Worlds Apart (15 page)

Our coach driver looked like Les Dawson with a white shirt pulled over his big belly. He had faded green tattoos on both arms and would stand outside his vehicle watching the muddy uniforms walking towards him, then refuse us entry until we changed into dry kit.

‘Ahmed! Both your legs are the same size as one of my six-year-old daughter’s!’ Briggs shouted as we got changed by the motorway lay-by. A cackle of laughter followed from the other trainers but I wasn’t fazed, just relieved he didn’t comment on my hairy legs. The coach would carry a terrible whiff from the lads. I don’t know what they put in these ration packs but these guys stank.

I stared out of the window at traffic passing on the motorway and let my mind wander because I couldn’t sleep. Training with the lads wasn’t easy, especially the Welsh ones from ‘E’ Squadron. Their faces blurred into one another except for one in particular who stuck in my head. I didn’t know his name but he was tall, had a freckled nose and such a strong Welsh accent I could hardly understand him. Every time the training staff was around, he would make condescending remarks about me, a bit like Adele had on female selection.

I was desperate to hear a familiar voice when we got back and called home from the changing rooms at the barracks. Dad answered the phone. I was expecting Mum. A blanket of silence hung between us. I tried to think of something to say but nothing came to mind. The full magnitude of how much our relationship had deteriorated suddenly sank in. There is nothing to discuss, I realised, because we don’t talk. It had been fifteen years since we shared a game of chess and our relationship had become even more distant since I moved away. I wanted to understand my father’s time in the army. Having now read up on the partition of India and Pakistan I appreciated the colossal extent of life’s harsh experiences he must have gone through, along with many others. I thought back to my teenage years; living in a warm house, with two meals a day and surrounded by family.
A far cry from what I assumed his life in the army was like, not knowing if he would live to see another day.

The phone was suddenly passed to Mum and within seconds she was off, telling me all about their plans to go to hajj. I stopped listening and just kept thinking of Dad. It felt like something had died inside of him – hope. Hope that I would return home from the horror image of me living in a bedsit or shacked up with a lad. How demoralised I must have made him feel when I walked out that day, yet he never said anything. How crushing that must have been.

‘Are you fasting?’ Mum asked me sharply.

‘Yes,’ I lied; I’d completely forgotten it was the month of Ramadan.

I held my breath for another dose of accusations then heard my nephew’s baby voice in the background. I felt a pang of jealousy that my sister was there and not me and also guilty because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d called my sister. But she could call me, I told myself. She did, I suddenly remembered, several times, and left voice messages, but I didn’t get round to calling back because I was so wrapped up in myself.

I tried to rescue the conversation by telling Mum I was terribly sorry for not visiting and calling more often but my apology fell on deaf ears. I put the phone away, composed a calm exterior, then went back out to the
courtyard where the lads were cleaning their weapons. Inside I was screaming. I didn’t understand what I was doing any more, why I was still here, why I wanted to finish or where I would go next.

‘A
hmed, where’s your weapon?’

I looked around at Lewis as I loaded up the truck. He was a small, stocky recruit who looked like one of those photo-fit profiles on a murder investigation TV series. His accent was northern, I guessed Yorkshire. But I didn’t want to ask in case I’d have to confess to being a Lancashire girl and causing a Wars of the Roses scenario.

‘Here,’ I replied, pointing down to where it lay across my left boot.

‘Is it OK if I leave my weapon with you for a few minutes?’ he asked, walking over as if he had already made up his mind. He hardly acknowledged me as he placed it down and disappeared out of the shelter.

I pulled the canvas around the vehicle, tying it securely in the corners. I wasn’t feeling so good, having cramp in my lower stomach. We were heading to the Brecons again for ‘VW Valley’ weekend, a tough run along the old road and summiting Cefn-Y-Bryn. I
realised later that VW stood for Voluntary Withdrawal – which was what most recruits did on this weekend. I packed strong painkillers, anti-inflammatory cream, bandages and of a tub of Vaseline (which meant more to me than my ration packs).

‘Ahmed! Why have you got two weapons?’

