Mud, Sweat and Tears

by Bear Grylls

  CHAPTER 39

  Finally, our first pre-Selection weekend was approaching.

  I arrived at the barracks at around 5.30 p.m., Friday night – we were to be driven to the SAS HQ, for what they called the pre-Selection tests.

  These were simply intended to ensure we were ‘serious about doing this course, and aware of what would be required’. This was what the SAS officer told us, as we sat huddled on the cold concrete floor of a semi-submerged hangar that first night.

  He added, ‘I hope that you will all pass, trust me, the regiment always needs more numbers, but it won’t happen like that. I can guarantee that out of all of you here, I will be able to count on just two hands the number who’ll eventually join.’

  I hardly slept at all that night. Instead I lay awake, waiting for 5.30 a.m., on that hard concrete floor, in that dark, dank hangar, that I was to get to know so well in the months ahead.

  At 0600 we set off running as a large squad. (All of the 21 SAS Squadrons had come together for this pre-Selection weekend.)

  This was the first simple test: an eight-mile hill-run in under an hour. I dug deep as the forest track wound up the hill and we all went up it for the fourth time.

  The rest of the morning was spent on ‘basic skills’ lessons from the directing staff (DS), and a briefing about the afternoon’s ‘activities’ ahead.

  We then got run down to the assault course.

  I’d done a few tough assault courses before with the Royal Marines. This somehow felt different. Before, the assault courses had been fun; this one had a sense of impending pain.

  What the DS wanted to see was total commitment and real effort, and there was always an officer or DS watching your every lurch and move.

  Occasionally they would swiftly step in and drag some poor person off and quietly tell them to start all over again, saying, ‘Do it properly, and with three times the speed and effort.’

  After two hours of non-stop rolling, crawling, climbing and diving, I was dead on my feet. We all were.

  Legs and arms screaming for rest.

  Before we had a second to recover we were run through the woods, fast, to a small clearing. Manhole covers peppered the whole area. They were the hidden entrances to a covered network of underground tunnels.

  If you hated confined spaces, this was going to be a bad place to find out.

  But we weren’t given a chance to think about it. We were just each pushed individually down into these tiny manholes – then the covers were locked above us.

  On our own, we each negotiated our way round this dark, underground, and cramped maze of narrow passages only three feet high.

  Each was semi-submerged in six inches of water and mud. I crawled and crawled, feeling with my hands stretched out in front of me to probe the way ahead. Whenever I reached another manhole cover and some light, seeping through the cracks, I would hear heavy army boots stamping on the metal grate above me.

  ‘Keep moving,’ one of the DS would shout, ‘faster.’

  Claustrophobia was a big no-no in the regiment. You needed to be able to work in close, confined conditions, you needed to be able to control your emotions and feelings, and to learn to channel them.

  If you couldn’t do that, then it was best that the regiment found out now, before you started out on Selection itself.

  Eventually we were released from our rat holes – tired, cramped and exhausted. We were then run round the assault course again – just for good measure.

  This was all about the DS having a chance to see each of our ‘default’ characters: was I a sticker, a grafter, was I calm under pressure, could I maintain my control in a crisis?

  Still there was no rest.

  We were then escorted off to a large, heavy steel artillery cannon that sat, sunk in the mud, in the middle of a field.

  ‘Well, get pulling, lads – and fast.’

  We heaved at the towlines and strained to move it, and slowly the wheels started to turn.

  ‘We will tell you when to stop … and if you stop before, then you will be off the course …’

  The DS rarely shouted, but tended quietly just to watch – they were looking for self-discipline. This was their mantra throughout: ‘You push yourselves, lads – if you are too slow, then you’ve failed yourself. Is that clear?’

  It was clear – and it was hard, but I liked it.

  Such self-reliance was strangely empowering.

  A lot of other soldiers who I encountered on Selection found such an attitude difficult. Many recruits were used to being shouted at, endlessly driven on by their colour sergeants.

  But the SAS way was different, and those who needed shouting at in order to perform would soon fall by the wayside.

  You had to be able to push yourself, and be able to do it alone. And as I learnt, in the case of the SAS, it was ‘always a little further’.

  Eventually, as dusk fell, utterly exhausted, we were stood down. It had been a long, hard day, and I collapsed into my sleeping bag on the hangar’s concrete floor.

  It was still dark when I could hear the corporals hovering outside the hangar like quiet, prowling lions. I fumbled to get ready. At 0550 I lugged my heavy backpack on and shuffled out into the pre-dawn light. It felt even colder outside than it had in the damp, open hangar.

  I was stood on parade five minutes early, ready.

  We had been told very clearly that if we were told to be on parade at 6 a.m., then that really meant 5.55 a.m. A minute late and you were warned. Late again and you were off the course.

  We weighed in our packs on the makeshift scales – 35 lb minimum plus webbing, weapon, water and food. It felt heavy. (Little did I know what was in store over the next year ahead, and the sort of weights I’d finally be carrying.)

