Warrior Training (10 page)

‘Look, sir, if I can't carry my own pack then I shouldn't be here.'

‘Alright, but if you fall over again I'm getting you out of here so the doc can have a look at you.'

I was certain that if this happened I would be forcibly removed from the course.

I tried to stay focused, counting my steps as I walked. Two other men fell over. I didn't want to sit down during rest stops, because trying to stand up was a greater effort than plodding along. We reached a dam. The DS told us to sit down and wait. He then walked off. The weather was changing and rain looked imminent.

At the edge of the dam was another pile of stores: 44-gallon drums, poles and more rope. We had to get ourselves, our personal equipment and the stores to the other side. Essentially, we were required to make a raft. The raft wasn't pretty but it held together.

We ferried half the guys and half the stores across to the other side. We swam beside or behind the raft, using our legs for propulsion. Two of us were tasked to swim the raft back to pick up the others. The water was freezing. I was probably in the water for 40 or 50 minutes, and I knew I had to change out of my wet clothes at the first available opportunity.

Still carrying our packs loaded with a single jerry can each, we walked for another 2.5 kilometres. With each step the water squelched from our boots. At our next rest stop I put on a clean and dry set of fatigues. I've usually got pretty solid legs, but as I dropped my pants I was shocked by the white sticks that appeared – they seemed half the size they had once been. I could easily cup my hands around my upper thigh and overlap my thumbs completely.

Our next task was to winch a three-tonne vehicle onto
the road using a series of pulleys. After we achieved this we were told to push it. One of the guys had injured his leg so he was ordered to steer. The remainder of the team pushed the vehicle for just over two kilometres. On one small rise, the vehicle stopped and began rolling backwards. We chocked the wheels with stones and then rolled the vehicle to and fro as we painstakingly ascended the positive gradient. The DS assisted us to push the vehicle over the crest, and we continued down the hill. It began to drizzle. We were physically shattered.

A cold snap arrived, and with it came heavy rain. The chill bit deep into our wet bodies. I tried to stop shivering as it made my muscles ache. In the early evening we met up with another patrol before being left to our own devices. In pairs, we joined our hootchies together and got into our damp sleeping bags.
Fuck me … this is ridiculous
, I thought.

We were soon told to dismantle our hootchies and move to a designated ambush position. Half the remaining patrols were placed in the same ambush. Throughout the night it rained, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, but it was always wet and always cold. At that point I didn't care if I was accepted into the SAS. I was spent. My body was struggling to regulate its temperature. My hunger was gone, replaced by shivering nausea.

In the early hours of 10 April 1995, I heard two voices, then some shooting. The ambush was sprung. Our patrol, as per our orders, assembled at the rear of the ambush location and departed. Over the next hour, the dark sky dissolved to grey and the rain stopped.

For the entire course I had taken each day as it came. I'd tried not to anticipate what lay ahead. But I was no longer
able to do that. I pictured the instruction handbook we'd been given before we started the selection course. The dates written on the front page were 23 March to 10 April. It was now 10 April. Was this just another mind game, or would it indeed be over soon? In four and a half days we'd been given one meal – fish-head soup. We needed sustenance. If this was to be the last day, what time would it end? There might still be 17 or 18 hours to go.

We walked up a hill to a hangar and saw other groups of dishevelled men sitting inside it. Then I saw Rog's face. He too had lost a lot of weight, perhaps more than me.

‘It's over, mate,' he said. ‘We did it. We finished the fucking thing.'

Our feeble hands embraced in a solid shake. I dumped my pack and sat on the floor.

‘You want a brew?' Rog asked.

‘What – are we allowed?'

‘Yeah, look over there.'

I sat down and removed my boot to inspect my foot and ankle. The strapping tape was cutting deep into my instep. It took me 10 minutes to tear it off, revealing a deep wound on top of my foot. The stench made me grimace. The skin on my foot was an ugly white and mushy, like a corpse pulled from the water. I looked up and saw the SI, the man who had orchestrated the three weeks of pain we'd endured, watching me. His face remained deadpan. Then he walked away.

You don't have to accept me
, I thought,
but I've finished your course and I gave it everything I had
.
Neither you nor anyone else can ever take that away from me
.

Then came breakfast. Neatly arranged on several folding
tables were a dozen loaves of bread, buns, boxes of cereal, and milk. No hot food or anything too rich, as our stomachs wouldn't have handled it. I grabbed a hot cross bun and half-filled my cups canteen – my metal mug – with cocoa flakes and milk. I took a bite from the bun and dry-retched. I didn't even give myself a chance to swallow the brine before I took another bite and forced it down. It stuck in my oesophagus, then I began to hiccup. I drank some milk, which relieved the congestion, and I switched to cereal. Halfway through that, I finished the bun. I had eaten very little yet my stomach felt full and tight.

