First Man In

by Ant Middleton

  He put his glasses on the desk and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘You’re asking me to overrule Boyle?’

  I shrugged. ‘To be honest, all the lads are out of joint with him a bit. He’s been poking people, coming in with all his drill stuff. He doesn’t get it.’

  He sighed deeply.

  I said, ‘I guarantee you, personally, that Cressey will not do that again. Ever.’

  In the end I got my way. Cressey wasn’t sent back for a court martial. And from that point on, everything Boyle said to any of us was just white noise. It wasn’t long before he was spending the majority of his time hiding in the ops room away from the rest of us. Even though I wasn’t the official leader, in practice I was back in charge.

  That night, after I left the sergeant major’s office, I did what I always did on returning from a long day in the field. I went to the bombed-out top floor of the building at the centre of the base, jumped on the rusty, squeaky bicycle that had been put on a stand, and began working out under a huge full moon that illuminated the outline of the dark, dangerous mountains as brightly as if it were God’s own torch. I couldn’t help but feel disillusioned with my first experience of war. I’d come to Afghanistan full of excitement for the challenge but felt limited by our timid rules of engagement, and that I was endangered by people who just didn’t give a shit and shouldn’t have been there. In a matter of days, though, none of this would matter any longer.

  Ever since that fateful day during Commando training when I’d seen that man leaving the armoury wearing a green beret with the motto BY STRENGTH AND GUILE, I’d wanted one thing above all else. To join the Special Boat Service. I’d heard a rumour that there’d once been a Marine who was fresh from passing out who’d made it into the Special Forces. I had no idea if it was really true, but the truth of it no longer mattered. I would make it true. I would achieve what that possibly mythical lad had. Back in May my sergeant major had signed me off as a candidate. The forms had been sent. I’d been excited about it ever since. And now, finally, the time had come. I was leaving my tour three months early. I was going home. I’d spend three precious hours with my family, and then, at 6 a.m., I was off to Wales, where I’d start my Special Forces Selection.

  LEADERSHIP LESSONS

  You don’t need to be a leader to lead. Very often in life you’ll find yourself in a situation in which the person officially in charge is not doing the greatest job. If you decide to take matters into your own hands, you need to do it cleverly. A certain skill for manipulation is often what’s called for. You need to get under that leader’s skin, win their trust and discover what they want. As long as they think they’re getting it, you’re free to steer the ship.

  Never be too quick to write anyone off. Even though I sensed Ian Cressey would be able to handle the recovery of that body, the level of professionalism he brought to the situation still surprised me. Since then, I’ve always been extremely careful about being too hasty with my judgements of those who appear weak. There’s often steel inside them – they just need the opportunity to show it.

  Do what you have to, even if people judge you for it. I know some of the lads probably found my attitude to letters and calls to my family harsh or unfeeling. But I had my reasons, and I wasn’t going to let their preconceptions bully me into not doing what I knew was best for me.

  LESSON 6

  FAILURE ISN’T MAKING THE MISTAKE, IT’S ALLOWING THE MISTAKE TO WIN

  The instructions were simple: be in the galley at Sennybridge Military Training Area in South Wales at 9 a.m. on 5 January 2008. I arrived fifteen minutes early and found myself a seat right at the front, tucked into a far corner, and watched the room slowly fill up with chattering men. Soon, every seat was taken. By the top of the hour they were lining the walls, more than two hundred of them, each individual with the fitness of a professional athlete. These were the best: the hardest, fiercest, strongest, brightest, most relentless and wily soldiers that the combined British armed forces could produce.

  We were Intake 0801; 08 for the year, and 01 because we were the first course of the two that would take place annually. Selection was a six-month ordeal, and this first ‘hill phase’ would comprise four weeks in the Brecon Beacons. As the January group, we had to endure ‘Winter Hills’, which is a lot tougher than ‘Summer Hills,’ the seasonal Welsh weather being a bitter and remorseless enemy.

