Looking around me I saw the other trainees disappear into the woods, in different directions. ‘No lights, you lot,’ was bellowed from the back of the departing four-tonner. ‘Any lights and you’re out,’ was added. Bastard, I thought. You come and find somewhere to sleep in this lot. I now realize, of course, that the man who shouted had himself survived Selection. He is also, now, a very good friend. I hated him then.
By the time I had finished fuming at the stupidity of it all, I was alone. Alone, lonely, tired and very wet. Deep within the woods I could hear the cracking of branches and twigs as the other trainees prepared their own sleeping arrangements. I could see nothing. The blackness of a forest at night is complete. I was to learn that again, several years later, with 22 SAS in the Far East. Fed up, with both life and the army, I produced my poncho from a sodden Bergen, wrapped myself in it, lay on the ground, and tried to sleep. I think I cried too.
It was a worse than awful night. The poncho made a half-hearted attempt to keep the worst off me, but by 5 a.m. I was as cold and as soaked as one gets. Every item of equipment I possessed, be it inside or outside my Bergen, was drenched. I had to eat. I knew that was essential. The sky had that dull, depressing lightness about it, when you wonder if dawn is ever truly going to break. Gathering my few things together, I stumbled from the wood to the roadside. What I saw staggered me. The place was a hive of frantic activity. Along a fence beside the road was a line of little green homemade tents. Each was made from an individually erected army poncho. Beneath each one was a soldier, looking as warm as toast, perfectly dry, earnestly cooking his breakfast on a solid-fuel stove. It was my first introduction to the SAS basha, a word of Malayan origin. Keeping dry was unquestionably an art form that I had not yet mastered. These men, the training-wing instructors, were obviously professionals at the game.
I can now make bashas of any shape or size and erect them anywhere in the world, day or night. In those days I had never seen one. The key is preparation. First, all holes in the poncho must be hermetically sealed. The head hole, for example, can leak like a sieve unless tied off. To small eyelets in each corner are tied lengths of military twine, the so-called ‘paracord’, looped at the outer end. Two elastic, roofrack bunjees and a few plastic tent pegs are the only extras. The whole affair fits neatly into a Bergen pocket, and probably weighs less than a kilogram. With the wise use of available vertical supports - fences, gates, trees - a basha can be erected in no time. It can be of any design, but should be angled into the wind and staked down so that rainwater runs off rather than on to you. For most of the world, a basha is all you require to survive. The only exception is certain jungle rainfalls. These can be so powerful they can soak through the poncho material. There is not much you can do about that, except choose a different material.
The delicious smell of cooking filled the air that morning. From one basha I could hear the sizzling of meat being fried. How did these guys do it? On a military ration? I obviously had to try for myself. With damp, wrinkled, trembling hands I ripped open one of the ration bags and read the instructions on the packet: ‘Reconstitute with water.’ There was certainly no shortage of that in Wales, I thought. Though the night’s downpour had now turned to fine drizzle, I could have squeezed out my clothes into a cooking pot if it came to it. Of course, like a rookie, I had forgotten the basic task of filling my water bottle before leaving London. I had been certain, in the warmth and security of our capital city, that water would be everywhere. In reality, the nearest river was fifteen frozen minutes’ walk away. By the time I had reached it, and returned, it was 5.45 a.m. Only fifteen minutes before I had to be ready to move. Around me were instructors and trainees looking highly organized. Bashas were being dismantled and packed away, maps studied, bootlaces tightened. I, meanwhile, was feeling much the worse for wear. My kit was by now strewn along the roadside and attempts to ignite a solid-fuel hexamine block with a soggy match fruitless. Time was against me. Already I was beginning to receive irritated looks from the instructors and smug ones from other trainees. I was not a happy man.