I spun round at Briggs’s voice. Lewis was nowhere to be seen. Lame excuses raced through my mind. If I say one of them belongs to Lewis, I’ll get him in trouble and if I say I don’t know I will be in even more trouble.

But it was too late. Lewis suddenly reappeared and stopped dead in his tracks as he captured the scene.

‘S
orry, Ahmed.’

Minutes later, Lewis and I were both stood on the racetrack at the barracks holding our weapons above our head, arms locked. The rest of the group were in the vehicle parked in the courtyard, watching. The heavens cracked open and it lashed down. Within seconds my khaki T-shirt was soaked to the skin. This was not a good start.

‘Right, you fuckin’ idiots,’ Briggs shouted through the rain, marching towards us. ‘This is what happens when you don’t have your weapon.’

We began running around the track after him – his pace quickened. Within seconds, my arms started burning. The weapon was heavy and awkward. My arms began to come down.

‘Get that weapon back up and move your fuckin’ arse, Ahmed!’ He was now alongside us. ‘Up, up!’

I jolted my arms back up, causing a knee to buckle and send me flying forwards, almost dropping the weapon. I regained balance before falling flat on my face.

‘Are you going to do it again?!’ he hissed.

‘No, sir,’ we said in unison.

‘What?’

‘No, sir!’ we shouted.

I tried to think of something to take my mind off the pain but nothing came to mind. This was torture.

Afterwards we jogged back to the glowing headlights of the vehicle and got inside. I crawled to an empty seat. Everyone was watching us. I sat down and began rummaging through my Bergen. Tears sprang to my eyes. The cramp in my lower stomach was getting worse.

No, not now! Please! My periods had become irregular since training. I got anxious, began frantically counting and recounting the days, then forgot when my last one was.

Hot tears flowed down my cheeks. I kept my head down to avoid anyone seeing them. Finally, I found a
T-shirt in my bag, quickly wiped my face and arms with it and then stared out of the window as the vehicle made its way out of London.

The next morning, Becky and I had to set off three hours before the lads because we had to cover the same ground but wouldn’t do it in the same time as them.

Several hours later, I was cold, soggy and tired. Becky and the rest of them were nowhere to be seen. I wanted to drop to my knees and cry out like a baby. I was last again. I’d been tabbing, fast walking, alone for hours, keeping my energy up with peanuts and chocolate. My stomach felt acidic. My body was killing me from the weight of the Bergen, webbing and weapon. I’d just left the third RV where Staff Jones had given me a six-figure grid reference for the fourth one, which could be anywhere between four and ten miles away. I climbed and climbed the convex mountain but never seemed to get closer to the top.

The conditions took their toll; the weather got progressively worse, and the sleet was now hitting my face horizontally. It felt like I was coming down with hypothermia as my decision-making was becoming affected by the conditions. I couldn’t decide which way to go or how the read the map properly. Head down, I skirted around the edge of the mountain. My eyelids became heavy, I felt drowsy but had to fight it off and keep moving. My foot
suddenly slipped and the wind that was blowing against me sent my Bergen over the edge. I’d experienced fear before, but this was raw: I was inches away from falling, the edge was taunting me and I was petrified. My logical side knew I should lower my body but the emotional side was giving in and felt too weak to go on. But these thoughts were wrong. If Becky and I didn’t survive the hills, it would be hell for our colonel. The MOD would point their finger at him and ask why he allowed girls to train here in the first place. Where were the trainers when Ahmed fell to her death, they would ask, knowing she had no outdoor or military experience?

These terrifying thoughts turned my mindset 180 degrees, giving me a massive adrenalin kick in a matter of nanoseconds. I forced my body down, holding onto the ground for dear life until I had the strength to crawl back away from the edge and wait for the wind to settle before attempting the trail again. Being stationary for too long was a mistake I’d experienced all too often, whether it was while reading a map, eating or going to the toilet. My legs would seize up, sending shooting pains through the most vulnerable parts of my body when I walked again.

I slowed down to snail’s pace, just as a local man ran past wearing sportswear and a raincoat. He looked round at me, then stopped a few metres ahead.

‘Are you in the SAS?’ he asked, squinting through the rain at me. ‘I didn’t know they had women.’

