‘I’m sorry guys, but the instructors who were going to take you for a little warm-up seem to have been delayed,’ said Paddy in his soft Irish brogue. ‘If they don’t turn up in the next ten minutes or so we will cancel, and you can all shoot off for a nice warm shower and breakfast.’
I, and probably most of the other guys, couldn’t help thinking, ‘No fucking instructors! What a result – looks like this course is going to be an absolute doddle.’
Just then an old bloke, probably in his fifties, came around the corner, dressed in a scruffy coat, big scarf and a furry cap pulled down over his ears. He was pushing a wheelbarrow containing a bass broom, a rake and other cleaning paraphernalia.
Major Baxter stopped the old gent and had a couple of minutes’ chat with him out of earshot from the squad. Paddy then turned towards us with a smile on his face. “This is Yorkie who works here keeping the place clean and tidy and, in the absence of the instructors, has very kindly agreed to take you for a short run. Just keep up with him please and, when he stops, break off for breakfast. I will see you later in the day.”
There was a positive murmuring in the ranks. “This is going to be an absolute breeze keeping up with this old fogey who sweeps the camp. He’ll probably be knackered after about ten minutes – happy days!”
There were lots and lots of cheerful smiling faces as we set off at a steady pace to follow ‘Old Yorkie’.
An hour later there was not a smile to be seen. The old bastard just went on and on.
There then appeared physical training instructors (PTIs) along the route hurling abuse at those of us who were struggling to keep up. “Come on, you fucking idle wimps – if you can’t keep up with the camp caretaker, how the fuck are you going to keep up with real soldiers?”
The insults spurred me on. I had to dig deep. I had to push myself as hard as I could. If I was going to get binned on the first day, then at least I would be able to say that I couldn’t possibly have gone any faster, or any further.
Gradually, I started to move further up the field of runners. My legs felt like they were made of lead and my chest felt as it were about to explode. I just had to get past the candidate in front of me. And then another.
Suddenly, I could see Yorkie the caretaker, casually chatting away and rolling a cigarette. He was standing next to a four-ton truck and as I got alongside him I collapsed in a heap gasping for breath. Just then one of the instructors chirped up. “Right, you lot onto the trucks with Yorkie. The rest of the lazy twats can walk back to camp and pack their bags.”
On the first day of the notorious SAS selection course, we had lost more than twenty aspiring SAS Troopers before breakfast.
By the end of the second week we were down to, I guessed, less than fifty. I couldn’t be arsed counting how many of us were still in contention. I didn’t care. But I knew that there were now only two trucks needed to cart us off to the Brecon Beacons, or some other gruesome countryside, every morning. Once there, we would spend hour after hour battling with tortuous terrain and weather just to get from one checkpoint to another.
The single thing I concentrated on was getting through one day at a time. The only way I could avoid being thrown off the course was to get around each route as quickly as I could, without hurting myself so badly, that I would be forced to withdraw due to injury.
Each day started at some ridiculously early hour. At the end of each day’s torture, we were told only what time we should be ready to go and how much our Bergens should weigh. The weight had by then increased from thirty-five pounds to forty-five. We also had to carry a rifle and whatever water we thought we would need to last us through the day. The four-ton trucks would be parked up outside training wing, engines running and tailgates down. As each name was called, that person would step forward and have the weight of his rucksack checked by one of the directing staff, known to everyone as the D.S.
Immediately after climbing into the back of one of the trucks I would, invariably, dive straight into my doss-bag and get as much rest as possible. Although I suppose I must have done, I don’t recall ever speaking to anyone else on the course. I needed to be single-minded, and I concentrated totally on getting from one checkpoint to another, in as short a time as possible, and getting through each day of selection.
It was early morning and pitch black when the truck pulled up, somewhere in the remote countryside of Wales. The tailgate crashed down and I waited for my name to be called. There was, normally, a gap of five minutes or so, between each candidate being sent on his way. When I lowered myself out of the truck I looked around in the darkness and the mist, hoping to get some clue as to where we might be. But all I could make out were the vague outlines of hills in every direction – fucking ugly black hills, which I couldn’t even see the tops of.
I limped towards the D.S., map in hand, ready to receive details of my first checkpoint. By now my feet were in a pretty bad state. Both my big toenails were black and painful to touch. My heels and soles were covered in blisters, and getting my boots on and off at the start and end of each day, was a huge struggle, due to the amount of swelling.
The D.S. were not given to wasting words. Not once did I ever hear from them any expressions of encouragement or questions concerning my welfare. “You are here”’ they would say, pointing to an eight-figure grid reference, “and your next checkpoint is…” Nothing more was ever said by any of the ‘badged’ soldiers who manned any of the checkpoints apart from the occasional “let me weigh your Bergen”.
Once I got myself going the pain in my feet would begin to subside but the extra weight I was having to carry was beginning to take its toll. The shoulder straps were starting to cut into my upper trapezius muscles (not that I had that much to cut into, mind you), and the constant movement of the dead weight was rubbing into the flesh at the base of my spine.
I managed to get through another day, but I found it to be very tough. Back in my basha, as I struggled to get my boots off without removing too much skin, I decided that the time had come to take stock of my situation.
