by Shaun Clarke
Since the huge Sergeant Doyle seemed set to explode, none of the candidates had the nerve to raise their hands.
‘I love the sound of silence,’ Doyle said. ‘Your training commences right now.’
Marty soon learned that even the rough training in the Western Desert of North Africa could not compare to the rigours of this new SAS selection course. For the first few days, beginning at 0400 hours and not ending until at least 2200 hours, he and the other candidates alternated between weapons training in the freezing cold of an open firing range and brutal route marches over the hills of the surrounding countryside, each one longer and tougher than the one before, all leading to a final slog up ever-steeper gradients that mercilessly tortured lungs and muscles. These dreadful hikes, or ‘tabs’, through rain, sleet, hail and snow were rendered even more challenging when the formerly empty Bergen rucksacks were loaded with bricks, the load being increased every day.
Even with the minimum load, which was eleven kilos, the weight, combined with the difficult terrain and vile weather, was enough to make some candidates drop out. Each time someone did so (to be labelled a ‘crap-hat’ and returned either to his original unit or Civvy Street, often in tears) the DS would add more bricks to the Bergens of the others. They kept doing so until the total weight was a back-breaking twenty-five kilos.
To make matters worse, the route marches also took place at night, sometimes after the men had already endured a long day of the same thing. A dangerously high degree of stress was deliberately introduced by forcing them to hike to a given RV manned by merciless DS. Only when the candidate had reached the first RV would he be told the location of the next one– and so on until the course was completed. He would not know, until the very end, just when that would be. This lack of knowledge about just how much longer he would have to go, added to the stress of nocturnal navigation, made many a candidate drop out, either exhausted, in a state of complete despair, or just plain bloody angry.
‘I tell you, mate,’ Tone fervently told Marty as they sank gratefully onto their uncomfortable steelframed beds during the second week, ‘I’m sometimes not too sure of what I’m doing out there. I mean, sometimes, on those hikes, when the going gets really tough, I get dizzy, disorientated, careless. I hardly know what’s east or west, north or south, and I lose control of my limbs. It’s bleedin’ scary, I’m telling you.’
‘I know,’ Marty said, closing his eye s and longing for sleep, drained by physical exhaustion of the kind he had not experienced before. ‘I often feel the same way. I see and hear things. Ghostly voices. Hallucinations. And that’s always when the DS spring out of the bushes, bawling a stream of questions and all set to slap an RTU on you if you’re too dazed to reply. If there’s any way I’m going to fail this course, I think that’ll be it.’
‘Just don’t let it happen, mate.’ Though Marty survived the first three weeks, as did Tone, he soon noticed that he and his fellow candidates were all talking constantly, fearfully, about the forthcoming ‘Sickener 1’. More alarmingly, they were visibly withdrawing into themselves, not wanting to become too friendly with any other candidate, lest that friend suffer the same humiliating fate as the other RTU’d crap-heads.
‘All I know,’ Marty said to Tone as they shared a rare beer in the NAAFI canteen, ‘is that I want that bleedin’ Sickener One to be over and done with – not least because I don’t know what it is.’
‘That’s part of it,’ Tone said, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. ‘Not knowing what it is. It’s another form of DS psychological warfare, designed to make us shit bricks even before it begins. Don’t let it get to you, mate.’
‘I won’t,’ Marty said without conviction. Sickener 1 came at the end of the third and toughest week, known as Test Week, when the pressure was really piled on the candidates, with the distances of cross-country hikes increased and the time to complete them decreased proportionately. Though Marty still hadn’t found out what Sickener 1 was, he started guessing when, at 0400 hours on the dreaded day, he and the other candidates, now greatly reduced in number, picked up their Lee-Enfield rifles and brick-filled Bergens to be run to the four-ton Bedford trucks that were waiting for them in the freezing darkness. As they had just spent a couple of days studying their Ordnance Survey maps of the Elan Valley, Marty wasn’t too surprised when, after a drive of approximately four hours, the Bedfords dropped them off at that very location, in the Cambrian Mountains of Mid Wales. Gazing around him at frighteningly steep hills and towering ridges, all wreathed in a daunting mixture of rain, snow and early-morning mist, he had his first intimation of what Sickener 1 would entail.
‘This course is known as the “Long Drag”,’ Sergeant Doyle informed him and the others when they had gathered around the lead truck in what was still cloudy darkness. ‘You have twenty hours to complete it. You won’t know where or when the hike will end until you actually reach the end. You must do so by making your way to the first RV shown on your map. If you make it that far, the DS there will give you another RV, and so on, until the full hike has been completed. Those who fail to reach any of the RVs, even the final one, will be RTU’d. Those who drop out for any other reason, including physical injury, will also be RTU’d. Those who stop, or even turn back, to help other candidates will be RTU’d with the man they were helping. You can take it from me that a lot less will finish the course than are starting right now.’ Doyle checked his wristwatch and then raised his eyes again. ‘All right, commence marching.’
Marty had never been on a tougher tab in his life. During the first day he noticed that the hike to the RV took him up progressively steeper, increasingly higher, hills. In some places the gradients were so steep that he felt he was climbing a sheer cliff face; in other places the gravel rolled under his boots and frequently made him slide backwards. Nor was he helped by the fact that even when the early morning light brightened, the mist, rain and snow not only reduced visibility, but also soaked him and turned him numb with cold. The wind howled constantly, hammering brutally at him, often threatening to throw him off balance and send him rolling back down. Nevertheless, he kept going and was not surprised, though he was embarrassed, when he passed the first of the crap-hats, sitting with his head in his hands, quietly sobbing, as the other men, not daring to acknowledge him, scrambled on up the windblown hill.
To add to the natural stress of the arduous hike, the DS often popped out from behind rock formations, either to bawl abuse at those lagging behind or to suggest that they might find it more sensible to return to the waiting trucks. Some candidates, looking grateful, actually did that.
‘Don’t do it,’ Trooper Roy Weatherby, the former Royal Signals sergeant, whispered to Marty and Tone as he wiped sweat from his gaunt face before it could freeze on his skin. ‘If you turn back, even at their suggestion, you’ll get RTU’d. It’s known as “beasting”. First they scream abuse at you, then they’re nice to you. It’s just another of their psychological tricks and anabsolute bastard.’
Grateful for the advice, Marty kept hiking up the ever higher hills, eventually managing to make it past the first two RVs and on to the third where, since it was after last light, he was compelled to rest up for the night. Frozen and wet, his feet starting to swell, shoulders blistered from carrying the brick-filled Bergen, he spent the night in appalling weather, eating twenty-four-hour rations heated on his portable hexamine stove and then bedding down in his sleeping bag, protected from the lashing rain only by his windwhipped, noisily snapping poncho. For this very reason, he didn’t sleep much at all and clambered back to his feet at first light, feeling more tired than he had been the night before.
‘Their very intention,’ Weatherb y whispered to him, indicating the rain-soaked DS who were checking their wristwatches and entering the time on their clipboards.
‘Right!’ one of the NCOs bawled. ‘Up and out, troopers!’
Again, the hike commenced in foul weather and took them up a series of increasingly steeper, higher
hills. This time, however, they were faced with the ‘entrail ditch’: a long trench filled with stagnant water, mud, rotting sheep’s innards and animal excrement. In order to get to the next RV, they had to crawl through the ditch on their bellies, face down, holding their rifles horizontally, well clear of the mess. They had to ignore the stench, try not to swallow any of the mess, and either avoid throwing up or swallow their own vomit if they did so. Failure to get to the other end of the trench would cop them an RTU. So would throwing up.
When Marty slid, belly down, into that nauseous mess, the stench nearly made him retch and the cold made him shudder. Crawling along on his belly, he was compelled to bend his neck back as far as possible to keep his mouth and nose out of the slimy, stinking mess. Also, he had to prop himself up on his elbows and hold his rifle horizontally in both hands. This forced him to curve his spine to a degree that sent savage pains stabbing through him and made him fear that his back was going to break.
Even as he reached the halfway mark, he heard the retching of someone being sick, followed by a choked sob of despair. Not daring to look sideways, he kept crawling forward, trying to hold his breath, keeping his lips closed, but eventually the slime got up his nose, forcing him to open his mouth to breathe. Instantly, the vile mess dribbled into his mouth. Thinking of rotting sheep’s innards and animal excrement, he almost threw up, but managed to control himself and swallow it.
With his stomach heaving, his body shuddering, and his muscles twitching from the darting pains, he made it the rest of the way and crawled out the far end. Smelling his own stench, he cleaned himself of mud and slime as best he could, then hiked on to the next RV.
‘You’re a filthy bastard, aren’t you?’ the Irish DS said when Marty reported in at the sangar. ‘Sure I ought to RTU you for not washin’, but I’m the soft- hearted kind.’ He handed Marty a folded piece of paper. ‘That’s your next RV. Have a brew-up before you move on, but don’t take too long. You’re runnin’ out of time, boyo.’
‘Christ,’ Tone muttered to Marty as they shared a brewup out of earshot of the DS. ‘I thought I was going to die in that fucking ditch. My stomach was churning.’
‘Mine, too,’ Marty responded. ‘And two more poor bastards are being RTU’d. We’re being whittled down all right.’
‘We’ll stick it out,’ Tone insisted. ‘You and me, we’ll survive it.’
‘Damn right, we will,’ Marty said.
Nevertheless, late the following morning, after the remaining candidates had spent another sleepless night on the summit of a snow-covered, windswept hill, their soaked outfits freezing over and still stinking from the entrail ditch, they had to wade the dangerous rapids of a flooding rock-strewn river. Too frightened to cross, one man turned back, preferring to be RTU’d to risking his life. Another, though managing to get halfway across, slipped on a rock, plunged into the river and was swept away, bouncing brutally from one rock to another until he had disappeared. He, too, when eventually he was found, would be RTU’d.
Reaching the far side of the penultimate RV, Marty, Tone and the twenty-four remaining candidates (sixteen of the original forty had been RTU’d already) were surprised to find all the DS they had encountered along the route waiting there for them. After being congratulated on making it across the rushing river, they were further gladdened to be told that the final RV was only a mile away and that, once there, they would be taken in the Bedford trucks the last ten miles back to base.
Their joy at this news was promptly, brutally squashed when the NCO in charge of the other DS, pointing to twelve stretchers laid out on the ground, informed them that they were to divide into twelve two-man teams and that each team would carry one of the twelve NCOs, complete with his brick-filled Bergen, personal weapons and other kit, on a stretcher for the last mile of the hike.
Already exhausted to the point of imminent collapse, two of the men refused this final task, one almost in tears, the other loudly cursing out the NCOs. Those remaining divided into two-man teams and each pair picked up a stretcher between them. When each of the stretchers had been occupied by a grinning NCO, the already exhausted teams fell into single file and humped their heavy burdens up and down the hilly, windswept last mile of the hike, still deluged by sweeping, freezing rain.
Another two of the candidates gave up during that last mile, too exhausted to carry their NCO farther. Marty and Tone carried the rock-solid Sergeant Doyle, who bawled abuse at them for most of the hike, accusing them of not moving fast enough, of rocking him too much, of almost turning the stretcher over and tipping him out. However, despite Doyle’s relentless psychological warfare, they managed to complete the final mile and stagger up to the final RV.
There were no Bedford trucks waiting for them.
‘Sorry about that,’ RSM Farrell said blandly as the candidates lowered the stretchers to the ground and let the NCOs roll off. ‘Bit of a blunder, lads. The RCT drivers thought you’d given up and weren’t coming, so they decided to piss off back to base. I’m afraid you’ll have to hike the last ten miles. Well, only nine, actually, since you’ve already done one. Though as you only have two hours and twenty minutes to make it, you’d better get moving.’
‘That’s not fair!’ Trooper Tom Crowley exploded, throwing his rifle into the mud and then kicking it towards RSM Farrell in uncontrollable frustration and fury. ‘You said that was the last mile. You lied! That’s not fair! I’m not doing it. Go fuck yourselves!’
‘Anyone else feel that way?’ RSM Farrell asked, looking calmly from one man to the next. When no one replied, he checked his wristwatchand said, ‘Your time’s running out. You now have two hours, nineteen minutes, so I repeat, you’d better get moving.’