I pulled the hood of my windproof over my face, hoping he would go away, which he did eventually when I didn’t respond.

I plunged down into a valley then stopped to check my bearings. A teardrop fell onto the plastic casing of my compass, washed away by the rain. I couldn’t think straight. I had no idea where I was or when I would reach my next RV. It was getting dark and I needed to quicken my pace.

I kept going until I saw a tent in the distance set on a slope, and a few recruits crawling around the steep hillside. I checked my bearings. The contours on the map didn’t match my surroundings. It was an RV, but not mine.

I headed towards another steep mountain, first taking a chocolate bar out to give me the rush I needed to climb up. The wind blew fiercely from behind, sending me flat on my face. It took a while to push myself back up, and the chocolate was stuck on my palm. I licked it off and the texture suddenly changed in my mouth and became chewy. I then realised I had put my hands in some sheep dropping and was eating that too. Unfazed, I pressed on, now using my weapon to help me up. Almost twelve hours had passed and the
rain hadn’t stopped. Another gust of wind hit me from behind, making me stumble to the ground and skid. My knees and elbows stung beneath the material but I had to carry on.

I was at the end of my tether, about to give in, then … I saw my RV.

As I approached, I saw a couple of staff sat inside a Land Rover – no reason why they should get wet. I made it over to one of them, his piercing blue eyes watching me. I thought he was going to shout at me about something but instead he took me by surprise.

‘See that miserable git over there…’ he pointed at a lad behind me sat by a four-ton truck with one leg suspended over his Bergen. Thankfully it wasn’t Sullivan. The staff looked up to the valleys. ‘Ahmed, you are going to get up there and get to the end…’

The staff had never said encouraging words like this before. Even if the staff was saying it for effect, it worked like a magical boost of energy. My body woke up. I went over and began climbing again, all the time trying to gauge the enormity of the task, but even then I underestimated it. There was a RV halfway up, where I got a telling off from staff, shouting at me to hurry up as everyone was already back. But I still had a good few hours to go. I tried to speed up but my hip was giving in. I shoved a couple of painkillers down my
neck and suddenly found myself crying uncontrollably; pain, anger and frustration rose to the surface and it felt like I was having a meltdown. I cried about this stupid double life I was leading with my family, why I didn’t have a best friend any more, why I wasn’t in a relationship. These anxieties went round and round in my head as I crossed the dodgy rivers, boggy marshes and rough terrain.

The hours passed until finally I saw a mirage in the distance; the familiar woods where we had started at the crack of dawn this morning, then down below I saw the sheep track where we began the tab, which looked about a mile away.

Oh my God! I’m here!
I thought, and I walked as fast as I could towards it.

Time slowed down, another hour passed before I reached the bashas, where the recruits had already eaten and were taking a rest before our night navigation exercise. I could tell from their expressions that I must have looked a sight. My hair was everywhere, there was mud on my face and I was glassy eyed.

My body was in so much pain I couldn’t take the Bergen off my shoulders; it was stuck to my back.

The horrible Welsh recruit with the strong Welsh accent was cleaning his weapon. He suddenly got up and walked over to me. He stood inches away, studying
my face, then lifted the Bergen off my back and offered me his beaker of hot tea.

‘Thank you.’ The words choked out. I was overwhelmed by his generosity. All this time I thought he hated me. I had been so wrong.

I placed the beaker down on a dead patch of grass and pulled off my boots and carefully peeled off my socks soaked in blood, feeling them take some of my skin, then let the cold breeze blow between my toes. I’d lost two of my nails, probably inside the socks somewhere, and another felt loose. All in all, my feet were in a bad state. I flicked my penknife open and inserted the point into a juicy blister on my big toe. Salty sweat trickled down my face as I focused on the mini operation. Then, with eyes screwed tight, I lifted a piece of skin hanging off the back of my heel and slapped a generous amount of Vaseline onto the pink skin and stuck it back on like a sandwich.

Becky appeared from behind and stood beside me watching what I was doing.

‘I ate some sheep poo,’ I mumbled.

Becky looked round at me trying not to laugh. ‘What?’