  We set off as a squad at a fast walk that quickly became a forced stride, and then a jog, as we followed the same track round the same hills, all over again.

  The same eight miles – over four laps of the wooded hill – but this time in full kit.

  ‘Come on – one lap done – three more to go.’

  Halfway through the second we lost several more recruits who slipped behind the group, unable to maintain the pace. If the speed was too fast and the weight too great now, then it was best they were taken off the course at this early stage – for their own sake.

  By the third lap I was really struggling, gasping for more oxygen, snot smeared down my face, any humour or romance firmly gone, replaced by burning leg muscles and burning lungs.

  Just fight, Bear. Come on, one more lap. Don’t waste all that hard work now.

  At last the finish point, and I turned around to see a diminished group and a load of stragglers behind. The stragglers were taken aside. I never heard what was said to them, but they looked utterly dejected and spent.

  They were sent to pack their bags.

  Another eight had been failed, but the real fear in me was whether I could keep pushing that hard.

  I mean, this was still only pre-Selection. And it was tough.

  What on earth would SAS Selection itself be like?

  CHAPTER 40

  Before we got even close to the stage of being ‘trained’ in all the skills of a Special Forces soldier, we would have to pass the ‘hill’ phase of Selection.

  This was simply the SAS’s way of whittling down the numbers from the masses to the few. It was always against the clock and invariably against the elements.

  Only when the few remained would the SAS begin to teach and train those recruits in the real Special Forces skills.

  Such training is very time- and money-intensive for the regiment, and there was no point spending such valuable resources on people who didn’t, underneath it all, have the right attitude and required fitness.

  So phase one was to whittle, phase two was to train.

  We had lost almost a quarter of the recruits from our squadron already, since starting pre-Selection; we were now officially about to start ‘Selection’ proper.
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  In the squadron barracks, we were escorted into the main campus area where all the bulk of the squadron buildings were. We were no longer just confined to a side block and the gymnasium.

  This was at least progress.

  We were briefed on what would be expected of us from now onwards, and then kitted out with our first military fatigues and basic equipment.

  We were then shown our recruit locker room, lined with metal mesh lockers and red-painted concrete floor. This was to be our ‘home’ for as long as we lasted on the course.

  The message they kept drumming into us was clear: ‘If you want it bad enough, you’ll pass.’

  This whole first hill phase of Selection would be carried out in the wild Welsh peaks of the Brecon Beacons.

  For the next six months the bulk of my time was to be spent sweating and slogging round these mountains: sometimes in soaring heat and blazing sun, surrounded by plagues of mosquitoes and drenched in sweat; then, later on in the year, ploughing through thigh-deep thick snow, cold and wet; and at times being near blown over by the force of the wind on the high peaks.

  At times, we would be carrying up to 75 lb in total – roughly the weight of an average eight-year-old kid.

  Both hypothermia and exhaustion were going to become the ever-present enemy, along with the timed clock. It’s a constant battle as your boots fill with water and your clothing turns stiff in the gale-force wind that sweeps across the Welsh mountains. Can you keep moving – and fast?

  The whole selection process is about so much more than just physical fitness. It requires navigational skills, mental agility, self-discipline and a fierce determination to push on when your legs and whole body are screaming to rest.

  The SAS can afford to be tough when recruiting. There’ll always be more people willing to test themselves by trying for the regiment.

  Our first exercise in the Brecon Beacons was what they call a ‘guided tour’ – it sounded worryingly mundane.

  We were to be escorted in small groups round the mountains, to show, practically, that we had a good grasp on the fine art of day and night mountain navigation.

  Only then could they let us loose on our own.

  As we climbed higher into the mountains, the DS gave us their advice and tips, learnt the hard way. Advice on how to navigate effectively, and how to cover ground efficiently.

  I absorbed it all.

  We took it in turns to navigate each leg, and we burnt up the miles.

  About ten hours later, we had covered roughly eighteen miles, up and down the remote valleys and peaks.

  Everyone was feeling the weight on their backs, and our feet were aching – but we were working hard and together, and it felt good.

  We also got our first taste of one particularly high Welsh mountain that we’d get to know intimately. A peak synonymous with SAS Selection, and known to all recruits so well.

  Finally, we stopped in some woods and rested for two hours at the foot of this mountain. I was wet through from the all-day drizzle and sweat, but I was excited.

  We awaited darkness.

  The next stage would be the first of many night navigation exercises.

  CHAPTER 41

  As night fell, we headed off in small groups into the darkness, in search of the first checkpoint or RV (rendezvous).

  Moving at night through high mountain terrain was hard, and we were all soon fumbling around, stumbling into ditches and unseen bogs.

  Night navigation is an art that we were soon to become experts in, but as of yet our feet, eyes and instinct were new and uncertain.

  I noticed, though, that the DS, who were with us, would never trip or stumble. It was only the recruits who would be tripping over clumps of grass or potholes in the dark.

  It was as if the fully ‘badged’ SAS guys had learnt this game long ago.

  I so wanted to develop that level of confidence and skill, and I knew it would come with practice; and practice at moving at night was something we would have no shortage of.