One soldier pulled up his shirt and said: ‘Hey, check this out. I've got abs! I've never had abs before – they're usually covered with padding.'

I laughed to myself.
I've dropped so much weight that the ridges in my stomach are probably my backbone
.

We were permitted to shower, so I retrieved my toiletries and a towel from my echelon bag, threw on a pair of thongs and walked to the shower block. The place was abuzz with dirty, gaunt faces and bodies that carried the same weeping red sores, a legacy of one's pack or webbing rubbing through the skin.

Some guys were taking the piss out of each other, shocked by the change in their mates' faces and physiques. I set my shaving gear up on the sink and wiped the misty mirror. I hadn't seen my reflection for a couple of weeks. My eyes were sunken and dark, my cheeks dissolved flat. I was surprised just how tiny my head had become. It was as if my face had fallen off.

The sinews in my neck were more pronounced, and my clavicles were exposed like a shirtless coathanger. I could
clearly see where my sternum connected to my rib cage. All this in less than three weeks.

Yet what we had endured was nothing in comparison to generations past. Millions of men and women – both allies and adversaries – suffered for years in POW camps. Of the 91,000 members of the German Sixth Army who surrendered at Stalingrad in World War II, only 5000 made it home. The majority perished in Soviet labour camps from disease and malnutrition.

Having a crack at the SAS selection course was good for me. Sure, my aim was to become an SAS soldier, but being pushed beyond my limits taught me a lot about myself. As a person I had grown considerably, and over the next 12 months there would be much more to come.

I'd learnt many lessons, the most important being that if I wanted something badly enough, then I should trust myself and go for it. Life is full of pessimists, people who say something can't be done. And even if they're right and you fail – so what? Those who embrace their dreams and come up short have not truly failed. Failure belongs to those who didn't have the courage to step over the starting line.

About thirty men remained, a mix of soldiers and officers. We boarded a coach and drove to Campbell Barracks, Swanbourne – the home of the Australian Special Air Service Regiment. I dozed most of the way, but the winged dagger on the front gates grabbed my attention.

Our first task was to clean our rifles. The quartermaster was stringent – he wanted them handed in spotless. I think we were given hotboxes for lunch, to control how much food we were eating. Our eyes were definitely larger than our shrunken stomachs. Going too hard too quickly could make us sick. For the rest of that afternoon we cleaned and returned our personal stores. There was a lot of sitting around.

While this was taking place, the DS were discussing the performance of each trainee in detail. Our test results, our leadership potential, our ability to work independently and as a member of a team, our capacity to absorb information, our personality, work ethic, integrity, discipline, physical fitness and endurance – all aspects were scrutinised by the panel.

As the hours passed our sense of anticipation grew. Everyone who remained had finished the selection course, but who would actually be selected?

Later that afternoon we were advised that the mess opened at 1700. Our next timing was 0730 the following morning, so our time until then was our own. We were escorted to the transit accommodation and issued rooms, four men to each one.

I went for a walk and found a payphone outside the Regimental Aid Post (RAP). I called Colleen and left a short message on her answering machine. I then called my parents and spoke with my mother. She was aware that I was doing some type of selection course, but she didn't really know anything much about the SAS. We were close and spoke often, sometimes for hours, but I had never explained the course in great detail, just in case I failed.

I told her I was pleased to have finished, and that if they didn't accept me I would try again the following year. Ma wished me luck and said she had a feeling I'd be accepted. Mother's intuition – if anyone knew what sort of person I was, it was her.

There were several guys waiting to use the phone so we didn't speak for long. Besides, it was nearly dinnertime and I wanted to see how much food I could squash into my stomach. Although I was full within five minutes, I kept eating for at least 30. My stomach ached and I found it difficult to breathe. I lay on my bed shirtless, my pants undone and my legs splayed, in an attempt to minimise any pressure on my stomach.

Rog stuck his head in my room. ‘Hey, mate, a few of the guys are going to Fremantle to grab a beer and a steak. You coming?'

I felt like I was in labour and four weeks overdue. ‘Nah, mate, I'm gonna chill out and lie here for a while.'

‘Cool, brother, I'll see you tomorrow.'

Grab a steak? Are they freaking serious?
I thought.
Just breathing hurts
. As it turned out, the guys didn't have the energy to party and were all in bed by 2300 that night.

I had a restless night's sleep and woke up hungry. I went to the mess and had a couple of bowls of chocolate cocoa flakes. I had just completed the most challenging course in the Australian military, yet when given the opportunity to eat, I chose a children's breakfast cereal ahead of pancakes, bacon, eggs and toast.

Just walking around still left me light-headed. I couldn't feel the soles of my feet at all, and after breakfast I spent 15 minutes squeezing thorns out of my shins, knees and
thighs. The hours crawled by. We cleaned vehicles and anything else the quartermaster could think of. In the early afternoon, while we were seated on the grass outside the quartermaster's store, the SI made an announcement.

