Warrior Training (8 page)

Never have I tried to walk so fast. We had been marching for about six kilometres when the SI glanced at the guys to his left and right and arrogantly increased the pace. This continued for another two kilometres.

I was locked in a mental battle with the SI, although he didn't know it.
I bet you've got a pillow in your pack, you fucker. I'd like to see how you'd go with a bit of weight in there
. I was determined to break him, just once, but that was never going to happen. Whenever I angled in front a little he stepped it out.
Bastard!

I then began to fight my own mind. One part of me was pissed off that I'd gone to the front, because now the SI would notice if I fell back. But each time I thought about dropping back, my pride gave me a kick up the arse. Physically, however, I was on the limit. I knew I could only continue that pace for another minute or two.

Fortunately, the SI slowed down. ‘Well done, men. Have a seat in the shade.'

Upon reflection, it was probably silly to flog myself like that. There were still two weeks to go. But thoughts of self-preservation never entered my mind. In hindsight, I've often wondered whether I should have approached that first week differently – whether I ought to have saved myself a little. But my answer remains an emphatic no. I was determined to give an honest account of myself.

I was naive for thinking that, just because the SI had said ‘well done', the march was over. A tough-looking man, an SAS sergeant with a solid build and gruff voice, told our group to line up on the track. ‘Can you guys run?' he asked.

So the nightmare continued.
A damn tag team
, I thought. The sergeant left the track, so we fell into single file behind him and ran through the bush. I was second or third in line. I was initially apprehensive that I would roll my ankle, but as my thighs became charged with lactic acid, my
worries disappeared as quickly as the fluid from my body. It was stifling, and the speed ridiculous. Once again, my legs screamed at my mind to slow down. My mind's reply:
Suck it up, you freaking pussies
.

We ran for 800 metres. The sergeant was also surprisingly positive. ‘Well done,' he said. ‘Drop your packs and take a seat. The trucks will be here soon.'

My legs were dead. With shaking hands, I removed a bottle from my webbing, unscrewed the cap and sucked it dry. My hands soon settled down.
What's next?

At midday on day seven we began a solo 36-hour navigational exercise. On the way to my fifth checkpoint, after about six hours of hard going, I was soaked in perspiration and was walking like my testicles were the size of soccer balls. I dropped my trousers and saw that my groin and inner thighs were weeping, chafed raw. We weren't permitted to wear bike pants or skins underneath our fatigues, as all applicants had to be assessed under identical conditions.

I didn't have time to stop so, without taking off my pack and webbing, I pulled a clasp knife out of my pocket and sliced my soggy underwear down the sides. Watery blood trickled down my inner thighs. ‘Man, you'd never get sex looking like that,' I said aloud. I threw my underwear into a magazine pouch, pulled up my pants, fastened my belt and kept walking. That night I smothered my groin in army foot powder. It did relieve the stinging sensation.

The following morning I dug a hole, buried my underwear and continued on. In the early hours of the afternoon
I reached the final rendezvous, my ninth checkpoint. There were eight or nine guys who arrived before me. The first couple were experienced soldiers, members of the 1st Battalion.

A couple of hours later the WSM briefed the remaining course applicants. ‘We're sending you all out again because you failed to complete enough checkpoints by night. You'll all be given the grid coordinates at your drop-off locations.'

In groups of up to a dozen soldiers, we were squashed into the back of a ‘sixby' – a six-wheel Land Rover – and driven to our individual start locations. Each time the vehicle stopped, a soldier was told to get off and given an eight-figure grid reference. My trainee number was the third to be called out.

The man responsible for providing the grid coordinates was my original DS. ‘Prepare to copy your grid.'

I grabbed a notebook out of my pocket and told him I was ready. He then read out the coordinates.

‘What's your bearing?'

I told him.

He nodded his head. ‘Good. Look, mate, you're doing really well. Keep it up.'

I calculated that I would be traversing some thick and undulating terrain, and that the distance to my first checkpoint was 5.3 kilometres. Navigation by night or by day uses exactly the same principles, but it's easy to wander off your bearing during the transition from light to dark. The tree you line up in your compass can quickly disappear in the shadows.

After 45 minutes I had travelled 2.8 kilometres. I sat down, had something to eat and – following the advice I
had received – waited for darkness to devour the landscape. Twenty minutes later I resumed my final 2.5 kilometres. I hit the ground several times, tripping over logs and rocks; once I slid down a gully. I had a small torch on a lanyard around my neck, but it stopped working after the gully incident so I used the light on my watch to illuminate my map and pace counter. My destination was a creek junction. According to my map, the vegetation was going to be dense. It was.

With 50 metres to go, I peered deep into the darkness, searching for a glow stick or any sign of light. I knew one of the DS would be at the checkpoint. I saw nothing – just shadows with contrasting degrees of blackness. Eighty metres later I had still not found my checkpoint. The ground rose sharply to my right, so after consulting my map I turned left and pushed deeper towards the creek.
It's gotta be close
, I thought.
Trust your compass and paces
.

I lost my balance and fell again. As I got to my knees, I noticed a flicker of light. But when I stood up it was gone. I leant forward and there it was – a faint glow further up the creek. As I closed in, the glow became brighter – it was a checkpoint.

When I got there I half-expected to be told I was at the wrong one. I was given another eight-figure grid reference, before being told to move 100 metres into the bush and lie up for the night. I was permitted to leave at first light.

The following morning I headed off for my eleventh and final checkpoint. When I reached the target – the junction of two tracks – I called in my coordinates and was informed to wait in place. A vehicle would be dispatched to pick me up.