  Bang on time a side door opened up. The chatter turned instantly to near-silence, the only remaining sound being a few people going, ‘Sssshhh, sssshhh.’ The man who entered was in his forties, bald and decked out in tan-patterned jungle kit. Around his waist was a blue SAS belt. There was something about this individual that simply commanded respect. You couldn’t fake the sense of ability and experience that came off him. It was as if everything he’d witnessed and pushed himself through had become part of his sinew and bones. He was a living, breathing, walking, talking lump of human power and his presence entered the room like an avalanche. He strode up to the lectern and smacked his folder down onto it, the slap echoing loudly around the walls.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Listen in everyone. I’m your chief instructor. You will address me as “Staff” at all times. If I ever see you in front of me, it’ll either be because you’ve fucked up badly and I’m about to fuck you off, or you’re injured and I’m sorting your ticket home. It’s very simple. You don’t want to be up in front of me. And neither do you want to be pestering me or any of the directing staff. Everything you need to know will be posted on that noticeboard over there by the door every night – times, locations, kit lists, everything. Read it. Do what it says. That’s it.’

  His eyes slowly swept the crowd.

  ‘Gentlemen, I don’t give a fuck who you are or where you’ve come from. You’re all at the same level now. You need to get it into your heads that most of you will fail this course.’

  He pointed to a table right over the sea of heads at the far corner of the room. It had perhaps eight or nine people sitting round it.

  ‘In six months’ time, that’s the number of men who’ll still be with us.’

  I craned my neck to see the table. It seemed a very, very long way away.

  With that, eight instructors emerged from the side door and stood in formation behind the chief instructor and stared straight through us, as if into an empty room. The place was now eerily quiet. There was no coughing or throat clearing, no rustling of clothing. To even be acknowledged by these men, you’d have to get through the toughest military course on the planet. We were guests visiting in their world, probably briefly, and they were letting us know it.

  Some of the guys around me paled. You could see the doubts crowding in on them. They were either thinking they weren’t good enough or were simply scared shitless. You could hardly blame them – after all, it’s not uncommon for people to die on selection. One guy had recently passed away due to heat exhaustion, another was running from a hunter force, during the escape and evasion section, and went over a cliff. Both incidents had caused headlines and handwringing in the papers but, if you ask me, that’s just the kind of thing that happens when you’re trying to weed the strongest from the not-quite-strong-enough. It irritated me when I heard people blame the army for these deaths. If I died, I’d want people to know it was because I wanted it so badly that I’d pushed myself so much and paid the ultimate price. I’d want people to be proud of me, not making excuses.

  But still, the fact that these deaths had happened at all brought it home to me. When I’d started other military courses, I’d looked at those who’d already passed and thought, ‘That’s going to be me.’ Now I caught myself thinking, ‘I want that to be me.’ This was different. It was a new feeling and, in that moment in the galley, I’ll honestly admit I felt overwhelmed. Nothing could’ve been more important for me than passing Selection. I couldn’t go back to the Royal Marines after my depressing experience trudging the streets of Sangin.

  I’d already decided. If
I didn’t make it into the Special Forces, then that would be it. I’d leave the military. I knew that the failure would shatter my sense of who I was and what my life was all about. The goal of passing Selection was all that was keeping me together. The blood, anger and confusion of life outside the Forces had been soothed by having this distant point of light to focus on. I knew this was going to be the hardest challenge I’d ever have to endure, but I’d give everything I had to make it. I’d give my life.

  I’d arrived at Sennybridge two hours earlier, the suspension of my Silver Renault Clio suffering under the weight of all my kit. I knew I was getting close to the base when I began recognising the names of local pubs that were familiar to me from all the myths and legends about Selection I’d heard down the years – there was The Red Lion, there was The Tanner’s Arms. As I drove further into the area along a narrow country road, the hills only seemed to grow higher and crueller. Most people, driving this route, would probably be marvelling at the natural beauty, but the more magnificent the scenery became, the more intimidated I felt. All I could think was, ‘I’m going to be pounding over that fucking thing with a big fucking bergen on my back.’ I could feel all the old insecurities about running with weight rushing back into me. Yes, I’d managed to pull myself up Craphat Hill – after a struggle – but Craphat Hill was a hump in the road compared with what was about to happen here.

