by Paul Jordan
Most nights we were finished by about 10.00 pm unless we were in the field. But, instead of getting a good night’s sleep, a DS would calmly enter the hut at around midnight, turn on the lights, and tell us to be standing outside the classroom in 10 minutes dressed in greens and runners with a notebook and pen. Then we’d be given a maths exam, or English exam, or we’d watch a video and have to answer questions like what was the written on the number plate of the jeep in the first scene, or what rank was the officer giving the brief? The movies usually went for about an hour; foolishly, some of the blokes would get some sleep then obviously fail the exam. Quite often a few of the students would arrive incorrectly attired. The DS would say, ‘There will be times when you have had little sleep, and you will be given a set of quick orders. You must listen to these orders and absorb everything that is said, because the orders will not be repeated. Perhaps we need to wake everyone up a little, so that they will hear what is being said in future.’ With that, we would set off on a five kilometre run at 1.00 in the morning. By the time we were back in our beds we were so pumped it was hard to get to sleep, and then we were up again at 5.00 am to the sound of gunshots for a gut-wrenching PT session.
Every day more and more people left the course and others were withdrawn for their own safety. We went out on several navigational exercises known as Pacer 1 and 2. These were only short in duration, but all built up to the Stirling Ranges week. We boarded a bus and drove south for eight hours which was a great opportunity to sleep. When we were about 50 kilometres from the Stirlings, I could see the peaks that I would have to scale over the coming week. The idea behind the Stirlings was for the students to complete a navigational exercise by themselves over a five-day period. The aim was to see which students could motivate themselves and complete the task. Some soldiers needed others to push them along, and the selection course was no exception; but, in the Stirlings, we were all on our own and had to complete the task under our own steam. I was relieved to finally get to the Stirlings. It was the first time I had been alone in 14 days; there’d be no DS abusing me and I would get to sleep through the night. The task was to navigate to five different peaks over the five days. The rules were simple: no walking on the roads or tracks unless walking up the side of the feature; no walking after dark when climbing a feature; and all walking to stop at 10.00 pm. Navigation was reasonably easy because, when I arrived at each peak, I was told my next peak and, most of the time, I could see it from where I was. My daily routine never really changed; I’d get up and get ready before first light; as soon as I could see where I was going, I’d start walking and eat on the move. About half an hour before last light I’d stop and eat a decent meal. The only down side to the Stirlings was that it’s a national park and therefore no fires were allowed, so a hot brew was out of the question.
When I completed my fifth peak, the DS told me to make my way back to the base camp. It took me about two hours to get back and I arrived at 9.00 am on the last morning. There was already a group of blokes there and others continued to pour in. It was then that I learnt that the other bloke from 4 Platoon had pulled the pin, as had plenty of others. Bloody hell, I then remembered that originally I’d only decided to come to the course because two blokes in the platoon wanted to do the course and were getting time off to train and that had sounded good to me. Now they were gone and I was still here. But my initial intentions had now changed. I still didn’t think the SAS would accept me, but I was determined to go back to the battalion having completed the course — I wasn’t going back a failure. However, the reality is that you either get in or you don’t and, if you don’t get something you’ve been fighting for, then you’ve failed. It’s no consolation to say, ‘well at least you finished, mate’, because you still end up at the same place as those who pulled the pin.
We ate some fresh food then boarded the bus for the trip back to Northam. The next phase was called the ‘low intensity’ phase. I liked the sound of that because, even though I got to sleep every night in the Stirlings, the hard walking during the day, and the preceding 14 days, were taking their toll on my body. I felt absolutely rooted; I was tired, my body ached from carrying my pack; my hands were scratched to the shithouse from fighting my way through the dense scrub in the Stirlings, but I was pleased that, at this point in time, I had passed everything.
The low intensity phase was a four-day period that included gaining a qualification in airborne rappelling. Now I must confess that I have a fear of heights and I was not looking forward to that activity. We boarded some trucks and went to some huge grain silos at a railway yard not far from Northam. I couldn’t believe the size of these things and wasn’t at all keen to jump off them. We were shown how to fit the harnesses and then we all lined up on the ladders ascending the bin. This part of the training had nothing to do with the airborne rappelling qualification; it was merely to see who had the balls to go over the edge head first. I certainly questioned the size of my balls and lined up last. Then it was my turn. I’d been listening intently to what the others had been told and had a fair idea of what the DS wanted to see. The DS handled the activity really well and talked me over without any dramas. In fact I even enjoyed myself once I was over edge. It gave me a lot of confidence for the next day when we were to jump from a Huey (Bell 212 helicopter). Again though, there were some blokes who said ‘fuck that’, and pins were popping all over the place.
