The jungle takes a soldier to his absolute limit. There was basic soldiering – two hands on your weapon at all times, camouflage cream on at all times – contact drills, survival and weapons skills and navigation, which is incredibly difficult. There are no roads or churches or schools, you’re handed a green map with contour lines all over it and you have to work off ridge lines to know where you are. And all the while you’re being hammered, day in, day out.
We also had to perform personal medical procedures, which were absolutely essential. Working in the jungle meant being exposed to insect bites and cuts, which had to be looked after constantly. And the dampness between your toes can lead to horrible sores. After a few weeks in the jungle, your feet can turn into two stumps of peeling mush and walking can become impossible. Many hopefuls have failed the jungle because they didn’t look after the basics.
When I was in camp, admin drove me bonkers, but as soon as it served a purpose, I loved it. As well as a love of clothes, I inherited my obsession with order from my dad, who was always tidying up and making sure everything was in its right place, so it came quite naturally to me. In the jungle, if you’re unable to take care of your weapon, your kit or yourself, you’ll fail. Those small mistakes, such as disregarding the condition of your weapon or not replacing the button on your map pocket, can turn out to be catastrophic. Any cut can turn into an infection in a heartbeat, any equipment failure can soon turn into a mini-crisis, so you have to be right on top of everything. All your personal stuff has to be squared away, before you think about the tactical side of things.
The Special Forces operate like a crack rugby or football team, with the guys rather than the officers running the show. As such, the Special Forces need people with basic human skills, like resilience, intuition, being able to think on your feet and make snap decisions under intense pressure. If the hills chip away at a soldier’s façade, operating in the jungle tears it down. Being in the jungle is like being an insect under a giant magnifying glass, and only the best don’t get burnt. If you can survive the jungle, you know you’ve got what it takes to be a Special Forces operator.
Continuation training consisted of boating, blowing things up, learning Morse code, helicopter assault drills, forward abseiling down buildings and through windows and getting absolutely shitfaced. But not necessarily in that order. This was exactly what I’d joined up for and exactly how I’d imagined it would be. When you’re handed that black kit, it must be the same feeling footballers or rugby players get when they’re first handed an England strip.
A lot of SBS training was done side by side with the SAS, and there was a lot of friction between us at the time, similar to that between the Marines and the Paras. The SAS are a lot of guys who don’t know each other suddenly thrown together, whereas it was a natural progression to go from the Marines into the SBS, so a lot of us already knew each other well. The SAS candidates were envious of that closeness.
Out in the wilds again, we were taught how to live off the land, by constructing shelters, starting fires, purifying water and improvising makeshift weapons. One fine day, a DS who had been blown up in Northern Ireland, and was one of the hardest, most horrible bastards I’ve ever met, dragged a sheep from the back of a trailer, shoved his hands in its mouth, pulled its head back and plunged a big knife into its neck. The sheep looked pretty upset, but the DS’s face also contorted into a terrible expression, because the knife had gone through the sheep’s neck and into his thigh. We all thought it was the best thing we’d ever seen, while the DS cracked on as if nothing had happened, despite claret spurting from his leg. He was like the Black Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail: ‘’Tis but a scratch…’
Almost before I’d had time to skin, cook and eat the sheep, I was in a barn with a hood over my head, stark naked, with my hands placed firmly on a table. I heard the snap of a rubber glove behind me, was told to brace and the next thing I knew I had been penetrated. Don’t worry, it wasn’t some weird Special Forces kink – like dressing up as women is to the Royal Marines – they were searching for contraband. Whatever their reasons, I don’t recommend it – just as I don’t envy the penetrator.
Having been thrown back out onto the hills, we slept by day and travelled by night, covering long distances navigating by the stars under the cover of darkness. Each time we reached a checkpoint, an agent would show up, parcel out stale bread and mouldy cheese and provide us with another set of coordinates. It sounds brutal, and it was. The constant pressure of being caught was horrible. We’d been given dog demos beforehand, during which we were wearing the protection sleeves. But we were told in no uncertain terms that if we got caught on the ground, they’d set the dogs off, when the only protection we’d have was our greatcoats. We never really slept, which meant we were always on edge. We could see helicopters up above, spotlights, and hear the troops. And they were all utterly focused on capturing a potential Special Forces soldier. And even if we couldn’t actually see or hear anything, we thought we could.
Before being released back onto the hills, the DS threw a big party for the locals, with loads of food and booze. At this party, they had pictures of all the recruits up on a wall underneath a sign that said, ‘If you see any of these people, call this number’. The locals were told that we weren’t allowed to have any civilian contact, that they weren’t allowed to give us shelter and to let our bosses know if they found us in any of their barns. But the locals did the exact opposite. Having been plied with food and booze at the party, they’d go straight to the supermarket, get stocked up on provisions, and wait for a knock on the door from a bedraggled and desperate recruit.
The locals were like the resistance, and most people who have passed Selection have used their initiative and used the resistance at some point. Even the DS know it’s happening, because they went through the same process. Ultimately, it’s about not getting caught ‘cheating’. Because if it happens for real, getting caught means you’ll probably get killed.
