Warrior Training (9 page)

If there was one guy who was jetting our course, from what I observed and heard from others, it was a particular soldier from the 1st Battalion. He was aged in his late twenties and had blitzed the previous navigational exercises.
My good mate Evo later told me that while he was having a break on our first nav exercise, he saw the guy charging through the bush.

‘It was almost intimidating,' Evo told me. ‘This guy was a machine. When I saw how hard he was going, I realised I had better lift my game so I packed up my things and got going. Seeing him motivated me to go harder.'

This guy's peers spoke of him as though he were a legend; he probably already was in the Battalion, where he'd been deployed to Somalia. He seemed like a good bloke – intelligent, personable and tough.

On our second day alone in the bush in Lancelin, I stopped to have something to eat and checked my radio to hear what was going on. I heard a deep, familiar voice – it belonged to the jet from the 1st Battalion. He was asking to be removed from the course. I couldn't believe it and turned up the volume.

Unlike others who had withdrawn, this man was asked numerous times whether he had thought about his decision. He was also asked if he was aware of the consequences, to which he replied: ‘Yes, sir.'

Generally, anyone who requests to be removed from the course is never permitted to try again. In saying this, however, I'm aware of a couple of exceptions. If a soldier is relatively young then he might be given a second chance due to his lack of maturity or mental toughness. At 20, one is definitely not a boy, but might still be a little underdone in regards to being a bona fide man. Everyone is different and, depending on what they've experienced in life, some young men are mature beyond their years.

In Western society, life today is a little easier compared
to what previous generations lived through. My great-grandfather soldiered through both World Wars. His son, a teenage infanteer, fought at Tobruk, El Alamein, Kokoda and Borneo. My father left school and started full-time employment at 14. I'd had no intention of following in his footsteps, but I was 15 when I left school. For most people, though, those days are long gone.

A soldier aged in his late twenties who voluntarily removes himself from the course, whether or not he has personal issues clouding his mind, will not be afforded another chance. His dream will remain unfulfilled.

Some people are incapable of working alone. They require support, feedback, positive encouragement and camaraderie. The SAS requires team-oriented people who can also go it alone.

A few soldiers thrive on working independently. Skip, a fit man who won both the cross-country and triathlon races in the Regiment, gave me his thoughts on the solo navigation exercise at Lancelin in 1995. ‘Mate, it was the best part of the course,' he said. ‘Four days on your own with no one giving you shit – it was great!'

Skip was posted to the sniper troop, a job that requires plenty of patience and an ability to operate in the smallest of teams – two men. Skip's a solid operator and, despite having been dealt a few extra challenges in life, he's one of the mentally strongest and most balanced soldiers I've known. He's a tremendous asset to the Regiment.

I also enjoyed being left alone, but I definitely wouldn't go so far as to say stomping around Lancelin while being mauled by flies was great.

Comfortable operating alone: Skip in Afghanistan.

On Tuesday 4 April, I arrived at my final checkpoint. I had completed approximately 68 kilometres. Some of the more experienced soldiers who really pushed themselves walked in excess of 80, while others completed less than 50.

I listened to a couple of guys from the 1st battalion explain how initially they'd tried to force their way through the dense three- to four-metre scrub. I was intrigued, because I'd spent the best part of four days burrowing through the shit. They'd done it once before using the ridgelines to skirt around the most inhospitable
terrain. Other soldiers had used well-worn animal tracks. I was paranoid about using tracks and was conscious of my limitations, so I'd kept it simple and stuck to bearings and paces. Unlike some, I hadn't got lost – a couple of guys ended up outside the training area – but I had expended far more energy than I should have.

I could no longer feel the soles of my feet, and the tops of my shoulders were no better. I dug my nails into the skin on one shoulder but felt nothing. This numbness would remain for the next 10 or 12 weeks. My shins, knees, thighs and the backs of my hands were covered in hundreds of tiny thorns. I spent weeks squeezing little pieces of Lancelin out of my inflamed, tender skin.