I realized then it is self-organization that counts in the SAS. If you are not totally organized, any physical tests you are given appear harder, if not impossible. A simple ten-kilometre stroll can become a marathon if you are wet and hungry, or have lost your compass in the bottom of your rucksack. All the instructors wanted to establish was if I could withstand the physical tests in store for me that day. How I went about it was my affair. The fact I was soaked and starving was irrelevant to them. From their perfectly correct viewpoint my discomfiture was self-inflicted. If I had thought through the problem beforehand I, too, would have been like them. Warm as toast, sizzling sausages in my basha. I had only myself to blame for any troubles.
How I got through that first weekend I shall never know. The SAS spat me out once more, exhausted and humbled, late on the Sunday evening at its London barracks. I had learned a lot in a short time and had also seen others fall by the wayside. Of the forty trainees setting off up Pen-y-Fan mountain that Saturday morning, only twenty-eight finished the walk in the time allowed. None of those who failed was actively thrown out by the SAS. Each gave up of his own volition. Whoever you are, the idea of giving up goes through your mind permanently. The whole course is a matter of ignoring the very sensible desire to withdraw. You need to develop a strong streak of bloody-mindedness to succeed.
Selection weekends took place at fortnightly intervals over a three-month period, leading to the two-week camp by the end. Each weekend became increasingly difficult. Distances longer, loads heavier, loneliness greater. The intervening fortnight was a valuable time. Once I realized that military-issue equipment, designed for the standard British soldier, was not up to the rigours of SAS Selection, I went down to the local climbing shop. I bought the place out. Sleeping mats, tiny gas cookers, survival bags, map cases. You name it and I obtained it. I learned to report for duty early so as to be at the front of the queue, not the end. I learned that everything should be covered in plastic to keep dry. In short, I became highly self-organized. I was damned if the buggers were going to beat me.
Exposure or hypothermia, a slow decrease in body temperature, often over several hours, eventually causes the heart to stop beating. Exposure is similar to becoming drunk. In the early stages it can be quite pleasant. The sufferer is frequently unaware of the problem. I have retrieved three dead bodies from the Welsh mountains. All of them had been intelligent men in life - all of them had also been very strong. For whatever reason, they had decided to push themselves beyond their limit of endurance. The message is clear. No one is immune to exposure. Keeping dry, and away from the wind, is vital to survival. Exposure can kill. If in doubt, there is no harm in finding shelter and brewing some tea. You are no use dead to the SAS.
SAS Selection is a time of deep and intense friendships. People you would never normally meet suddenly become bosom pals. Mutual suffering throws you together, creating a bond that is essentially indestructible. I would do anything for my SAS friends now. Selection also encourages a healthy spirit of competition. Peter B was my target. A physical education instructor by trade, he was the quiet, silent, independent type. He could keep going for ever, appearing to be incapable of feeling pain. I know now that he was just very self-controlled. Predictably, he passed his course with flying colours. On each walk I tried desperately to beat him. Most of the time I failed, but on occasion I triumphed. He was older and more experienced than I, tolerating my competitive ways with great patience.
Keeping, or getting, fit was another challenge. To cope with Selection you must be able to climb hills steadily, without stopping. To stop walking, for whatever reason, is to invite failure. Captain T, hero of the Falklands, said to me years later when we took Regular SAS Selection together, ‘Balance, rhythm and stride, Doc. Balance, rhythm and stride.’ He was right. You need a well-balanced, steady, even pace and any of the walks becomes possible. I was fortunate to work in a large London teaching hospit
al with a huge tower block as part of it. Training for me involved filling a rucksack with bricks and running up and down the building’s many steps as often as I could. Patients and colleagues alike thought I was mad. I am reminded of it to this day, but it did the trick. That, and my regular sport of karate, prepared me for the Selection camp at Sennybridge.