We were soon so cold that we couldn’t feel our feet, so we decided to find a barn and get some heat back into us. While we were lying on top of hay bales, working in pairs, trying to warm up our feet in each other’s armpits, one of the lads suddenly said, ‘Shall we try to see if anyone’s in the farmhouse?’ To begin with, everyone said no. But then we all started thinking how lovely it would be to be toasting in front of an open hearth, while tucked up under a duvet. Soon enough, one of the lads was knocking on the farmer’s door and the farmer was in the barn, telling us all to follow him into the house.
The farmer had a roaring fire almost up to the ceiling and his missus was pottering about in a pinny in the kitchen, whipping up a roast. If there is a heaven, this is what it must look like. Thawed out, we got as much food into us as humanly possible, lay down by the fire and fell into a gloriously deep sleep.
When we woke up, we discovered the farmer had decided to go to the local pub. When he returned, he was shitfaced and started shouting, ‘Lads, I’ll give you a lift to wherever you need to be!’
‘There’s no way we’re getting in a car with you.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got my handyman with me, he’s gonna drive!’
‘Mate, we’re still not getting in that car, no way…’
A few hours later, after grabbing more precious sleep, we were squeezed into the back of the farmer’s car and on our way. As we approached the RV, we could see helicopters hovering above and spotlights getting closer and closer. The handyman stopped at the bottom of a hill, but when we tried to open the car doors, we couldn’t. We had to move quick, so were frantic. Suddenly, the farmer climbed out of the car and started shouting, ‘I’ll give you a hand, lads, it’s a bit of a sticky door…’ The next thing I heard was a loud thud, which I thought was the front door being closed heavy-handedly. Meanwhile, one of the lads had kicked a door open, so we all piled out and ran into the woods.
A couple of days later, as we moved in on our RV, we could see a couple of famil
iar DS manning the checkpoint. We knew something was up, because it was usually someone we’d never met. One of the DSs told me to get the rest of the patrol, I gathered them up and as soon as we were taken in, the training officer started firing questions at us: ‘Where have you been? What have you been up to? Do you know this farmer? Or his wife Mildred? Or Barney his dog? Arthur the cat? Daisy the cow?’ I was sitting there thinking, ‘Shit! We’ve been busted, we have to come clean…’
In the end, we told them everything that had happened, and the training officer said, ‘Right, you’re done.’ Apparently, the farmer had fallen over – hence the loud thud – and banged his head on the pavement. At the hospital, he’d told them that he’d been beaten up by the SAS. I don’t know why, maybe he was trying to get some compensation. The police then relayed his story back to the DS, we’d been turfed out, and now we were being returned to unit.
I had visualised the end a thousand times, what it would look and feel like. In my mind, I was already living in my own house in Poole. I could even see my name on my locker. I was in the Special Boat Service. It was done. But in that moment, everything I’d dreamed about, everything I’d worked so hard for, went up in smoke. All that graft, all that hardship, for nothing. There were no tears, but it was the lowest I’d ever felt. I was in a state of shock. Surely there had been some kind of mistake? This can’t be the end? For the first few days, I kept waiting for someone to pull me in and say, ‘Actually, the farmer has retracted his story.’ But it never happened. My fate was non-negotiable.
Mum was very supportive, as she always was, but what was anyone supposed to say? ‘Oh well, more fool them, there are plenty of other similar jobs out there.’ This wasn’t a normal job interview, this was seven months of hell with a 5 per cent pass rate. And I’d been one of the few. People dream of being in that situation, and I’d not failed because of my lack of fitness or mental strength, I’d failed because some pissed-up bastard had grassed me up.
But I didn’t feel bitter towards the training team for failing me. I didn’t even feel bitter towards the farmer. The overwhelming feeling was that of embarrassment. Nobody says, ‘But look at how well you did, up until the point you failed.’ The journey doesn’t matter to the outside world. All that matters is the outcome: did I achieve my goal? I didn’t, and that was the bottom line.
6
MUMMY’S BOY
As soon as I got into remand home, I was stripped down to nothing, literally and metaphorically. I was put in the same clothes as everyone else, which was horrible for me. I’d always wanted to be an individual and now I was no different to all the other idiots who’d landed themselves in there. My mum came to see me and she was, unsurprisingly, distraught. Her son’s life was disintegrating before her eyes and it seemed clear that I was going to be sent down. My brother had been implicated but I got pushed forward as the sacrificial lamb, because my dad didn’t want both his boys in the shit. My brother was older, I didn’t have to persuade him to do anything, and looking back I realise how severe it was that I had to take all the blame.
There was a lot of dodgy stuff going on in that remand home. The closest thing I can compare it to is joining up with the Marines, which doesn’t reflect very well on the military in this country. Not long after arriving, the remand home ‘daddy’ headbutted me and every day after that I was told I was going to be ‘DBd’, which meant I was going to be the recipient of a dorm battering. For some reason, that never happened. But one night I woke up to see a load of kids standing over a bed, masturbating and flicking semen over this sleeping boy’s face. Years later, the police interviewed me about my time there, because there had been a lot of sexual abuse allegations against staff. I was only there for a short time, so for them to come to me suggests it was rife.