  After parking up, I dropped my kit off at the student accommodation, which was a basic wooden hut lined with bunks for forty or so men, one of six that housed us all. I walked in to see a handful of guys gathered in the centre of the room. They were doing that getting-to-know-you thing, chatting too fast, laughing too loudly, eyeballing each other, measuring up the competition. The mindset among many of them seemed to be that this would be a contest, that we would be battling each other out there. I knew the smartest approach would be to keep the competition internal; make the battle solely with myself.

  It didn’t look like anyone had established a bed yet, so I kept my eyes down, shuffled past them and headed straight to a bunk in the far corner, where I began unpacking, hanging up my kit, placing my socks and boots in such a way that I could easily and swiftly grab them.

  On the drive up I’d consciously decided not to get into the whole ‘I’m here to make friends’ routine. I knew the best strategy was to avoid the loud lads, especially the ones who’d been on Selection before and were giving it the gobshite treatment, and those who’d never done it but were Selection nerds and having a whale of a time broadcasting all the dubious information they’d found on internet forums and in squaddy pubs. These were the men who were going to highlight themselves to the DSs and I didn’t want to be anywhere near them. My plan was to deliberately isolate myself, to be the grey man: quiet, unnoticed, focused only on what was important – passing Selection.

  When the briefing with the chief instructor was over, the men of intake 08:01 filed out of the galley, subdued and thoughtful. I hung back, peeled off and made a diversion to the washrooms, where I waited for a while in the hope of avoiding once more the getting-to-know-you traps. It was a good move. When I got back to the accommodation block they were all at it again, bunched up and in groups. Aside from me, nobody had even claimed a bed yet, let alone started squaring their kit away.

  Nobody, that is, except one man. I could see him as I neared the end of the block. I couldn’t believe it. Out of all thirty-nine of the free bunks, he’d chosen the one right next to me. This was fucking perfect. The last thing I wanted was some idiot who was searching for a best buddy. As I approached I tried to rapidly get the measure of him. He was standing up, seeing to his kit, and was about the same height and build as me, but holy shit, he was one of the ugliest men I’d ever seen in my life. I could see from his uniform that he was a Royal Engineer. I’d have to keep my own Engineer past quiet – the last thing I needed was a bonding session with some great, gobby, piss-drinking wanker.

  I sat down on my bed and he turned to me, a typical hard man. Give him a club, put him in a leopard-skin nappy, make him smash rocks all day and he’d be happy.

  ‘Mate, I hope you don’t mind if I jump in,’ he said earnestly, his eyes wide.

  I knew instantly that I’d got this guy wrong. He wasn’t searching for a pal. He’d had exactly the same idea as me. He was tucking himself away. Smart lad.

  ‘No, don’t be silly,’ I said warmly. ‘You crack on.’

  ‘I’m Darren, by the way,’ he said.

  ‘Anthony.’

  ‘Different world, eh?’ he said, as he turned back to his unpacking.

  ‘Seems it.’

  Although we weren’t about to have a merry chat about it, I knew exactly what Darren meant. The differences between the SBS and SAS and the rest of the armed forces run deep. With the Special Forces, you’re taking all the alpha males out of all the tribes of the military and putting them together in one elite group. There were no sheep here, only shepherds. They’re not Yes men of the kind that the Lympstonite Boyle loved. They possess both physical and intellectual stamina, and have to be able to use initiative and strategy under the toughest of circumstances – whether they’re starving, exhausted, trapped, injured, lost, being tortured or having a gun pointed at their skull by a screaming Talib – or all of these put together. This culture begins at Selection. No one’s chasing you up to do anything. You’re simply told where to be, at what time and with what kit. If you’re late, you get a black tick. Two black ticks and you’re gone. That was it. No sympathy, no excuses, no second chances. And that’s exactly the way it should be.