Over the radio I heard that half a dozen trainees had become ‘geographically embarrassed' – a fancy term for being lost. One was told to move in a northerly direction until he reached the main road. During the night, this guy had lost his map. He was a Battalion sniper; he completed the course but was not accepted.

While waiting for the truck to arrive, I checked my notebook and calculated how far I had travelled during the two navigational exercises. The total was 43 kilometres.

Later that afternoon – day nine – we had our last 90-minute session with the PTIs. It was one to remember. We were divided into teams and given another truck tyre to push around.
Great
, I thought.
More skin shredded from my palms. Oh well, I don't have the energy to masturbate, so what does it matter?

The second phase of the session comprised a circuit of chin-ups, push-ups and sit-ups. The finale was 10 minutes of gruelling abdominals. We pushed through the burn, hit that numb feeling and kept on going. Then the muscles ceased contracting. When this happened, we were ordered to rest with another set of chin-ups.

Friday 31 March was a roping day and, according to my diary, was a ‘great day'. After the previous nine days, our bodies welcomed the lower intensity. But for some soldiers, climbing a 10-storey tower and completing a 60-metre traverse – sliding along a rope suspended between two towers – was utter anguish. If this freaked them out, then I'm sure the next exercises – a forward rappel, then a 10-storey building climb and emergency stop – were enough to push them over the edge.

You don't have to be a base-jumping adrenaline addict to be an SAS soldier. But you must be able to overcome your fears in order to get the job done. The applicants who didn't complete these activities were removed from the course.

That evening, the 50 of us who remained were jammed into the back of a couple of seven-tonne trucks and driven to Lancelin, a coastal military training area 127 kilometres north of Perth.

Besides being a team player, SAS soldiers are selected on their ability to work independently – to operate alone. Accordingly, the next phase of the course was a four-day individual navigation exercise. Each soldier was required to complete as many checkpoints and travel as many kilometres as he could.

We weren't told when the activity would finish or how many kilometres we were expected to cover – it was a test of personal discipline and self-belief. How hard will guys push themselves when there is no one around to make them? We were given guidelines, one of which was that there was to be no walking on tracks. If a soldier was caught moving along a track, he'd immediately be removed from the course for a lack of moral integrity. The WSM was so clear about this that I was almost too shit-scared even to cross over a track, let alone parallel one.

In one sense, I was relieved to have made it this far and looked forward to spending four days alone. I planned to rest for 10 minutes each hour and break for 30 minutes during the hottest part of the day. I would walk until it got
dark and then push on for another 30 to 45 minutes. How hard I pushed was up to me – I was responsible for shaping my own destiny.

It was a bit like rocking up to your office job and finding a note on your desk informing you that everyone else – including your boss – has been granted leave for the immediate future. You, however, are to begin working your way through 20 large boxes of paperwork, each box the equivalent of a week's normal work. You're not permitted to go home and you should sleep on the floor. It's summer, the air-conditioning has been turned off and your office is infested with thousands of flies. There's enough food to last you five days – nothing too exciting, of course. You'll be hungry, but you won't die from a lack of sustenance. When you choose to eat and sleep is up to you. And finally, there are to be no Google searches, no email and no phone calls – just you, your 20 boxes of paperwork and a few thousands flies. Oh, and there are a couple of snakes somewhere in the office – but don't be concerned. Although dugites are poisonous, they're not aggressive and should keep to themselves.

After four days alone, with no end in sight, how hard would you continue to push? On the SAS selection course, three boxes of paperwork would be deemed a solid effort, two and a half a fair effort, two boxes adequate and one box – the equivalent to a week's work in four days – a fail. Pack your bags, you're going back to the Battalion.

For safety, each man carried a radio and was required to send a daily message to confirm his location. Apart from the DS at the checkpoints, we were alone. In four days I
saw only one other trainee; he was traversing a ridge over a kilometre away.

My first leg was 10.8 kilometres. When I was about halfway there, I stumbled into a small clearing and found two large green garbage bins. I lifted one of the lids and found it was brimming with marijuana. I called it in.

‘Say again, trainee 67?'

‘This is trainee 67. I have just found two bins filled with marijuana at grid reference –'

‘Wait, wait out,' was the reply.

I then heard an older voice, a voice with greater authority. I confirmed my previous message and was ordered to remain where I was; they would send a vehicle to collect it. Ninety minutes later a six-wheel long-range patrol vehicle came into view. I showed them the pot, they put it in their vehicle and I continued on. I lost an hour and a half; it would probably have been quicker to sit down and smoke the lot.

On the way to checkpoint two, 16.8 kilometres away, I miscalculated how much water I would need to carry. Essentially, I was being a little softcock and tried to carry eight litres, rather than the 10 I should have. I then lost two litres when one of my bladders burst. As a consequence, I spent a very thirsty couple of hours crossing the sand dunes. The heat was extreme. While walking across the dunes, I thought:
If I screw up my navigation and can't locate the checkpoint, I could be in a bit of trouble here
. I was dizzy but still coherent. My tongue felt swollen, and the rear of my throat was as dry as the sand beneath my boots. I would never make this mistake again.

I've seen senior soldiers in the Regiment do this while
deployed on operations. When men are carrying up to 65 kilograms, the thought of leaving a water bottle or two empty can be tempting. Once it affected the operational security of our patrol. Anyone who has experienced extreme thirst – that painful sensation that dominates your every thought and makes you scared because you realise your body is starting to shut down – is reluctant to ever go there again. Fortunately, I had learnt my lesson early. The first thing I did when I reached the checkpoint was fill up my water bottles – all of them, all eight litres.

Negotiating the prickly saltbush and dealing with the flies tested my mental toughness. I wrote the following in my diary: