by Paul Bruce
Those occasions often helped to inject a little humour into the march. ‘Thanks for fuck all,’ would be a typical comment or, later in the training, the instructors would receive the wry comment, ‘Well we didn’t believe you anyway.’ Most of the recruits, however, would take it in good heart, knowing full well that the antics were all part of SAS training. We all knew that nothing would ever come easy to us and it didn’t.
The same might happen back at base. We might return to our billets and be told that the cookhouse was out of order and no food would be provided for two more hours. All of these tactics were designed to test our reactions, to see whether we could take the mental stress as well as the rigorous physical strain. We all knew that the instructors were pushing us to our limits, and beyond. Surprisingly, very few recruits did crack through anger, frustration or strain. During my three months of winter endurance marches, only a couple of blokes exploded when pushed too far and, of course, they were on their way back home within 24 hours.
It was on those occasions that I realised how fortunate I had been in having spent four months at Colchester nick. There I had learned to take all the shit that could be thrown at me. I had learned not to retaliate, not to give in, not to show that the system was getting to me. It undoubtedly helped me to survive Hereford.
Throughout those first few weeks, I never permitted myself to relax for an instant. The regime was so similar to that which I had endured in Colchester that I half knew what to expect. I realised that it was their job to keep up the pressure, the momentum, to make sure we would be equipped to cope with any disappointment and trying situation without reacting unprofessionally. Instinctively, when anything untoward occurred, I prepared myself mentally to expect the worst, to expect a surprise. In that way I was never caught off-guard, and, although I did sometimes get pissed off with some of their games, I never let it get to me. I would sometimes smile to myself at night when I finally collapsed into bed that I could thank my lucky stars I had spent four months inside. I could not have received a better preparation, neither mentally nor physically, but I doubt if they ever realised that.
From the moment I set foot in SAS headquarters, I was determined to make the grade, to win my SAS wings. To me, nothing else mattered. Once a soldier is presented with his SAS wings, he can wear them until the end of his army career, no matter what regiment he joins. With those wings on your arm, you automatically win the respect of everyone associated with the army. I had set out to achieve that aim, to prove to my family, and especially my father, that I could achieve at the very highest level. Those ambitions would keep me going even when, on a couple of occasions, I really felt like chucking it in.
We all experienced ‘lows’ at one time or another. I had tried to keep in contact with Maria but found it difficult. I would go to bed after tea at about seven o’clock, intending to write her a long letter, but exhaustion would overcome me before I had written more than a couple of paragraphs and I would find myself falling asleep. As a result, her letters became fewer and fewer. After a while I realised that I was missing her company. We had had a good relationship. I had found Maria fun to be with; I could laugh with her and enjoyed her get up and go. She had a good sense of humour and we liked doing the same things. When I did have the strength to think about sex, I also realised how great our sex life had been.
As her letters became less frequent, I found myself becoming angry and upset that she seemed to have forgotten me. I wondered whether she had found someone else and that didn’t help. My parents hardly ever wrote. My mother would drop me an occasional line, perhaps once a month, but my father never did. As a matter of fact, my father has never written a letter to me in his entire life. My mother would pass on the odd comment from him but he would never write himself. That pissed me off too.
On those occasions, I had to dig deep into my reserves but it did seem very tempting to jack in the SAS and return to a cushy life with the REME at Tidworth. It would also mean that I could get on with my own life and perhaps make a go of it with Maria. No matter how I felt deep down, however, I would never let such thoughts take over. Time and again, I would say to myself, ‘Remember those wings. You mustn’t give up until you’ve got them.’
We all knew that at the end of the endurance training we would face the biggest test of all, what the SAS term ‘the long drag’: a forty-mile endurance march across the mountains with 60lb on our backs and carrying an SLR. To put added pressure on us, the march would have to be completed in eighteen hours.