  We finally traipsed into the last checkpoint in the mountainous forest, tired, wet and exhausted. I tied my poncho between two trees, laid out my bivvy bag and fell fast asleep.

  Two hours later, at 0555, we were lined up along the track leading up to one of the high peaks, some six miles away. Standing high above us, the summit was barely visible in the early morning half-light.

  Looking down the ragged line of recruits to my left, I could see that everyone was buttoned up against the chill.

  Army-green woollen hats, damp combat clothes, hands clasped in fists at our sides to try to keep warm, and packs neatly laid in front of us on the ground.

  Each soldier’s breath was steaming in the cold air.

  My feet were sore, and felt tight in my new army boots. I could feel that they had started to swell with the bruising.

  The RSM (regimental sergeant major) shouted out, ‘Stick with me if you want to pass this course.’ Then he was off at a pace.

  We raced off after him, hauling our packs on as we moved.

  Recruits were fighting to barge past each other in an attempt to get to the front. But keeping up with this pace meant going at almost a full run – a task that I knew would be impossible to maintain.

  Each step up was hard-fought, and as the gradient increased so I could feel my energy draining. My body was running on reserve, and I was already pouring with sweat and sucking for air.

  This is where it counts, this is the time to shine, I kept telling myself. Do not slip back, even one step.

  I knew that to slip back would be fatal.

  I would be swallowed by the other recruits, and would never be able to keep the pace.

  It was the energy of this front pack that was keeping me there, despite the punishing pace and gradient.

  I found myself amongst the few who had managed to keep up with the RSM by the time we reached the summit, and I fought hard to maintain that position all the way down the other side.

  Running all the way down the steep mountain paths.

  By the time we reached the bottom, we were a good twenty minutes ahead of most of the straggle of recruits.

  When the whole group were assembled, the officer announced that our performance had been an embarrassment, and that if we were serious about passing we’d all have to start putting some effort in.

  With that comment, he told us to stay where we were. He then ordered the trucks to start up, and we watched as they all pulled away, driving off down the main road, empty.

  ‘Turn round, lads – the trucks will be waiting for you back on the other side. That took you a pathetic two hours seventeen minutes to complete. You all now have two hours to retrace your steps back over the mountain to make the trucks. Those outside of that time are failed … and will walk home.’

  Bleary eyed, I turned to start the climb up again.

  I pushed to the front of the group, determined to make a good start and keep ahead, and headed back up the mountain.

  As we cleared the first false horizon, some twenty minutes later, a corporal was stood there waiting, noting silently who was up the front and who had dropped behind already.

  He quietly pointed back down the steep slope.

  ‘Get back down, lads – the trucks are coming back. Good to see who was prepared to put in the effort, though,’ he said, nodding at the front-runners, which included Trucker and myself.

  We turned, and started down, exhausted and drained.

  We all collapsed silently in the back of the four-tonne lorries, and heaved a sigh of relief as the engines started up and we pulled out on to the road and headed south.

  It had been just another little tester. A tester with a purpose.

  Are you the sort of person who can turn around when you have nothing left, and find that little bit extra inside you to keep going, or do you sag and wilt with exhaustion?

  It is a mental game, and it is hard to tell how people will react until they are squeezed.

  All I cared
, though, was that weekend one of Selection was done.

  The squeezing had begun.

  CHAPTER 42

  How on earth could lying on the metal floor of an army truck, cramped, exhausted and inhaling diesel fumes, be the best feeling on earth?

  But somehow, such moments, curled up in our bivvy bags, having survived and passed another weekend exercise, made all the effort and pain worthwhile.

  The weekly drill nights kept the same momentum – running, PT (or physical training, which consisted of log runs, gruelling strength circuits, fireman’s lifts and general beastings), map-reading lessons, medic-training and weapon-handling.

  As the new recruits we dressed in green, standard-army uniform. You couldn’t help but notice the confident, purposeful air that the SAS fully badged soldiers, wandering around camp, possessed.

  In contrast, us recruits knew nothing and were nothing. We were just numbers.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  I looked with hidden admiration at the carefully moulded berets and wing-daggered belts that the SAS guys wore. I was also beginning to appreciate the work that had gone in to earn them.

  Our next Selection weekend in the mountains was soon looming over me again.

  No sooner had my body begun to recover from one test, than the fear and stress of what was to come next was upon me again.

  I mean, no one looks forward to being driven physically to their knees – over and over again.

  The four-tonne green army truck pulled into a quiet lay-by at the foot of another cold, windswept mountain, at about 1 a.m. It was raining hard.

  In pairs, we tried to find a small patch of flat ground to sleep. But sleep was impossible, and tucked into the side of a gully in what was fast becoming a soaking-wet bog, we made what we could of the five hours until dawn.

  At 5.55 a.m. we were all stood to attention in the marsh, in the pouring rain. The SAS officer in charge told us that this was our last ‘accompanied’ set of marches, and to remember the importance of learning key lessons from the DS with us.