The two-week Sennybridge Camp was split in half. The first week was a sequence of walks, culminating in the infamous endurance march, ‘Long Drag’. The second was what the SAS called Continuation training, where those who survive Long Drag are introduced to the basics of SAS soldiering. By the end of the Continuation week you become ‘badged’. You are eligible to wear the winged dagger on a beige SAS beret. To be precise, it is not a winged dagger at all, but a winged sword. Nevertheless, the term ‘dagger’ has become so commonplace when talking of the SAS that I will continue with it. If you walk round the average SAS establishment you will find the minority of soldiers wearing the winged dagger. Most are attached personnel - signallers, cooks, medics, mechanics. They, too, will wear the beige beret, but their own cap badge is attached. It is the badge, not the beret, that separates them from the real thing. To be badged, whether Territorial or Regular, is the ultimate in military achievement. By the time you reach Sennybridge therefore, you can almost smell the badge. It has already become an obsession.
Predictably, the walks become increasingly arduous as the first week progresses. Total organization is the only way to succeed. I strapped my feet, back and shoulders with adhesive moleskin dressing before the week began. A Bergen rucksack is just as capable of creating blisters as an ill-fitting pair of boots. I was early for everything, ate like a horse, did not drink and slept whenever I could. Sex was non-existent. Finally, I did not stop walking for any reason. But the temptation to give in was sometimes enormous.
Halfway through the week we were tasked to make a twenty- kilometre night march. This took place across open country, the use of tracks not being permitted (on live operations tracks are easily ambushed). A typical march involves a series of checkpoints (or ‘RVs’ - rendezvous) at approximately five-kilometre intervals. We were sent off individually, every three minutes. It was eleven at night, pitch black and pouring with rain. The usual insistence that no lights should be seen, and no tracks used, was given. That did not mean I was going to avoid using a torch; I had to be sure I was not seen doing so. Who Dares Wins is the SAS motto after all. A red or green filter over the lens preserves night vision admirably and cannot be seen more than a few feet away.
For the first three hours I had no trouble. I was soaked, but happy to be so and confident I knew my location at all times to within fifty metres. I was headed towards the penultimate RV and lying either first or second in a field of several dozen trainees. This was good, I thought. At such a rate I would be on the first transport back to Sennybridge Camp and in bed before the stragglers had finished. That meant more sleep and a better chance of doing well the next day.
As I walked confidently up the side of yet another windswept mountain, my mind was on other things. I cannot explain why. It never pays to be overconfident. Suddenly I began to fall. I could not see where, or into what. Then an ice-cold hand clamped around my chest as I realized I had fallen from a rocky outcrop into a peat bog below. Peat bogs are dangerous enough by day. At night I knew they could be fatal. I was slowly sinking, the weight of a forty-pound Bergen dragging me down. Each time I struggled I sank further, the slimy pressure of the ice-cold hand becoming ever greater. I screamed and shouted for help, but it was windy. I had no idea where the nearest person was. He could have been five feet away, or five kilometres. I hadn’t a clue.
There were two choices. I could either give in and die, in this case a realistic option, or I could fight. I fought, slowly dragging myself hand over hand to the surface until I lay there spreadeagled, sodden and very lonely. Then, suddenly, I felt completely overcome. An overpowering desire to get off the mountain at all costs swept over me. Selection didn’t matter, being badged didn’t matter, even the penultimate RV didn’t matter. I had to get off. Staggering, running, lurching, I dashed from the mountainside as fast as I could go. I recall looking back frequently over my shoulder, as if some evil spirit was pushing me away.
When I got to the bottom I was breathless, but more relaxed. I stood on the forbidden track that led to the final RV, whose lights were twinkling only 200 metres away. Instructors were allowed to use lights. It was trainees who were not. Here, at the foot of the mountain and protected by trees, it was warm and windless. Welcoming. Relaxing. Tempting. This was it, I thought. The SAS was not for me. What a stupid idea. It was time to give up. I would be thrown off for missing the penultimate RV anyway. Purposefully I walked along the track towards the four-tonner at the final RV. There was a definite spring to my stride, now that I had made the decision to withdraw. I was looking forward to seeing my warm London flat again.
