Life Under Fire

by Jason Fox

  Soon you’ll be able to control the controllable.

  EMOTIONAL SELF-AWARENESS AND FOCUS

  Internal focus is vital if we’re to become more resilient. Too often on Selection for the Special Forces – and in any line of work, or a challenge, where a handful of people have to function alongside one another – individuals become distracted by how the people around them are doing. As a result, they lose focus on their own efforts and waste mental calories rather than directing their energy internally. Then they listen to the Demon chattering away, the voice telling them, ‘If they can’t do it, then you can’t,’ or ‘They’re so much better than you, mate. You can’t keep up.’ These internal distractions quickly derail the best of efforts.

  In fairness, it’s an easy pitfall to tumble into. As humans we have egos, which means we’re psychologically hardwired to compare any successes or failures with the achievements of others. But this is a debilitating process because 1) It distracts us from the job in hand, 2) It can impact our confidence when finishing a task, and 3) Any comparisons to another individual could be based on misleading evidence. Sure, our cycling rival might be three kilometres ahead in the race, but maybe they’re pacing themselves differently or struggling with an injury that might cause them to drop out. Instead, we should focus solely on ourselves and the intelligence available to us, without opinion or conjecture.

  I’m all too familiar with the comparison trap because during my first day on the Briefing Phase that begins every Selection, I looked around at the other lads in my troop and started to stress.

  Bloody hell, I thought, there are some right monsters in here. I’m going to be up against it …

  I recognised soldiers I knew to be really talented. Well, he’s getting through, for sure, I thought. And him.

  But after a series of drills, which included a battle-swimming test comprising a timed, freestyle swim over 600 metres and a 25-metre underwater swim, I noticed that one or two formidable faces had dropped out. By the time we’d moved into the Hills Phase, our numbers had dwindled even more and some of the lads I’d imagined to be dead certs for the job were gone. I soon discovered that physical talent, while being incredibly important, wasn’t the be-all and end-all when it came to Selection. Instead, resilience was the most highly prized attribute, and incredibly skilled soldiers often failed while the toughest clung on until the end.

  It’s a phenomenon we see a lot in professional sport, too. Great track and field athletes, or basketball players, can look the business when they first break through, but after a couple of seasons they fade away, often because they haven’t got the fortitude or mindset to bounce back from an injury or a run of bad form. Meanwhile, competitors who might not have seemed too remarkable at the beginning of their careers end up winning major honours with a big team. They’re viewed as being solid and reliable, but not amazing, and yet it’s their grit that has enabled them to operate at the top level while more talented individuals have faded. When it came to my military career, I was that solid and reliable individual. I came to realize that while there were probably some better soldiers than me on my Selection course, I was a stubborn bastard who didn’t like to fail. I prayed it would be enough to get me through.

  As I threw myself into the long-distance runs on the Brecon Beacons during the Hills Phase, the middle of the pack became a familiar spot for me. I was never in any danger of finishing at the back but never too close to the front, either. I didn’t let that bother me, though. I focused only on my own performance and what I needed to do in order to qualify for the next phase.

  During the first week or so, whenever somebody dropped out around me, I used the resignation as emotional fuel. They’ve flunked, but you’re still hanging in there. But the thought only lasted for a little while. Eventually, I gave up watching what was happening elsewhere altogether because I’d noticed some of the lads were being affected by the failures of others. It was as if they were thinking, Bloody hell, if someone like him can’t handle it, there’s no way I’ll be able to make it. They were giving themselves permission to quit. Shortly afterwards they’d walk away, returning to their life in the Marines, their dream of making it as an elite soldier cut short.

  We see it all the time on SAS: Who Dares Wins. During the first season, a mole was planted alongside the regular recruits. Ross Johnson (my forgetful teammate on the Atlantic crossing) had been a sturdy Royal Marine and he integrated with the other people in the civilian group as they worked through the various tests together. They were all oblivious to his secret past and a lot of the recruits in that season were looking at Ross as a possible winner. As far as they were concerned, he’d handled all the tests with ease and seemed to manage the physical and psychological challenges fairly comfortably. We’d decided during the latter stages that the Directing Staff would arrange a meeting where everybody was offered the chance to quit by handing in their armband. But, in a twist, we’d asked Ross to drop out at that same point. We’d wanted to see what effect him quitting would have on the others. Which recruits had the internal focus to stay switched on regardless? Unsurprisingly, when Ross handed over his armband, a couple of his fellow recruits dropped out moments later.

  Truly, the only people that make it to the end of SAS: Who Dares Wins are those team players capable of maintaining internal focus. Don’t get me wrong – I’ll still fall victim to diversions from time to time. I might compare myself with the imagined strength of the individuals around me; we each have an ego, after all. Occasionally, I’ll get into the gym and work out with someone I haven’t met before, a lad who looks mega-strong.

  Fucking hell, I’ll think. I could embarrass myself here.

  But I’ll soon recognize the Demon. Working hard to shut it up, I’ll press ahead, thinking, Sod it, I’ll get on with the work. Nine times out of ten the other person burns themselves out long before I’ve finished the session. They quit, but I’m still grinding on, focusing only on what I have to do to get to where I need to be.