I had no idea what to expect during the final five or six days of the course. This might in fact have been a good thing, because my naivety kept me sheltered. I would soon be in the ugliest place I had ever seen.

Wednesday 5 April – day 15 – was another roping day. We received fresh rations for both lunch and dinner, a welcome change from the ration packs that only ever filled half the void.

That evening we were placed in squads of nine or 10 soldiers. At 2200, we commenced ‘lucky dip', the final phase of the selection course. The next four and a half days would be the most physically demanding of my life.

A cool change swept across the landscape, and with it came rain. The DS could not have hoped for a more perfect end to the course. At 2230 our squad was placed in an ambush. After two and a half hours lying on our stomachs – the prone position – we were told to maintain a 50 per cent watch. Working in pairs, we could take turns sleeping but were not permitted to use sleeping bags.

I couldn't sleep. I had lost a lot of weight and shivered incessantly. In my diary I wrote: ‘Coldest night ever'. I have since had many nights that have proven far more uncomfortable but, at the time, this night was my benchmark.

At 0445 we left the ambush location and patrolled to a
designated rendezvous (RV). It was a relief to get moving. Our packs, webbing and rifles kept us company, but we were also provided with a few other bits and pieces to drag along. First there were two trunks filled with sandbags, four metal poles and two lengths of rope. We lashed the poles to the trunks and headed towards our second RV, six kilometres away. Eight of us carried the two boxes while one guy walked ahead and navigated. A couple of men rotated through the navigational responsibilities; the rest struggled with the boxes.

The second activity was a four-kilometre stretcher carry, followed by a five-kilometre pack march. Our patrol was tasked to carry two ‘casualties' – human-shaped dummies – to safety. An 80-kilogram man would have been a decent challenge, but these larger-than-life creatures were made from sandbags. While trying to raise the first stretcher, two of the squad members lost their balance, and the stretcher wedged into the back of one man's neck. He was then assigned light duties and instructed to walk ahead and navigate.

We tried again, our lower backs straining under the excessive weight. After considerable stuffing around, we were on our way. But we had walked less than 20 metres when the first stretcher went down. The DS then made a call for our patrol to ditch one of the stretchers. That was great, but it still didn't lighten our load. After another below-average effort, the DS removed a couple of sandbags.

‘You guys are a joke. Seeing as this patrol has no heart, we'll remove the heart and lungs from your casualty; we might as well keep you all the same.'

Next they removed two sandbags from the centre of the
casualty. A little later they removed half of both of his legs. If my back wasn't about to snap, I would probably have found this overestimation of our combined ability a little amusing.

Our evening meal was identical to both breakfast and lunch.
Where's their imagination?
I thought. We were given nothing. That evening we were tasked to make a shelter large enough to accommodate our entire patrol. We had to continue working until the DS decided it was suitable.

We set about making a lean-to. By midnight our enthusiasm had begun to wane. It was obvious that this task was designed to keep us awake. Most of us had also had very little sleep, if any, the previous night. The DS hid in the bush and observed our actions. Who would continue to work, and who would walk into the darkness and lie down when they think no one is watching? My eyes were heavy. I felt delirious as I dragged my groundsheet covered with leaves to the shelter. I scattered them on top then went back to collect some more.

At 0130 we were ordered to establish a piquet and go to sleep. We were to be up by 0500, so each man had a 25-minute piquet to enjoy. I remember being woken for my turn. I sat up, glanced at my watch and spent the next 20 minutes fighting sleep. Surprisingly, at 0240 I felt awake and began to think about food. I drank some water, which helped to quieten my noisy stomach.

At 0245 I woke the next guy, got back into my sleeping bag, pulled my head deep inside and drifted off. With each change of shift I woke, checked my watch and became frustrated that I was awake. I heard others snoring – I craved some of that.