As the raging Trooper Crowley slumped down against a rain-drenched rock, pulled his poncho sheet over his head and defiantly lit a cigarette, two of the remaining candidates, unable to face that final, unexpected nine-mile hike, sighed and joined him, preferring to be RTU’d than attempt to go on.
Glancing at Tone, who nodded grimly at him, Marty held his rifle at the ready, as demanded by the rules of the Long Drag, and proceeded to hike the last nine miles, praying to God that it really was the final stretch. The following couple of hours were like an eternity, but the ground was reasonably level and although he stopped twice to throw up, as did Tone, he made it back with his friend close behind him.
Slumping against the wheel of one of the waiting Bedfords and gratefully dragging on cigarettes, they learned from those still struggling in that another two unfortunates had dropped out during the last mile or so. To do so at that final stage was beyond Marty’s imagining.
After Sickener 1, the remaining fifteen candidates were given the weekend off. Feeling that he had just awakened from a bad dream, though also exultant at still being in the running, Marty made his way back home, hoping to have a reconciliation with Lesley.
She spoke to him on the doorstep but refused to let him in, instead informing him that she had already been in contact with a solicitor, with a view to divorce proceedings, and that he had warned her not to let her husband into the house until the matter had been legally resolved.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Marty said. ‘No, I’m not,’ Lesley told him, brushing locks of hair from her brown eyes and refusing to meet his gaze.
Shocked that the situation had gone this far, still finding it hard to accept, Marty pleaded with her to let him in, at least for a few minutes, just long enough to let him see the kids. Still helplessly attached to him, Lesley relented and he was allowed to spend the next hour inside, chatting and playing with Johnny, now five years old, and Kay, who had just turned four. When the time came to leave, he felt a lot better and, on the doorstep, between the rose bushes, begged Lesley to reconsider.
‘Not as long as you’re in the army,’ she told him, again avoiding his gaze. ‘I won’t live with that anymore.’
‘I can’t give it up, Lesley. It’s what I have to do. I miss you and the kids, but I simp
ly can’t return to Civvy Street. I can’t bear the thought of it.’
‘Then it’s over. Goodbye, Marty.’
Homeless, he spent the weekend with Tone and his family in Croydon. Like Lesley, Tone’s wife, Maggie, was angry that Tone had re-enlisted and convinced that he simply hated home life. Though she hadn’t threatened divorce, she was certainly not amused, repeatedly criticized him for it, filled the house with the smoke from her nervous chain-smoking, and screamed far too much at their kids, two girls and a boy. For this reason, Marty and Tone were both glad, despite the horrors of Sickener 1, to return to Aldershot and face up to more weeks of intense training, followed by Sickener 2.
The second phase in the recently developed selection process consisted of another six gruelling weeks of training in patrol tactics, combat survival, demolitions, signals, psychological testing and more weapons practice. The last of these was conducted this time with a wider variety of weapons, including the standard-issue Browning 9mm High Power handgun, the M1 0.3-inch carbine with 30-round detachable magazine, the Owen 9mm submachine gun, and the relatively new 7.62mm semi-automatic SLR rifle with 20-round box magazine. While this part of the training was also tough and relentless, most of the men, when they talked to each other, confessed that they were now living in dread of Sickener 2.
It began at 0400 hours with a long drive in the Bedfords to the gently rolling fields of Llanfihangel, Wales, followed by a murderous climb to the very summit, nearly 500 metres, which was, as the DS helpfully informed them, an ideal trig point for mapreading. Four of the fifteen men had dropped out in the previous five weeks and the remaining eleven had to make the climb by foot with the usual heavy load. This time, to ensure that the climb was as difficult as possible, the DS had carefully avoided the gentler slopes on one side of the mountain and pointed the candidates up the nearly vertical other side. As part of the test, each man had to take his turn at leading the others up the sheer face to the summit, using his heavy-duty Silvas compass, then guide them back down without a mistake. This procedure was repeated many times throughout the first day until each man had taken his turn as leader. This also ensured that the climb and equally demanding descent were made eleven times in one day, causing nearly unbearable agonies of body and mind.