‘The following men are to follow me inside. Everyone else is to remain in place.'

The SI disappeared with about eight men, a combination of soldiers and officers. When he returned we were told that those who remained had been found suitable for further training. There were no congratulations – just a warning that anyone who failed to perform during the next phase of the training would also be sent back to their units.

Colleen was right – we would be moving to Perth.

I had passed the course and was accepted into the SAS. I was fortunate – not everyone in life realises what they want to do for a job and then sees it come to fruition. I had set a mid-term goal and had dedicated myself wholeheartedly to making it happen. Injury, age, endurance and negative comments were some of the obstacles I was confronted with, but from the outset I had known what I wanted and my motivation had not wavered.

Whenever I set myself big challenges, the first thing I do is ask: why am I doing this? What is my motivation? Without a strong and true desire, you'll struggle to push through adversity.

I wanted to work with the best soldiers in the Australian military, and I wanted to be deployed on the most challenging tasks. I craved an exciting occupation where I would be tested. Soldiers don't join the SAS for money or because it sounds cool. The men are passionate about soldiering and strive to take it to the highest level. Desire spawns motivation, and motivation creates opportunity. You don't need to venture far for that – motivation comes from within.

The day after the selection course ended, we were granted four days' leave. The only proviso was that we must not do any physical training. For once in my life, going for a run or to the gym was the furthest thing from my mind. We were given some learning booklets to study at our own pace, but besides that our time was our own.

I was the only soldier from the 6th Battalion to pass the course, so initially I wasn't part of any clique. The guys from the other battalions, especially the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Battalions, were already tight.

Still feeling fatigued, I decided to walk to the beach to check out the ocean. I love the water and usually feel a sense of calm when in its presence. It was a cold, wintry day, and a strong southerly wind was sweeping up the coast. Campbell Barracks backs onto the Indian Ocean, a pristine and much sought-after location in the heart of Perth's ‘golden triangle'. From the back gate of the barracks I followed an obvious sand track to a sentry tower that overlooked the beach. I climbed the tower, and while I was there an effeminate Asian man joined me. I thought this was a little weird, so I left.

I tucked myself into the northern side of a sand dune and watched the choppy waves slap against the sand while I drifted in and out of sleep. Fifteen minutes later, I opened my eyes and saw a man walking across the beach in front of me. He was staring at me intently. After a while he retraced his footsteps, walked around the sand dune I was sheltering behind and positioned himself 10 metres behind me. I immediately sat up and my body prepared itself for battle.
Surely this fucker isn't going to try and mug me
, I thought.
Does he seriously want to have a go?

I casually glanced over my right shoulder and eyeballed the man. With a furrowed brow, I turned my head back, stared at the sand in front of me and tried to work out if what I had just seen was real.
Did he just have his cock in his hand?
I looked at the man again, and this time there was no mistake – he was stroking his erect penis while staring at me.

‘What in the hell are you doing?' I yelled.

The man, aged in his mid to late thirties, didn't say a word but tried to bend his cock back into his tracksuit pants. I stood up. He began to panic, trying to decide whether he should run or remain where he was.

I shouted: ‘Are you fucking serious?' and kicked some sand towards him. Before me was a man who was uncomfortable with confrontation. He rolled onto his side and crumpled onto the sand.

I had no intention of taking it any further. I stormed up the beach and didn't look back. I told a few of the guys what had happened, and for a short time I was nicknamed ‘Dune Boy'. It was then I learnt that Swanbourne Beach was a hangout for gay men. I should have realised that when the other guy had joined me in the sentry tower.

My issue was not that the man was homosexual – people's sexual preference has never bothered me. He has as much control over choosing his sexuality as I do: none. But I found his actions confronting as they caught me off guard. It was the same as if a heterosexual male had been tossing off while looking at a woman on a beach.

In fact, the first guy I told was homosexual. He had also passed the selection course and would become a close mate of mine. When he saw my reaction, he told me much later, his initial thoughts were:
Great, Fenno's homophobic. There's no way I'll ever be able to be honest with this guy
.

He was wrong. I found out about his sexual preference two years before he came out publicly, and I kept it a close secret. I always considered him to be an exceptional soldier and often commented to my wife that he was one of the most grounded and mentally secure soldiers I knew.

Some people have a perception – created by the aggressive nature of SAS training and operations – that all SAS soldiers are Alpha males. But it's only partly true. Most of the guys are complex individuals, and are far more open-minded about things that fall outside the ‘norms of society' than most people expect. When bullets are slamming into the earth around you – when things become a little crazy – there are no thoughts or concerns about anyone's sexuality. Why should there be? All you give a fuck about is whether the guy next to you is competent, and whether he'll stay by your side if the situation becomes dire.