Rappelling from the Huey was great, and I managed to get through the day reasonably unscathed. At lunchtime that day, a few blokes were talking and the subject of the parachute course came up. Yeah fuck that, I thought, but it didn’t bother me because I was only concerned with completing this course. I was having trouble understanding why this was called the low intensity phase, because that afternoon we did one of the hardest PT sessions of the course. As patrols, we wrapped our SLR slings around a giant log and raced each other up and down this damned hill. We ran down and back once and were all pretty rooted, but then we did it again. On the last day of the phase we went for a run in PT gear. We basically just followed the Senior Instructor (SI) of the course. Now, at the start of the course, I was always finishing with the top 40 or 50 blokes, but now there were only 40 or 50 blokes left and I was down the back dragging my sorry arse, and John wasn’t far away from me either. When we finished, the SI approached John and I and said, ‘Don’t worry, Rangers Ellery and Jordan, when we get you into the Regiment, we’ll have you running five kilometres in 18 minutes.’ Bloody hell, this was the first sign that I’d been given that I might actually pull this off. Immediately I started to feel pretty good about myself, but that was quickly squashed with Exercise Lucky Dip — the final phase.
Exercise Lucky Dip is a ‘can you hack it’ exercise. It involves various tasks that require solutions to problems. The solution always involved a bloody heavy load to be carried, pushed or pulled. I found myself continually trying to deliver something to some ungrateful resistance fighters. At one time, everyone in the patrol carried two full jerry cans of fuel to the resistance. The restriction was that we also had to carry our full kit and then patrol tactically at the same time. So we tied both jerries together with our ropes and slung them over our packs — damn it was heavy. Then we arrived at a lake and had to get all our kit across the lake. The resistance supplied two large tarpaulins and, with our ropes, the patrol got across by wrapping our packs and the jerries in the tarp and then floating it all across. I was left behind to untie the safety line and the rest of the patrol were going to drag me across. All I had was my webbing, rifle and life jacket. I tied the rope around my waist and the blokes pulled me over. As I left the bank, the DS told me not to get my rifle wet and not to inflate the life vest unless I really had to. Well fuck me if the blokes didn’t really start pulling on the rope and the water forced me straight to the bottom. They said the last thing to go under was my rifle. I decided that now was a good time to inflate the life vest, and I shot to the surface spitting out muddy water. The jerry can pro
blem was a carry exercise — the next was a push exercise.
This pattern continued for five days. We’d do two tasks during the day and one at night. During each task someone different would be the nominated patrol commander. I drew the short straw during a night ambush. I positioned the patrol in three groups in a linear ambush. Given that we were all totally shattered, I gave orders that one man in each group was to be awake at all times while the other two slept. We were expecting a three-man patrol to move along the road and my task was to kill, search and deliver the intelligence to the resistance. As I settled into the ambush with the two other members of my group, one bloke volunteered to do the first picket. Sometime later in the night I woke and lifted my head. I turned and looked at my group and everyone was asleep. I then heard a noise coming from the killing ground and fuck me if the patrol wasn’t moving through the ambush. I fired immediately and, by the time I had fired almost 20 rounds, the rest of the patrol was awake and had started to fire. It was the worst ambush ever, but thank God something stirred my sleep and I sprung the ambush in time. After the search we withdrew back to the firm base and the DS said we could eat the food that we had recovered from the ambush. I looked at my searchers and they shrugged their shoulders. They had seen the food but hadn’t taken it. ‘Too bad,’ the DS said. This was devastating because we hadn’t eaten for two days, and didn’t look like getting any food in the near future.
On the fourth day, and at the end of the first task for the day, we were given food by the resistance. There were several hot boxes waiting for us, but instead of TV dinners we were served sheep’s heads boiled in water. But hey, we were starving and hooked right into the feast. By now the end of the course was in sight, and I believed that, even though I felt absolutely shattered, I was going to make it — I only had two more tasks to complete.
When we arrived at the second task for the day we were shown a land rover, and we told that it had to be taken to the resistance, but could not be driven. We were given long, thick ropes to attach to the front of the rover so we could pull it. We got it moving and everything was going sweetly; the road was flat and, in parts, slightly downhill. But this quickly changed when we hit the hill. It would have been a bit easier to push and pull the rover up the hill had the back not been full of rocks. We found ourselves tying truckies’ knots and moving the rover six inches at a time. I was on the rope with my back to the hill pulling the rover. Two blokes were in front of me, and one was behind me. We were dressed in full kit and were leaning right into the hill when suddenly the rope broke. We all crashed to the road and I landed on the rifle of the bloke behind me. The magazine rammed into my ribs, immediately followed by indescribable pain. I couldn’t fucking believe it. This couldn’t be happening to me — not this close to the end. I was so close to finishing this thing, but now it was all over. I stayed on the road, struggling to gain a full breath and fighting the tearing pain every time I breathed, until the ambulance came and took me to the base camp. The medics gave me some morphine for the pain and I was sent back to Northam. I became very depressed. I would now have to go back to the battalion as a failure. The Q store approached me and told me to hand in all my issued equipment including my rifle. It took me a long time to get used to not carrying my rifle with me and, for days, I kept looking for it before going anywhere. The next day the course was over and the rest of the blokes were on their way back to Northam. The SI of the course came to the hut and told me that yesterday’s incident would not affect my result on the course, and then left. What the bloody hell did that mean? Would yesterday’s incident not affect my passing — or ensure my failure?
