove myself from the course. I damaged my ankle prior to selection and got rid of my crutches three days before the course.' I had no reason to lie. All he had to do was check my medical documents.

The WSM called a medic over.

‘He's done a decent job on this,' the medic said. ‘It's already bruised.'

‘If you strap it it'll be okay,' I said.

‘Your ankle's gonna swell – strapping tape might inhibit your circulation,' said the medic.

‘His ankle's already swollen. Strap it up and see how it goes,' said the WSM.

The medic used the best part of an entire roll to secure my ankle. It was now impossible for it to roll. I rejoined my squad, which was just a couple of hundred metres up the track.

That afternoon we were sent in pairs on a navigational exercise. My partner was a signaller named Cassidy, an intelligent and genuine guy. I was disappointed that he wasn't there at the end of the course. We returned to our squad base location, as ordered, after last light.

‘How's your ankle?' enquired my DS.

‘No problem,' I said.

‘Of course there's no problem, but how is it?'

‘Fine, sir.'

‘Look after it tomorrow. That goes for all of you,' he added to the group. ‘Air out your feet. You all know you've got your 20-clicker –' our 20-kilometre pack march – ‘coming up. If you don't make the cut-off time then you've got Buckley's of passing the retest. You've really only got one shot.'

Our DS had a different approach from the others. He was keen to offer encouragement if he thought you deserved it. That evening our squad members got to know each other a little better. Our DS kept the conversation going with a few questions, but he left most of the talking to the guys.

The next morning, with a second list of checkpoints to navigate to, Cassidy and I headed off. We pushed hard through the morning, which meant we could take a bit of time in the middle of the day to dry out our sleeping
equipment. Throughout the afternoon we managed our speed to ensure we reached the rendezvous on time. We had made it to the end of day five.

Although we'd been told that day one of the course only began the day after we arrived, it was really a ploy to unsettle us. After the long flight, the angst of expectation, the swim test and then being woken up at midnight after barely an hour's sleep, the guys were feeling shattered. To then be told that day one had only just began was like sprinting over the finish line of a marathon and then being told you still had two kilometres to go. But the SAS wants men who aren't discouraged by extended finish lines.

As you near the end of a deployment, most soldiers are excited to get home and see their families. At first you might be told: ‘The deployment will be six months, and then you'll all be home for Christmas.' But with two weeks to go, things change. Instead of hiding next to the chimney to scare Santa on Christmas Eve, you are hanging out in Afghanistan or Iraq because your deployment has been extended by three months.

Colleen abseiling.

You then have a choice: you can be a sook, or you can put it behind you and crack on with business. In my experience, SAS (and army) wives are some of the toughest women around. My wife had more than a
decade of extended finish lines. Sure, she was often disappointed, but not once did she give me any grief about it. If something is out of your control, then worrying about it is pointless.