Test week was due to start after the following weekend. The weight we would be required to carry would soon increase to fifty pounds plus rifle and water. About seventy pounds in all. I was in poor physical shape and I had no doubt that the extra weight was going to be a big problem for me.
I sat on my bed and looked at my feet. Those feet of which of which I had always been so proud. Hitherto such things of beauty and, without a doubt, my most redeeming feature were now reduced to a hideous mess. Tears welled in my eyes as I remembered how, ever since basic training all those years ago, I had lovingly tended to my most precious assets. In recent times, I had been known (albeit in limited circles) as ‘the best feet in the street’. And now here I was barely able to look at them without wanting to gag.
Perhaps it was time to throw in the towel. Everyone would understand, after all I was in my dotage by military standards, so I had a readily available excuse. And I was in the fortunate position of having the option to leave the Army and get a cushy, well-paid job in civvy street.
The routine for ‘jacking’, voluntarily withdrawing from the course, was simple – just stay in bed at the start of the day instead of lining up ready for another spell of agony. The idea certainly had a great deal of appeal to me, so my mind was made up. Fuck selection. I am definitely, going to jack it in. Tomorrow I will have a lie in, take a nice warm shower and, after a leisurely breakfast, make my way over to the office to be formally sent back to the Army Air Corps – I couldn’t think of anything better, I had no doubt whatsoever. I was looking forward to the next day, and there was no way that I was going to change my mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
During the night, I had a change of heart. I decided that I would stick with the course, but it might be necessary for me to resort to a modicum of cheating, in order to increase the chances of me completing it from – ‘no fucking chance whatsoever’, to – ‘slim’. Cheating on SAS selection
is extremely difficult to get away with. Candidates are not allowed to walk on any made-up surface such as a road for example, apart from crossing it directly. And the D.S. made a habit of covertly positioned themselves along the routes to detect any digressions from the rules. Bergens were weighed at the beginning of each day, and at most checkpoints. Directing staff would often intercept candidates on their routes and carry out random weight checks.
There was, of course, an honourable and honest solution for me. I could, quite simply, have declared that I was not up to the task and I would have to accept failure. On the other hand, I could go for the ‘cheating’ option and hope for a much more palatable outcome.
I had a plan. A plan that was not without risk, but it was a risk I was willing to take, and I would implement it as soon as the higher weight was imposed at the beginning of test week.
Firstly, I applied three layers of heavy-duty, black masking tape to the back surface of my Bergen, overlapping onto the top edge. This would help it to skim along anything other than an incline, without getting snagged on certain surfaces, such as wet grass. Inside I carried a two-metre length of rope with clips on either end, which I could clip onto my waistband, in order to drag the rucksack along, in the manner of an Arctic explorer.
Secondly, I carried two five-litre cans which could be filled with water in the morning, and emptied after the initial weight check. Jettisoning the water would lighten my load by about twenty pounds. The cans would then be filled from a stream once I was approaching a checkpoint.
Finally, to cover the eventuality of a random check en route, I attached a piece of dirty, brown chord, about a foot long, to the bottom of my Bergen.
It was painful, but I made it through to test week, and we were now down to about thirty. What lay ahead of me was a hideous combination of routes across the most inhospitable parts of the Welsh countryside. I was beginning to hate Wales with a passion – it was totally beyond me why anyone on earth would want to lay claim to land that had gravity-defying bogs on the sides of fucking great hills that only ever seemed to go up.
Test week would culminate with ‘endurance’. An agonising route of forty miles, carrying a fifty-five pound Bergen, plus all the rest of the crap, and the route had to be completed within twenty-four hours. In my case, I planned to drag the load for most of the way, and even then, it would weigh twenty pounds less than it should have done. Cheating was risky but I felt I had no other option since the blisters on my shoulders and back were raw and painful. A fifty-five-pound rucksack would soon become an unbearable burden.
For the first few days, my plan worked like a dream. Being able to drag my, much lighter, load along for a good deal of the route gave my shoulders and back some, very welcome relief.
It wasn’t until halfway through ‘endurance’, frustratingly close to the end, that my plan began to fall apart.
According to my map, I had only two hundred metres, or so, to go to a small re-entrant, likely to contain a stream, where I could replenish my water cans. I would then have to carry the full load for only about a mile to my next checkpoint.
Suddenly, as if from nowhere, out of the drizzle, appeared an SAS soldier with a set of weighing-scales in his hands.
‘Hang on mate. Just need to check the weight. Won’t keep you a sec,’ he said.
Fortunately, I was not doing my impression of ‘Scott of The Antarctic’ at the time. For maximum dramatic effect, I slid my thirty-five-pound load very slowly from my shoulders, trying my best to make it look as heavy as possible.
“What’s all the tape for mate?” he asked suspiciously. Holding the scales out ready for me to put the carrying handle over the hook.
“Stops it rubbing into my back. Got a few blisters,” I mumbled whilst adopting my best pained expression.
As he started to lift the scales with both hands, I trapped the dirty piece of chord, which I had attached earlier in the week, firmly under my boot.