It was now 7 April – day 17. I couldn't believe I'd made it this far. But we still had three or four very long days to go. Breakfast was delicious – more of nothing. I didn't care, as the lack of sleep and food had left me feeling nauseated.

We struggled off to our next activity.
What a surprise
, I thought,
more stores to carry
. This time we were given four logs, two tyres, a box holding an engine, and several pieces of rope. We made a trailer that didn't roll. Every few metres, the wheels would flop to the sides and the trailer would grind to a halt. We persisted with this design throughout the morning.

At one point we heard the crack of a rifle shot. We took cover and waited. The noise had come from another patrol; one of the soldiers had accidentally fired his weapon – an unlawful discharge (UD). The offender had his rifle slung on his back, but the safety catch had disengaged on another piece of equipment. Some time later, when handling his weapon, his finger found the trigger –
bang!
This soldier completed the course but was not accepted.

He came back the following year, and the year after that. Anyone who trains for and completes three SAS selection courses is committed. He made it into the Regiment and has proven to be an outstanding soldier. Everyone fucks up or comes up short every now and then. I didn't have long to wait before it would be my turn.

We eventually decided to disassemble the trailer and carry the stores. I noticed that the sun was high.
On a normal day, it would nearly be lunchtime
, I thought. I began to see black spots, and my vision blurred and then narrowed. I stumbled a couple of times but kept going.

‘Have you been drinking enough water?' asked the supervising DS.

‘Yes, sir,' I replied. No sooner had those words escaped my mouth than the black spots returned. I stumbled again.

The DS stopped the activity and made me sit down on a log. The others were ordered to continue.

‘How much water have you consumed today?' he asked me.

‘At least two litres, sir,' I replied. Then I dropped the water bottle I was holding – my hand was shaking uncontrollably.
What the hell is going on?
The DS told the others to wait and called one of the patrol members over. Thommo, who was performing well, was ordered to set up his radio and call in a medivac.

‘I'm alright, sir,' I said and then my body seemed to shit itself – not literally, but my vision blurred and my extremities began to spasm. I was a mess.

An ambulance arrived and I was told to get in. I tried to argue but was told to shut up. I was taken back to camp and examined by a couple of medics. A hardarse DS, whom I had run beside on one of the pack marches, came over to see what was going on.

‘What's up?'

‘I'm fine, sir,' I said. ‘Just got dizzy and fell over.'

The medics pricked my thumb and assessed my blood sugar level.

‘It's three times below the minimum range,' said the medic. He looked a little like Keanu Reeves, just bigger and fitter.

‘Yeah, he's hypoglycaemic,' said a sergeant medic. ‘At this stage of the course, most of them would be. But he's
pretty lean. Give him a shot of glycogen and get him back out there.'

‘Righto,' said Keanu.

I would later be in the same troop as Keanu. At the time he was working as a medic on the selection course to gain experience.

‘How ya' doing, mate?' he said to me. ‘When your blood sugar levels get that low the body just shuts down. I'll give you a shot of glycogen and you'll be on your way. Happy?'

‘Yes, Corporal,' I said. I was relieved to not be thrown off the course.

My body had gone into glycogen debt, similar to what a marathon runner experiences when they ‘hit the wall'. The body stores approximately 2000 kilocalories of glycogen. Endurance athletes – marathon runners, triathletes, cyclists and cross-country skiers – can delay the phenomenon by ‘carbo-loading' the day before. We had not been afforded such a luxury.

I'd begun the course weighing in at 79 or 80 kilograms. Due to my age and the way I trained, I had a high metabolism and a low percentage of body fat. At the end of selection, I weighed in at 66 kilograms – a drop of 13 kilograms in less than three weeks. I don't know how he managed it, but there was a guy who began the course at 65 kilograms and hobbled off at the end looking like he had been released from a prisoner-of-war camp. Men aged in their mid to late twenties, especially those who had a slightly higher percentage of body fat, fared far better during the latter stages of the course. They may have found the first week taxing, but after that they maintained superior levels of endurance.