  EMOTIONAL SELF-AWARENESS AND FLEXIBILITY

  Life on military tour was a roller coaster of emotion.

  My brain was constantly being exposed to stresses and strains, and the Demon liked popping up whenever I felt frazzled. For example, during the time spent walking to an operation I would often be wracked with anticipation and feel a little anxious, especially if my nerves had been frayed by fatigue after weeks and weeks of night raids. Even when I wasn’t working, I was expected to train every day at the gym on base, which comprised a sandblasted collection of weights and racks. The effort was physically tough because we didn’t take it easy. Everybody in the squadron was often knackered and the only way to cope with the mental turbulence was through self-awareness and flexibility.

  Anything could happen, so I had to be ready for anything happening.

  I wasn’t constantly trying to predict any awful eventuality that might take place. Rather, I was always mentally ready for plans to change, and at short notice. There was no way an operator could function with rigid thought; routine didn’t exist at the sharp end of war, and without flexibility an elite soldier would emotionally snap in half because the job was in a constant state of flux. Nowhere was this idea more stress-tested than in the build-up to missions, when we gathered in the mess, each of us ready to grab our night-vision goggles, scrapping gear and shock-and-awe weaponry if the order came. While we waited for instructions, we’d sometimes sit around the telly to watch whatever football game was going on back in England. Some of the lads might play darts, others cards; all of us anticipating the call to action from a telephone that linked the mess to our Officer Commanding. The mood was usually tense and uncertain. Is it going to kick off tonight? Or are we being stood down?

  Whenever the phone rang, the lads looked at one another expectantly.

  ‘Get the phone, then!’ someone would shout.

  ‘You fucking get it, you’re right there!’

  There would be a moment or two of bickering before the nearest op
erator reluctantly grabbed at the receiver, entirely aware the room was hanging on their reaction.

  ‘Yeah? Right. Yeah, roger that.’

  He’d then sit down, behaving as if nothing had happened.

  Well?

  ‘What? Oh yeah! The mission’s been shit-canned. We’re not going out.’

  Sometimes jobs were cancelled because of bad weather. At other times, our transport might unexpectedly need servicing – relying on mechanical equipment in a desert was occasionally problematic. Disruption happened the other way round, too. Sometimes we had settled down to eat, only to be upended because a high-profile target was suddenly within reach or about to launch an attack. But living in an out-of-control environment was part of the job, so flexibility soon became a vital tool in levelling out the stress. I knew there was no point worrying about what bad stuff might, or might not, happen once the work began for real. That was the first step towards becoming a nervous wreck, because so many things could go wrong on missions.

  The helicopter might crash.

  A mate might get shot.

  I might die, or suffer a life-changing injury.

  Sure, all of those things might happen. On the other hand, they might not. So, in the same way that it wasn’t worth lying in my bunk at night worrying about what could happen if I were to get really sick, lose my job, crash the car or split up with my significant other, it wasn’t worth worrying about what might happen if I were to step on an IED or if a mission went horribly wrong. Because missions went horribly wrong all the time. The only rational course of action was to plan as much as I could and stay flexible, ready for any change. It was the only way I could prepare for a job that had a tendency to go south at any given moment.

  Try considering this emotional position for any challenge in life: Anything can happen, so remain adaptable. The alternative is to live in a constant state of shock. And nobody can function effectively in that environment.

  EMOTIONAL SELF-AWARENESS, JUVENILE THOUGHT AND THE IMPORTANCE OF THINKING LIKE A KID

  So, how does an individual truly locate that relaxed state of mind?

  In the military elite we were trained to be flexible and for large chunks of my career I was able to live in the moment, rather than focusing upon what was taking place in the next ten minutes or what had happened ten minutes previously. That allowed me to be calm and responsive no matter what was going on around me. In that respect, I found that some elite soldiers were, weirdly, quite Zen in their outlook on life. (I even know of ex-operators who have been described as ‘hippies’, which also seems a bit weird.) But as a brotherhood we were able to roll with the punches whenever life became scrappy or stressful, because we understood the power of remaining flexible and positive. In tense moments we used self-awareness to appreciate our survival; we made jokes and killed time by playing cards or training in the gym, because the awful reality was that we might have already been dead had fate taken the enemy’s side in the last scrap and not ours.

  While the idea of living in the moment may sound simple when written down in a book, in practice it can take a fair amount of effort. I’d learned about that mindset as a teenager because it had been drummed into every Royal Marines Commando at Lympstone. We were taught to be malleable, to think on our feet and to adopt a positive attitude at all times. (I think it was a position I took to naturally anyway.) However, once I’d been medically discharged from the military at the end of my career, that mental strength faded away. Due to the onset of PTSD, I’d already become fearful of what might happen to me in a gunfight. Once in the Real World I found myself being hyper-vigilant during moments of crisis, such as a dispute at home or a problem at work. My self-awareness and flexibility waned and I fell apart.