It was as I emerged from the wooded track into the clearing of the final RV, that the little voice started speaking. Almost inaudible at first, it became louder, and louder, and louder. For Christ’s sake, it said, do you mean this? All this effort just to give up now? I tried to ignore it, but it would not go away. For a moment I hesitated at the edge of the clearing, perhaps twenty-five metres from the instructor manning the final RV. He was in the light of his gas lamp, blinded by it. I was in the shadows. I saw him look up and stare in my direction. He put up his hand against the light to get a better view. Squinting, he challenged loudly, ‘Who the hell’s that? Whoever you are, you’re on a track. You’ve failed. Come here.’ Then my little voice took over, a wave of determination rising up within me. Quickly, before the instructor could get to his feet and grab me, I bolted back from where I came. No way, dear SAS. You’re not going to get me yet.
I made it in the end, though I had to climb that evil mountain again to do so. I was so late, the penultimate RV had almost closed. Instead of being first back to Sennybridge, I was last. Instead of being relaxed and ready for the next day’s walk, I was exhausted and ill-prepared. I had come within a hair’s breadth of failing, but was determined the same would never happen again. That little voice has spoken on many occasions since.
Long Drag, the final endurance march, is exactly what it says - tedious. It goes on forever, or seems to, being at the end of a week that has already exhausted the hardiest trainee. I started it with blisters and when I finished they were worse. The principle is to drag yourself, rifle and forty-five-pound rucksack over a set fifty-kilometre course. For the Regular SAS, endurance came at the end of a two-week walking period and included a rifle and fifty-five-pound rucksack over a fifty-five-kilometre course. I have done both and can promise they were equally miserable. RVs are scattered along the route at regular intervals, the whole event having to be completed within twenty-four hours. It’s mad.
Mad or not, if I was to be badged I had to do it. It helps if you find someone else with whom to walk. Peter B was a possibility, but he seemed happier to walk by himself and I did not wish to interfere with this. In the end I, too, walked alone. The advantage of the earlier walks is to allow trainees, if they wish, to separate into various groups. Fast with fast, slow with slow. Only the fast ones are likely to make it to the start of Long Drag in any event. The term ‘walk’ is actually wrong. If you genuinely walk the various routes, failure is likely. I walked uphill, but jogged along the flat and downhill. I did not stop for any reason whatsoever and that included eating. The Bergen stayed on my back throughout. Any food required was stuffed into available tunic pockets or instantly accessible webbing pouches. My water bottle was only filled to add weight to my equipment, for I drank as I moved from puddles and streams, using my cupped hands, or hat, as a suitable container. Nothing must stop that forward movement.
Psychologically, I had also to be prepared. Fifty kilometres is an enormous distance. It was easier to divide the walk into small psychological packets, congratulating myself after each packet had been compl
eted. Doing it this way, the final RV suddenly appeared and I felt as if I could have kept on going for ever. I managed Territorial endurance in 10 hours 56 minutes - an exhausting experience.
At the end of Long Drag I felt I had conquered the world. The SAS allowed me the perception for about a day. Thereafter I was firmly reminded it was merely Selection I had passed. Continuation was still to come. Even with Continuation complete, I would still be a beginner. Staying humble was a good idea.
The Sennybridge Continuation week introduced me to the basic principles of SAS soldiering, in particular the function of an OP, the observation post. Accurate intelligence is vital to the running of any war. Even with satellites now ten-a-penny, cloud cover can mean the only decent information is from manpower on the ground. The basic principle is to get yourself as near the enemy as possible. Moving very slowly, if at all, a careful record is made of everything that passes by. From time to time findings are signalled to HQ, transmissions being kept as short as possible to avoid hostile direction-finding apparatus, known as being ‘DF’d’. Some OPs can be within feet of the enemy. Under such circumstances it is essential to remain stationary for hours on end and to ensure proper camouflage. This includes smell. The world is full of vicious creatures called dogs. They can be killed, but it is best to leave them alone and not let them hear you, see you, or smell you. Washing and shaving are therefore out and food best eaten cold.
Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon Page 3