I had never felt like a weak prick before and I hated it. After the course I was told to get in the gym and work on my endurance levels. I didn't have to be told twice, and by the time I completed the post-selection reinforcement cycle, I had achieved a better balance between strength and fitness. I never wanted to feel physically vulnerable again.

After being issued the glycogen injection, I was monitored for 60 minutes before being returned to my patrol. The men were seated in pairs, resting. Our next task was to pull and push a trailer filled with equipment up a dirt track, over a crest and beyond.

That evening our patrol was directed to move to a track/creek junction and RV with an agent. We would receive further directions upon arrival.

The agent, an SAS soldier, spoke with a ridiculous accent. It was hard to take him seriously, but when he said: ‘Move to the hotbox and share the food amongst yourselves,' he could have been speaking Swahili and we would have understood. We removed the lid and shone a torch inside. Our first meal in two days was fish heads and rice soup. Those who could not bring themselves to eat it would not have the energy to complete the course. There wasn't a lot, but we divided what was on offer and devoured the lot.

The eighth of April, my birthday, was a day of dreams. The previous evening's meal had excited my stomach. I wanted more but had to be content to taste only my thoughts. I didn't think about sex, only food.
Chips and
gravy, a slice of pizza … I'd even settle for a piece of bread smothered in margarine
, I thought.

Throughout the morning we had to carry a four-metre inflatable boat along a track. Those with previous roping experience, like the commandos, who had completed climbing and roping courses, were invaluable when it came to tying down the equipment. I knew a few basic knots – a round-turn-two-and-a-half-hitch and a reef knot – but as the saying goes, ‘if you don't know knots, tie lots'.

I was placed in charge of our next activity. The Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) delivered my instructions with a calm, no-nonsense demeanour. This man, aged in his forties, had finished the Regimental cross-country race that year in the top five. And he was always in the gym with a few of his mates, lifting big weights and screaming for just one more rep. His chunky forearms commanded respect. Like a key in a lock, he was a good fit for the position of RSM.

With the assistance of a commando reservist who was particularly adept at tying a ‘truckie's knot', we fastened a rope to two trees on opposite banks of a deep creek. Then, using karabiners, we attached the boat to the rope and pulled it, laden with all of our packs, across the creek without allowing it to touch the ground. Our patrol, aided by a fallen tree, then traversed the gully. We completed the task with two minutes to spare.

We continued to another RV and were met by the man with the absurd accent from the night before. Once again, his accent annoyed me, but the last time we'd met he had given us food. This time he gave us two armoured personnel carrier (APC) tracks to carry. We rigged a single track
to a pole. Four men carried each track, leaving one man spare to navigate. The same guy who had navigated several times previously volunteered himself again. This had become something of a habit – a frustrating one.

Traversing uneven ground made it difficult for us to spread the weight squarely. The taller men's spines were often ground into their pelvises as the shorties walked on their toes in an attempt to carry their share.

As my birthday drew to a close, I felt like shit but was pleased to have made it to the end of another day. There was no cake, or any food at all, for that matter. Day 18 was dead.

According to one of the DS who we spoke with after the course, on day 19 we were supposed to have been given a ration pack. But they forgot, so we filled our stomachs with water. Besides faecal matter, there is very little that I would not have eaten at this point. We were, literally, starving.

Once again, we were afforded little sleep. The following morning, we were given 13 jerry cans filled with water to carry between nine people. We each squeezed a jerry into our packs and then took turns carrying the remaining four. After a couple of hundred metres I felt like my forearms were going to explode. We soon changed tactics and slid a stick through the handle so we could carry one of the spares between two men. The DS in charge of this activity appeared genuinely concerned about the wellbeing of our patrol. After one short rest, I fell over while trying to stand up.
Not again
, I thought. The DS told me to take my jerry can out of my pack. I refused.