  But I was able to grab it back. One of the first breakthroughs in reclaiming my sense of self took place during therapy, when I learned why my resilience had deteriorated so drastically throughout that fateful, final military tour. I realized that when I was a younger bloke, pushing through Selection and operating as an elite soldier, I rarely considered the dangerous implications of what I was doing. If I was about to swoop into a terrorist camp or raid an enemy munitions dump, I just did it. I didn’t overthink the plan – or the risks. I lived in the now. That made me impervious to stress and fear. As I got older, however, I analysed the threats to my life a little more. I think it’s something we all do with age – we become more cautious, and the sort of things we once did without stress as younger people eventually prey on our mind more intensely. In the aftershocks of conflict during my final tour, I’d allowed those concerns to overcome me.

  One suggestion for helping me to push forward was to think in a more juvenile way. The first step was to stop overanalysing my actions, which I hadn’t done during my early career, and to do so I’d need to look at life in a childlike way. Most two-year-olds will waddle into a room of other kids their age and mix easily. They won’t question intentions or make assumptions about anyone around them. All they want to do is play, and any associated risk to their well-being seems irrelevant. Ordinarily, the consequences of something that might have happened earlier that day won’t play on their mind; nor will the events of the coming afternoon. Sure, they’ll have tantrums, but they’ll be forgotten within minutes, and most of the time kids generally explore life without too much stress. They’re strangely self-aware too: most kids know what makes them happy and what causes them to become sad. Therapy encouraged me to think in the same way. I was asked to let go of any judgements about my past and forget the fears for my future. I had to tap into what made me happy rather than what made me fearful. It took a little while to get into the idea, but it was worth it once I did.

  Philosophers and therapists have long encouraged people to think like children – to act with the bare minimum of analysis, self-imposed pressure or trepidation. Zen Buddhists call it the Beginner’s Mind, a state of thinking where an individual is completely without fear, open to new experiences and living in the moment. I’ve used the concept when working through different therapeutic methods for PTSD because if we’re able to think like children in negative moments, then we’re able to free any situations from our prejudgement or anticipation. Instead, we can assess situations more clearly and push past any physical or psychological barriers.

  I’ve often put that process to the test, with successful results. In 2018 I had a meeting with a production team from Channel Four where I was asked a fairly simple question: ‘If you could go anywhere to make a documentary, where would it be?’ At that time, I had no doubt in my mind. I wanted to return to Afghanistan, the scene of some of the most horrific episodes in my life, and the place where I’d first started to emotionally unravel. (With hindsight I should have suggested the Maldives.) By 2019 I’d been commissioned to make Foxy’s War, an hour-long documentary on Afghanistan, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was hoping to report on once I’d got there – as far as the film-making went, my brief was pretty open-ended, but I was happy to roll with it.

  Nevertheless, I definitely became worried in the weeks building up to my return. I wasn’t that bothered about seeing something that might upset me; I’d come to terms with my PTSD experience and felt emotionally steady. But I was nervous about getting hurt. Afghanistan was still a very sketchy place. I wasn’t ready to die and I knew that my chances of copping it were greatly increased by returning. At first, I stressed. As the days counted down to my trip, I hoped that Channel Four would have second thoughts, or that somebody high up might decide the project was too risky or too stupid. But, despite my fears, there was no way I was backing out of the project myself: I’d agreed to do it so I was going to follow through with the job. However, the situation reminded me of a nervy moment in the weeks building up to the Atlantic row with Team Essence. I’d gone to Ibiza for a break, and as I stared out across the water one night I became unsettled. I pictured our boat rowing away from land, into darkness, the team drifting from civilization – maybe for good. It was quite a daunting
thought.

  Afghanistan gave me the same chill.

  That’s when I decided to bring myself into the now, to think like a kid again. So, I took the following two steps:

  I acknowledged the negative experiences I’d gone through in the past and reminded myself that I’d survived them, thanks to my training. I should forget those negative experiences for now.

  I told myself that there was no point in worrying about any awful incidents that might happen during filming and I used my therapy to rationalize any fear for the future. Of course I was worried! I was going back to one of the most dangerous places on earth. It was a normal fear and should be respected. But there was also every chance that nothing bad would take place. Rather than knackering myself out through stress, I needed to react to dangerous moments only if they kicked off, while being flexible enough to respond.

  Meanwhile, I used the negative emotion to switch on; I became more focused, as I had in the military. Being scared was a good thing. I was out of my comfort zone again, learning and growing, which meant I was becoming more resilient. One thing I’ve realized is that, as much as we like having comfortable lives (and I wouldn’t be unhappy if I were to have a totally comfortable life from now on), if I’m to grow I need to put myself in uncomfortable situations. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve kept doing SAS: Who Dares Wins. Every time another season has been announced, I’ve mentally prepared myself for the work to come, knowing that a series of psychological challenges are going to be chucked my way, such as jumping from that way-too-high diving platform. But once I’ve arrived on the job and thrown myself into an intense situation or two, I’ve become pretty happy, self-aware and comfortable in the uncomfortable. I’ve then experienced growth.