  While the other lads continued their dick-measuring, I went to bed early, my bladder freshly full. One good thing about those long patrols in Sangin had been the opportunity they’d given me for tactical planning. I’d come up with a special routine that I promised myself I’d stick to every night on Selection. Before going to sleep I’d drink a litre of water from a bottle I’d stash beside my bed. About three hours later, I’d be awake, in desperate need of a piss. I knew the washrooms were bound to be in a separate building. That meant I’d have to leave the accommodation block in my boxers and flip-flops in the freezing, wet winter weather. I’d get up, go out, take a piss, fill my bottle again and neck it as I walked back to the block. My goal was to be always pissing clear. That would mean I was fully hydrated. We’d be marching with loaded bergens, but the weight they stipulated for each march wouldn’t include food and water. My routine meant I’d be able to go out with less liquid, which meant gaining a small but perhaps decisive advantage.

  6 a.m. A freezing parade square, the air shredded by horizontal rain. More than two hundred hunched silhouettes, men sitting on bergens in the darkness. The harsh white beams of four tonners were shining over them, their engines growling. It hadn’t even begun and already the grimness of Selection laid heavy.

  Picked out in the lights of the truck was the chief instructor.

  ‘Numbers one to fifty on wagon one. Fifty-one to 101 on wagon two …’

  When it was my turn I hauled myself into the back and put another plan into action. These four tonners that were used throughout the military for moving troops had long benches running up the middle and sides on which the men would sit facing outwards. As my group settled in, I zipped right underneath the centre bench. I unrolled my sleeping bag, laid it over myself and closed my eyes. The seating above my head filled up and I could hear the Selection nerds giving out: ‘Right, I know where we’re fucking going. It’s fucking Elan, and you follow this goat path …’

  I’ve always had the ability to drop off to sleep whenever I wanted and, lulled by the rumble of the engine, I was soon catching up on some of the shuteye I’d missed the night before. Forty-five minutes later, the noise ceased. Within seconds, my sleeping bag was back in my bergen, and I was on my feet and out. We were in a gravel car park surrounded by hills that were steep, covered in shale and scrub, wreathed in cloud and wet.

  ‘OK, all right, this is a Combat Fitness T
est, yes?’ barked one of the DS. ‘Every ten minutes a member of the directing staff will take another thirty men. The course is eight miles. You have two hours.’

  When it was my turn to launch off, I quickly found myself in the front, fifty-five-pound bergen on, my weapon in my hands. It felt good to be leading. But it was a mistake. I slowed down, letting the panting bodies overtake me, until I was comfortably in the middle. There was no way I was going to highlight myself, and I also knew how my mind worked. If I came first, I’d only start putting pressure on myself to start coming first in everything. The last man I needed as an enemy in all this was myself. So that’s how I played it for the rest of the day, through all the physical trials. That evening, following an advanced map-reading test, I walked back into the accommodation and noticed that four beds were now empty. It had begun.

  And that’s how it continued, day after day. The goal of the directing staff was not to help us through the course, it was to help us out of the door. They wanted to thin out the crowd. For them, every walker was another victory. A man could be taken off Selection at any time on any day of any week. I’d heard that some got through every phase of the course, or even the entire six months of Selection, only to be told they hadn’t passed right at the end because they didn’t fit the mould.

  It was more common, though, for a man to hand in their ‘VW’, which stands for ‘Voluntary Withdrawal’. One guy I could tell wasn’t going to quit in a hurry was the one in the bed next to me. Unexpectedly, Darren and I quickly grew close. On the second day he passed me coming back from the showers with a towel round my waist and spotted my tattoo.