My first days in the Regiment were definitely interesting. But there was much more to come.

The next night, the majority of the soldiers on our reinforcement cycle went to the Swanbourne Hotel for a few drinks. A couple of men tried to position themselves above others – an alcohol-induced, self-proclaimed order of seniority. Considering I had only joined the military the
previous year, they felt they had to let me know that I was a ‘jube' – a new guy – and so relegated to the bottom of their pecking order. I was advised to keep my mouth shut and learn. I wasn't the only guy who was spoken to that night. Initially, there was a dominant group within our cycle. It's easy to govern as a pack, especially when you're targeting lone guys who are yet to establish themselves.

An officer also chimed in, having a crack at me for being a ‘Ready Reserve' soldier. ‘I heard you were a Ready Red Rooster,' he said at the top of his voice. He repeated this several times, laughing out loud and then he began to crow.

I just nodded my head and smiled. I looked at the man and thought:
You look more like a goose than a rooster
. I remained reserved and eventually returned to the barracks. It's not a long walk – 1.2 kilometres at most – along a road lined with pine trees. But it was long enough for me to reflect on what was said.

At first I tried to recall if I had said something to antagonise these guys.
Was I being a smartarse?
But then I wondered to myself why guys like them waited so long before attempting selection. If they were so good, why did it take them so many years to make it into the Regiment? Was it a lack of confidence? Did they need to wait for a dozen of their mates to do it with them? Sure, some of them had big reputations in the Battalion, but we weren't in the Battalion anymore. We would all have a steep learning curve, but mine would be a little steeper.

I'd made it into the SAS but I felt like an outsider. The last time I felt this way was 18 years earlier, at pre-school. I still remember a red-headed girl and three boys banishing me from the tree-house because I was wearing a belt.

For weeks the group followed me around and hounded me off every piece of equipment in the playground. I began to hate Tuesdays – pre-school day – so I conned Ma into letting me stay at home. As a four-year-old I was shy and lacked confidence, but this was no longer the case.

Photo time at pre-school, aged four.

Sitting on my bed, I mulled over a couple of options: I could confront those responsible and have it out, or I could double my efforts and earn their respect via performance. I was already highly motivated, but their comments did inspire me to work a little harder.

The next day, while the others recovered from their hangovers, I spent hours working with a piece of rope, practising my knots. Our first course was a four-day roping course.

I also began to familiarise myself with Morse code. We would later be expected to send and receive Morse at 10 words per minute. After memorising the characters, I began to practise on my Morse trainer – a device that beeped random characters, both letters and numbers. There were dials to control the sound and speed.

I'd wake up early, throw on a set of headphones and practise while the others slept. This continued throughout
the day. Whenever I had a few spare minutes, I'd turn on my Morse trainer and scribble the characters into a large notebook. When it was full, I bought another.

Before our signals course even began, I could comfortably watch television and receive Morse at over 14 words per minute. I was tested at the end of the first week of the course and was the first to qualify.

During our survival training we were given a lesson on lock-picking. That evening, with Chris, a diligent, intelligent soldier who had a keen interest in demolitions, I purchased some hacksaw blades and we set about crafting our own set of lock picks. Each evening while watching television, I would work my way through a dozen padlocks. When I became bored with this I used to break into Todd's room, or wander outside and pick the ignition lock of a mate's Toyota 4Runner.

After our reinforcement training, I returned home and went to visit my father at his workshop. His front door is stitched with deadlocks, sliding bolts and padlocks. I pulled a lock pick and torsion bar out of my wallet and began raking the pins.

Dad scoffed and said: ‘You'll never get through those.'

Five minutes later I opened the door and shot my father a grin.

‘Jesus,' he said. ‘I'll have to get another couple of padlocks.'

I laughed, relocked the door and tried again. My next attempt was quicker.

The men who had a go at me at the beginning of the reinforcement cycle were, in fact, excellent soldiers and decent guys. They'd been drinking that night and shot
their mouths off. There probably isn't a person alive who, under the influence of alcohol, hasn't done this – me included. But I was young and took their comments to heart. I have always possessed an extreme desire to perform, their comments only made me more obsessive.

By the time we reached our dive course, two months into the reinforcement cycle, we were aware not only of how we were performing, but also of how everyone else stacked up. Past reputations now meant nothing. Those who worked hard did well. Those who didn't, or who perhaps were not suited to special operations, struggled or were moved on. Strong friendships were forged, and by the end of our reinforcement cycle many of us were inseparable.

I would later work with one of these guys for years, both in the Regiment and when contracting in Iraq and Afghanistan. I've always admired his toughness and the satirical, almost cavalier manner in which he negotiates dangerous situations. Ten years after our selection course he still remembered what he'd said.