We were woken by the duty guard at 5am and given a full breakfast. By 6am, we were in the trucks, headed for Talybont reservoir, our starting point. On this march we were all alone, with no one for company. We began at ten-minute intervals and were given twelve map references to check into before completing the forty-mile test.
As we started out, the wind was blowing a gale, and sleet and bitterly cold rain beat into our faces. It would have been difficult to find a worse day to undertake such an exercise. We cursed the weather but knew we had to put it behind us and concentrate on the job in hand.
Each reference point was situated at the top of a hill or mountain so we were marching through horrendous terrain, the gradient making life very difficult and very testing. At each reference point, an instructor waited to check us in, to see if we were fit to continue.
Despite the terrain, we had to average three miles an hour, which is only walking pace. However, when a 60lb pack and mountainous terrain are added to the equation, three miles an hour is so tight that, at every possible opportunity, it becomes necessary to run just to keep up the average. On one occasion, as I clambered up a slope, I lost my footing and found myself rolling over and over down the hill. I managed to stop and looked up to see that I had fallen perhaps sixty feet. I was covered in dirt and mud, my clothes sodden to the skin and I still had twenty miles or more ahead of me. As I struggled to my feet, I really didn’t think I would complete the march.
On a couple of occasions, panic gripped me. I could hardly see in front of me because of the sleet slicing into my eyes, mingling with the sweat dripping down my forehead from beneath my woollen commando hat. I found it all but impossible to read the map and I was exhausted.
On the mountain peaks, the sleet gave way to swirling mist which made it extremely difficult to check the route with the compass. On those occasions, I had to put all my faith in the compass because there were no visible signs to which I could refer. I managed a wry smile, believing that the instructors must have prayed for such appalling weather conditions to make sure we were given the toughest possible test. Being totally alone made us feel more exposed, more vulnerable, and that increased the psychological pressure.
To cap it all, I slipped on a stone as I was descending a hill at the double, and fell over, twisting my ankle. I swore like a trooper, angry that I had missed my footing and fearful that they would fail me. I got to my feet and tried to put my foot down but the ankle hurt. Gingerly I continued down the hill, hoping the pain would go away. Thankful that the ankle could take my weight, I determined to carry on. I had only a mile to go and knew that I had to make it.
Many didn’t. Twenty per cent of those who began failed this test and every one was sent back to his unit the following day. It didn’t matter that, until that moment, they had passed the course with flying colours. Failing that very stiff trial was sufficient for the instructors to fail the recruit. It seemed a tough decision but that is the SAS. Failure will never be tolerated. There are no excuses.
Even during that gruelling march, our instructors hadn’t played straight, as, after we had completed the march within the eighteen hours demanded, they casually let us know that we had, in fact, been given twenty hours to do it in. They hadn’t told us because they didn’t want it to seem too easy!
That particular year, the ‘long drag’ had been one of the toughest ever but that march has never, ever been postponed or cancelled because of bad weather. Indeed, it seems that the worse the weather, th
e happier the instructors become because it then becomes a true test of a recruit’s physical and psychological stamina.
That night there were many long faces. The six who had failed were upset and annoyed as they faced being sent back to their regiments. Besides myself, there were others carrying minor injuries, and everyone had walked himself into the ground. As we changed and showered, an instructor came in to congratulate everyone who had succeeded in conditions which he described as ‘horrendous’. We had passed the toughest test the SAS ever throws at recruits.
He announced that everyone would be given seven days’ home leave, starting the next morning. We looked at each other, suspecting from experience that this would be another SAS wind-up. We expected them to cancel the announcement later that night. Somehow they didn’t. It was true.
With trepidation in my heart, I phoned Maria at the post office where she worked, hoping that I could see her during my leave. I didn’t know what to expect and feared that she might have given me the old heave-ho and found a new boyfriend. I needn’t have worried. I could tell from the sound of her voice that she wanted to see me. Indeed, she said, ‘Fantastic, fantastic, I can’t wait. This is wonderful news. How long have you got?’When I told her seven days, she replied, ‘And seven nights?’