Two weeks after being locked up, I was taken off for trial. Seeing my mates again was awesome, like a brotherhood reuniting. There were four of us sitting in the dock, along this leather Chesterfield-style bench with buttons on. My mum was in court, in floods of tears. She thought I wasn’t coming home for a long time.
The judge came in, told us all to rise and said his piece. And when we all sat down again, a load of buttons pinged off the bench. I didn’t really give a shit about what was happening, because I thought I was going down and that was the end of it. So when I saw these buttons go flying, I dissolved into fits of laughter. All four of us were in bits, heads in hands, shoulders rolling, tears streaming down our cheeks, letting out little snorts and squeaks.
We managed to get a grip before they read our charge sheets, and my charge was way beyond anyone else’s. As it was being relayed to the court, my mum fell into the throes of a second wave of grief. I was rather more accepting of the whole situation, you might even say laid-back. But, astonishingly, they decided not to send me down. Instead, I got two years’ conditional discharge, two years’ supervision and lots of other stuff I didn’t understand.
Afterwards, our lawyer said to us, ‘I have no idea how you didn’t get sent down. I think the judge showed leniency because you were all crying when you first came in…’ Crying! We were laughing our tits off! Thank God for that bench and those faulty buttons. Apart from the supposed crying, psychiatric reports were produced in court, which showed that my father had left, my grandparents had recently died, and I was suffering from a lack of attention. Whatever the reasons for the leniency, I had dodged another bullet.
That whole episode with the shotgun was a wake-up call. Thank God for the Mitchell sister and her loose lips. I needed, and subconsciously wanted, someone to put a hand on my shoulder and stop me going down the wrong path. I didn’t even recognise that I was playing with fire, but there was a voice deep inside of me screaming, ‘Please, someone stop me!’ Until that happened, I was going to push and push and push myself down the wrong path. But from that moment on, my long-suffering mum – whose whole world had fallen apart, who was broke, emotionally and financially – led me from the darkness and into the light.
My mum was an angel, almost faultless. I was very much a mother’s boy. I idolised her from an early age and she showered me with love and affection. And when I needed direction most, she was the person who put her hand on my shoulder to guide me where I needed to go.
When you’re a kid, you don’t understand or really care what your parents are feeling. I never knew there were problems going on between Mum and Dad, she always seemed quite unaffected by anything. And even after my dad left and my mum was going through terrible hardship – grieving for the loss of her parents, with three mouths to feed, no help from my dad and a son who was spiralling out of control – she soldiered on without complaint.
Mum wasn’t the kind of woman who cared about keeping up appearances. My dad would have been extremely embarrassed about my brushes with the law, but my mum didn’t give a shit what anyone outside of the family thought. Nothing else mattered apart from me and my brother and sister, and all she wanted to do was wrap her arms around the family and pull them closer. She even saw the funny side eventually, just as she manages to see the funny side in almost anything.
Although she never forgave my dad for leaving us in the lurch, it didn’t take Mum too long to realise that my dad leaving was best for everyone, including her. She started scuba diving. She fell in with a young crowd and would throw these great parties at the house, with lots of drinking, singing and dancing. This was a woman who had wanted to join the Navy, so she had this pent-up sense of adventure. It was still hard for her financially and practically, with three kids to look after, but she had a new lease of life. It felt like the black clouds had scuttled off and suddenly there was a lot of fun to be had in the house.
Mum went out with a few blokes her age and found them boring, or we drove them out. For a while she was seeing this very well-to-do guy with a double-barrelled name, and he ended up leaving because we were just too wild. Eventually, Mum started seeing a bloke called Simon who was 20 when she was in her late thirties and I was 15. She’d jus
t picked us up from somewhere when she pulled over and said, ‘Look, I’m seeing someone else. And he’s quite young…’ She was apprehensive about telling us, but we didn’t bat an eyelid. We were just happy that Mum was happy. And this new guy had a foot in both camps: he could hang out with Mum and also hang out with us. It wasn’t just a phase Mum was going through, either, because she ended up marrying Simon and they’re still together and extremely happy.
My brother and I had go-karts, which we’d bomb around in over the playing fields. The police came over one day – again – because someone had reported us for go-karting on recreation land. We were hiding at the top of the stairs and could hear Mum saying, ‘Those little buggers, I keep telling them not to do this. Boys! Where are you?’ She came marching down the corridor, pretending to look for us, and we were on the landing laughing our heads off. Eventually, she went back to the police and said, ‘Look, I don’t know where they are, but I’ll make sure they get a good telling off.’ That was good enough for the police. What Mum hadn’t seemed to appreciate were the two muddy tyre tracks all the way up her back and the grass in her hair. At times, Mum was as mischievous as us.
Break Point Page 6