The indicator needle on the scales passed slowly through thirty – forty – fifty. Thankfully as soon as it went past fifty-five he released the load and I gave a huge sigh of relief. Without another word, he unhooked the scales and disappeared, like a spectre into the swirling mist.
What a fucking result, I thought to myself. Stifling a shriek of victory.
Who said cheats never prosper? Cheating had got me through my pilot’s course, and now it looked as if it was going to get me through SAS selection.
I filled up my water cans at the babbling brook, humming a gentle refrain to myself. After that I, not only carried my Bergen in the prescribed manner, but I carried the full weight and put up with the pain.
I have no idea how long it took me to finish the notorious ‘endurance’ march, but it must have been in less than twenty-four hours.
The following morning, I was one of only twelve remaining candidates who was told that we had passed selection. We would be ‘badged’ once we had finished our continuation training and the ‘combat survival course’.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Bend over … More!” A deep voice from behind me said as I stood completely naked. ‘Touch the floor you dog’.
A finger was pushed roughly inside me and prodded about. At least I assumed, and certainly hoped, it was a finger.
A pair of hobnail boots with no laces, a rough pair of hessian trousers and an old Army greatcoat were thrown at my feet. The same voice, which had a distinct Russian accent, gave the order. “Put these on. Get into the back of the truck.”
The boots were about three sizes too big for me, flopping about as I walked. I had to hold the trousers up with one hand – too big again, and no belt.
A piece of paper, with the figure ‘6’ scribbled on it, was slapped onto the front of my greatcoat as I struggled to climb into the back of the windowless van.
“Sit. No talking,” ordered the Russian as he slipped a black hood over my head, pulling the drawstring tightly around my neck, and plunging me into total darkness.
It was cold. Very cold. The middle of March and the van rocked violently as if it were being driven, not along a road, but along a rough unmaintained track. My, recently violated, arse was being jarred against the cold metal floor of the vehicle and my body constantly bashed against the sides and other bodies.
We came abruptly to a halt, throwing me forward, as the back door was opened and cold air rushed in. There was the sound of scuffling as if someone or something was being removed, or perhaps taken on board, before the door slammed shut.
At the sixth stop, I was grabbed by the shoulders and dragged towards the open door. I clung on to my trousers with one hand and tried to hold on to my oversize boots with the other, but my right one slipped away. I felt a moment of terror as I was launched into space before thudding onto the hard ground.
As I staggered to my feet the hood was ripped from my head. I blinked, still in darkness as I desperately tried to focus on something – anything – to try to overcome my disorientation.
The back of the van came into focus, starting to pull away into the night with the door still open. Suddenly my breath was taken away, and I fell to my knees in pain, as my right boot crashed into my chest.
With the vehicle gone I was left in absolute silence and a claustrophobic darkness. The sky was completely obscured by cloud, what we pilots would call ‘eight-eighths cover’, and I therefore stood very little chance of getting any sense of direction.
I decided to walk with the wind on my back, mainly because, that way the greatcoat gave me extra protection, albeit still meagre.
Although I didn’t know exactly where I was, there were a few things that I did know.
I knew that if I could cross the main road, which lay about thirty miles to the south-west, then I would be out of enemy territory and would have reached freedom. Anyone this side of that main road was to be considered an enemy and must be avoided at all costs. I also knew that by first light there would be a Hunter Force in the area, intent on tracking me down. Doz
ens of troops who knew the ground well and trained in the art of tracking, would not only have dogs but would also have helicopters equipped with thermal imaging cameras in support. With the capability and determination of the Hunter Force and only one direction for me to go towards freedom, the odds of me avoiding capture were, well and truly, stacked against me.
It was bitterly cold and I had eaten nothing for more than twenty-four hours. Physically I was in reasonable shape. Psychologically I was beginning to feel very distressed and vulnerable.
I decided that I had to stick to the low ground and keep walking until I could find some sort of shelter. Thankfully the heavy cloud cover didn’t develop into rain. Progress was slow due to the ill-fitting boots and trousers but, after about an hour, I stumbled across a fence and a hedgerow, which I followed downhill. Eventually, there was a break in the fence-line connected by a gate, and I was in luck. The gate was tied shut with blue nylon cord.
With hands that would hardly function due to the intense cold, I managed to cut lengths of the chord on a stone and produce a pair of boot laces and two belts.
I scrapped together as many leaves and twigs as I could to use as my bed for the night, and crawled into the hedgerow. I eagerly awaited the first signs of the sun, which would not only show me which way I needed to go but might also bring me some warmth.
I had been lucky with the haberdashery, but not so with my inbuilt compass. The sun started to rise from exactly the opposite direction to that which I needed to be heading. I had no option. The only way for me to remain free from captivity, by getting out of the enemy-held territory, was for me to retrace the steps over, what progress I had made throughout the previous night.
Not long after the sun began to rise over the horizon, I heard the ominous sound of a helicopter approaching from the east.
When being observed from the sky, the first thing that will highlight the quarry’s location to the hunter is movement. The second thing, assuming the aircraft has a thermal imaging capability, is the heat emitted from the body.
Kisses From Nimbus Page 9