The next day, dressed in civvies, I was on my way to Tidworth and Maria. Another recruit, who had a car and lived in Southampton, offered me a lift. As we drove along, I couldn’t help smirking to myself. The worst was over and I had survived. I now knew that I had a good chance of gaining those wings. That sense of achievement comforted me and gave me confidence. Slowly, I was beginning to realise what the SAS was all about. I was learning.
I had been wrong to doubt Maria. She had imagined that I had been off with other girls during my time at Hereford, little realising that I hadn’t even set foot outside the camp except for forced marches and training runs. She could hardly believe the extensive training we had been through but, towards the end of the seven days, she began to understand.
One evening, while we were waiting in a queue to go swimming, a girlfriend of Maria’s, who I also knew, came over to chat. I had fancied her at one time but we had never even kissed. She told Maria that she thought I had a lovely hairy chest and, jokingly, said she would like to rub her hands all over my body. Maria went berserk. She caught hold of the poor girl and shook her, shouting at her to keep her hands to herself. She also told her in precise terms to ‘fuck off’. I had never seen Maria behave in that way and, anyway, I thought the girl had only been joking. However, it showed the strength of Maria’s feelings towards me. It had surprised me but it also made me feel good; she did care.
Until then, I had believed that the strength of her passion for me had been primarily sexual; now I realised that Maria was genuine in her feelings. I did not know what to do. The training at Hereford would take a total of two years and the instructors had not told us how much leave we would be given during that time. I presumed that leave would come more often now that basic training was completed but I wasn’t sure; after all, this was the SAS.
Maria and I discussed this at length. She was still only seventeen and I tried to reason with her that we shouldn’t rush things; that I didn’t know where I would be serving after training was over. I knew it could be anywhere in the world. She became upset whenever we discussed the subject but I didn’t want to make any commitments. I had no idea what the future would hold but I did realise that the SAS was now my life and that nothing, not even Maria, could stand in my way. I did not, however, tell Maria that fact during our wonderful week together.
Back at Hereford, training continued as hard as ever. Officially, it is described as continuation training. It comprises some of the most important training an SAS man receives and lasts fourteen weeks.
Operating behind enemy lines is the essence of SAS work when on active service. One of the first lessons our instructors drilled into us was that being part of the SAS would never be the same as belonging to any other regiment in the British Army. We would never be considered as cannon fodder, never be given suicide missions and we were under the strictest orders never to take chances that might end in death. The first duty of all SAS men is survival.
That lecture made us all feel special. It was a wonderful boost to morale after the hell of those marches. It was intended that it should be, of course, and that we should appreciate that becoming a member of the SAS – the Firm, as its members always call the regiment – was the highest accolade any British soldier could achieve.
‘Bought the farm’ is the SAS expression for getting killed. Throughout the army, many and varied phrases are used to describe being killed in action but we were left in no doubt by our instructors that getting killed was not an option for SAS personnel. They explained how it would work. If any SAS personnel ever get killed while undertaking covert operations, their deaths are not officially recorded. At the precise second of death, the dead man is officially returned to unit. As a result, the SAS never officially suffers any casualties. It made me realise that, if I died during an undercover operation, I would be killed as a member of the REME and as though I had never been part of the Firm. I didn’t like that but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. The only time that rule changes is during a recognised war, such as the Falklands or the Gulf War, when SAS deaths are officially recognised by the regiment.
However, the SAS isn’t completely inhumane to the men who have given their lives for the regiment. On the edge of the parade square at SAS headquarters in Hereford stands a thirty-foot-high clock tower on which is inscribed the name of every SAS man who dies in action no matter where or in what circumstances. In SAS parlance, it is a memorial to those who ‘didn’t beat the clock’.
We were told that the SAS always operated in four-man units. If necessary, that number could be doubled, trebled, etc., but each unit would always comprise four men. The NCO instructors emphasised – jokingly of course – that no one suggested a sixteen-man unit because whenever sixteen SAS men operate together an officer is put in command.