The blokes arrived back a day later and told me what I’d missed. They got cleaned up and also handed in their issued stores. For the rest of the day we sat around and did nothing but eat. We were all so underweight and found ourselves continuously hungry. I’d eat at the mess until I could barely walk, and would then regret eating so much. But come the next meal time, I’d do the same thing. At lunchtime the following day, a DS called out about ten names and told those people to report to the SI. Bugger, I thought, they must have passed. Then the rest of us were told to be in the mess at 1.30 pm, dressed in greens. We all sat down, and even though we had showered, had a good feed, and had a good sleep, everyone looked as rooted as I still felt. The SI of the course marched in and we all braced up.
‘Sit easy,’ he said. ‘Look around you, men. These are the other men who will continue the selection process with you. Well done.’ He looked at us for a response, but no-one said anything. ‘You can say something if you want to.’ No-one said anything until one of the blokes said, ‘Shit hot!’ That was it, most of the blokes smiled, but if the others were like me, I had mixed feelings of excitement and exhaustion. At this point in time I wasn’t looking forward to starting another ‘can you hack it’ course. The SI then said, ‘Grab all your kit and get onto the buses. You will be taken back to Swanbourne and will not be required again for the rest of the week.’ You beauty, five days off. So, out of 120, there were 27 left who were to go on to the patrol course. This was unexpected and fantastic. The selection course was brutally hard, but not impossible. There were times when I had absolutely nothing left in the tank, but had to keep going and make tactical decisions. You have to dig deep and look for some heart. Damn, I got through.
So, if I can get through 28 days of hell, I can survive one night in this toilet.
7.
NIGHTMARE DAY TWO
At about midnight I needed to go to the loo, so I put the light bulb back in and called to one of the guards. No-one heard me, but I heard a prisoner in the cell next door say something to a guard and he came in. I motioned with my hand that I needed to pee. I hadn’t seen this guard before, but he was a true caveman with the guttural grunts and ‘arrghs’ to go with it. He motioned for me to go to the toilet where I was, before walking away. I realised that he was the grunting guard who had been shining the torch in my eyes all night. I got one of my water bottles, drank the remaining water and then peed into the empty bottle. I’d hate to have a stomach problem at night in this place. I decided to remove the light bulb and try to sleep. As I did I noticed how many cockroaches were running across the floor and the hessian bag — oh God, what else can you throw at me, old mate? I pulled the light bulb back out and lay down to try to sleep. Trying to sleep on a hessian sack on damp concrete was almost impossible. I normally sleep on my side, but the concrete was just too painful on my hips and shoulders. So I lay on my back wondering what the next day would hold and hoping that I’d be released to get on with my work.
Tuesday 27 May
After very little sleep, I woke at 5.00 am as the caveman guard unlocked my cage and gave me another ‘aarrrgh’ to make sure I really was awake. I didn’t know the morning procedure, so I got straight up and rolled up my bedding and then had bugger all to do. I decided to have a look outside and empty my pee bottle. Within minutes my crowd was at the gate staring again to see what the animal was doing this morning. I decided to go and visit the drain and wash my hands and face under the pump. Those prisoners not watching me were laying out their bedding from these great stacks of hessian in the yard so they had something to lounge around on all day. Others were cleaning their teeth with what looked like ash and a piece of chewed stick. They dipped the frayed end of the stick into the ash and rubbed it over their teeth. They seemed to take a long time to do their teeth, but I guess if you’re using a stick it won’t be as good or as quick as my Oral B. The final thing they did was to jam the stick down their throats until they nearly coughed up a lung. They’d dry retch and hawk things from the back of their throats and nasal passages for a good five minutes. Now I’m not saying only one or two did this — they all did. All 580 of them spent the first 30 minutes of every day cleaning their nasal passages, and I was certain there were several cases of bronchitis and several cases of pneumonia in this prison. To describe this as disgusting is a gross understatement; it was way beyond repulsive
. I quickly retreated into my cell so I wasn’t in the line of fire of any green and yellow missiles. I was getting a bit older now and I really didn’t think I could have handled getting slapped in the leg by an oyster.
Back in the cell I could visually block out the spitting, but not the noise, and that was enough to have me close to dry retching. Fucking animals. The other prisoners just took it as normal; in fact, they didn’t even seem to notice. I supposed it was because, in a few minutes, they would start doing the same. Maybe this was normal outside prison as well. When the group nasal-passage purging was almost complete, I decided to have a morning bucket wash and damn, the water was cold! As I poured the water over my head in front of my massive audience, I prayed that this would be the last time I had to do this. It was an interesting experience, but one I didn’t want to repeat. The massive undies were really pissing me off and I wondered what would happen if I just got nude and had a proper wash like a normal bloke. Then I quickly reminded myself that I was in prison and it was probably not the best place to show one’s fresh, white butt. After the bucket bath I washed my Calvin Kleins and hung them over the rope outside my cage so they would be clean and dry before my appearance in court and (hopefully) release from prison. I hoped the hearing would be early enough for me to get back to Nepal and get the flight to the next training course. Damn; I had really stuffed those poor students around through my stupidity.