In reality, of course, some SAS commissioned officers are bloody good blokes and it is a nonsense to believe that SAS soldiers consider all officers to be wankers. They don’t. The officers who make the grade in the SAS are as tough and motivated as any trooper. Occasionally, the SAS does attract Hooray Henrys, but not for long. They are soon sussed and RTU’d like anyone else who doesn’t absolutely make the grade.
Officers in training for the SAS do precisely the same course as all other ranks. They have no special privileges. Indeed, they invariably become one of the lads. Elsewhere in the British Army, all officers are saluted all the time and are always addressed as ‘sir’. In the SAS, troopers salute an officer first thing in the morning but, after that, we are all on first-name terms and the officer becomes as much a mate as anyone else during training. On active service operations, officers and men muck in together, as they all realise that their lives depend on each other, regardless of rank.
When a private or an NCO is finally ‘badged’ as a member of the SAS, he might stay with the regiment for only a matter of months. If, however, he remains fit and motivated, then he might remain in the regiment for the rest of his army career. For officers, however, it is a different matter. Officers from other regiments who come to take an SAS course are permitted to stay for only three years before being sent back to their original unit. Nonetheless, their SAS training is just as tough and strict as it is for everyone else, with just as much chance of being RTU’d if they don’t make the grade.
Our first field lesson covered the arcs of fire when a four-man SAS unit is out on patrol. Those arcs of fire were drilled into us until they became automatic. As the instructors explained, keeping to the correct arcs of fire could be the difference between life and death for an SAS unit. One error wouldn’t mean just your own death but also the deaths of your three mates.
Whenever the unit moved through enemy territory, in line or diamond f
ormation, the same rules would apply. The point man would always face the front, watching everything ahead; the second man would face to the right, the third to the left and tail-end Charlie would bring up the rear. He would forever be turning full circle, watching his back. There would be no excuses for breaking that formation and everyone would be left with no doubt as to where his responsibility lay in watching his arc of fire.
We would practise this on exercises ad infinitum. Other recruits, with an instructor in charge, would be sent out to ambush an SAS squad and we would be sent out as though we were in enemy territory. At this stage of training, only blank cartridges were used but anyone who wasn’t watching his arc of fire would receive an almighty bollocking from the instructor.
Failure in this exercise didn’t mean an immediate RTU, thank God, because, naturally, the trained SAS instructors were capable of wiping out a recruit patrol on every single exercise. No matter how professional, how keen-eyed, how on the ball we tried to be on those patrols, we could guarantee that the SAS instructors would find a way of opening up on us when we were least expecting it. We could never win. We understood that. After ‘annihilating’ us, they would come down and explain where we had gone wrong, but we never seemed to learn enough to beat them.
The secret lay in instinctive, greased-lightning reaction to the first burst of fire. The plan was to find positions where the patrol faced the ‘enemy’ and then reach a decision to either attack and destroy the enemy or to beat a hasty retreat. ‘Never get killed’ was always uppermost in your mind on those occasions. As the instructors repeated ad nauseum: ‘There are no such things as dead heroes in the SAS.’
One of the most renowned specialities of the SAS is the craft of taking up positions in enemy territory, living rough in the open for days or weeks at a time and only leaving one’s safe haven to ambush enemy patrols or carry out night raids on enemy positions. The training took weeks. At first, a four-man unit would be sent out for a day’s exercise and told to lie low and wait for an ‘enemy’ patrol to pass by. Invariably, we would be stunned to find ourselves looking down the barrel of a rifle – the instructors would have crept up on us somehow, without our realising they were even in the area. How they did it we never knew because we had all been keeping watch as though our lives depended on it. Somehow, they had become invisible and that was the lesson they wanted to teach us. It took weeks but, eventually, at the end of the continuation training, we, too, had learned the basic secret of becoming invisible.
