Warrior Training (16 page)

We were exhausted, almost delirious. We had only slept for about 15 minutes in nearly 84 hours. It is little wonder guys were singing and writing letters home.

In the afternoon we were allowed to sit on our beds but were not permitted to lie down or sleep. Our captors had made a few changes to our seniority, promoting troopers and demoting officers. Those in command were afforded additional privileges.

Pete, a mate of mine, approached me, slapped me on the shoulder and said: ‘Well done, mate. You've been fucking staunch.'

Any self-doubt I had instantly disappeared. I had enormous respect for Pete. He was a hard man who could physically extend himself further than most. He gave 100 per cent in everything he did, whether it was soldiering, training or consuming alcohol. Even after a big night he was always in the lead group on a troop PT session.

Pete was passionate about soldiering – he was a natural warrior who always put others ahead of himself. Whenever a volunteer was needed for a shitty job, Pete would be the
first to raise his hand. I know I disappointed him when I made the decision to leave the green machine. In fact, I could tell he was a little pissed off because we were good mates – I was one of his groomsmen – and I hadn't discussed it with him. Essentially, I hadn't wanted to be dissuaded by men who loved soldiering as much as I did.

If I had to pick a team of men to join me in war, it would be made up of men I know would remain by my side, whatever was going down. There is no doubt that Pete, for his loyalty alone, would be in that team.

Pete later told me that while he was being interrogated, he had started to believe the captors' abusive rhetoric. I had too, especially when they told me how pathetic I looked. They had told Pete that he might as well open up, as his mate Fennell had told them everything.

‘You know, mate,' Pete told me, ‘that's where they fucked up. I knew you wouldn't say shit. After that, nothing they said affected me.'

It would have been the same if they'd said something like that to me. Before we went into the bag, our patrol 2IC said to Pete and me: ‘Just remember, guys, big four and nothing more, or you're a weak cunt.'

Pete and I shook hands and recited the words. I knew Pete would never break, not ever.

The Boss continued to get a hard time for failing to control his men. Once again he told me that our interrogation sessions were over, and once again he told me to play the game. I shook my head. We were both tired and had read the situation differently.

It was late afternoon, the final hour before the sun knocked off, when I was once again summoned outside.
I saw a man with a video camera filming one of the boys – our new leader – while he discussed the finer points of abseiling. The camera then turned on me.

‘Now you will show us,' they demanded.

I was tired, and fed up with confrontation. It would have been far easier to just go along with their tiresome game, but I couldn't. I thought about what the Boss had said. I then thought about Pete's comments. He gave me strength.

Here we go
, I thought.
Back in isolation
. I shook my head and spat: ‘I don't have to and will not be filmed,' before attempting to walk off.

One of the guards stopped me, grabbing my face and aggressively forcing it towards the camera. Now I was beginning to get really pissed. I pushed the camera away and yelled again: ‘I'm not doing it!'

I was ordered to return to the accommodation hut. We all were. Once inside, we were told to sleep. But I was furious – sleep would be impossible.

Twenty minutes later, one of our captors approached me and asked me to follow him outside.

‘I told you, I'm not doing it,' I said.

‘Follow me,' said the man.

Once we were outside, another intelligence officer introduced himself and told me the training was over. Naturally, I didn't believe him.

‘Look, you were right,' he said. ‘We were still gathering information. You guys haven't had any sleep for nearly four days, so congratulations, mate, you did well. Our aim was to create conflict and isolate those who continued to resist. It'll all come out in the debriefing session later. For now, I want you to calm down – don't try to escape. Just
go back to your room and get your head down. You're gonna need it.'

I still couldn't trust him but I calmed down, returned to my bed and slept.
These guys are switched on
, I thought, as it had indeed crossed my mind to break out. Evo, Pete and I had even begun to discuss options.

Two hours later an SAS troop – our mates – raided the camp and we escaped. The next phase of our training – escape and invasion – would last for another 72 hours.

We were given our boots, a water bladder and one set of military fatigues. We found some hessian sacks, cut a hole for our head and secured them around our waists – an attempt to stave off the cold. We walked for most of that night, covering almost 20 kilometres, before trying to sleep under a large water pipe that runs between Northam and Perth. The cold earth sucked the heat from one side of our bodies while the ferocious wind stripped it from the other.

‘Hey, Fenno, are you asleep?' asked my patrol 2IC.

‘Hell no,' I replied.

‘We couldn't hear you rolling around so thought you were either asleep or dead.'

I laughed.

‘You cold?' he asked.

‘Freezing … too cold to sleep,' I said.

‘Pull it in with us, mate.'

The five of us huddled tight. I had never spooned with another male before, but right then I would have spooned with my old man if it had meant I was going to be a little warmer.

The next day we met an agent, who provided us with
shelter and food. We would lie up during the day and move at night. Over the next two days we followed the pipe towards Perth, covering a total distance of just over 50 kilometres.

During our debrief, the intelligence officers informed us that each of the three troops in our squadron were vastly different. Mine was identified as the water troop, as we were slightly more aggressive and extroverted by nature.
This was true
, I thought as my mind returned to the morning we had to sing.

Next the intelligence officers discussed how they had attempted to create internal conflict within the group: ‘When some soldiers continue to resist, it's likely that others will do the same. We attempt to ostracise these people and turn the group against them.' They mentioned my letter with the multicoloured rectangle and how they'd spent considerable time analysing it, before realising it was just an abstract, token contribution that gave nothing away. Initially they thought I had been subdued.

Finally, they told us how they had intentionally pressured those in leadership positions and attacked their ability to control the team; the aim was that the captured leaders would coerce their men to fall into line.

Strong leadership is vital, for without it a team will fragment into smaller and less effective groups. For example, Evo, Pete and I had all continued to resist, so we'd gravitated towards one another. We had even begun to discuss an escape.

This is why men who fail to display leadership potential are usually not accepted into the SAS. In my opinion, when working in small teams
everyone
must have the capacity to lead. A patrol 2IC must be able to assume control if his commander is killed or wounded. It is vital that the person filling this position is not just a sound administrator but a competent leader as well.

In the military, you're trained to follow orders, and if soldiers didn't respond to orders there would be anarchy. Just because a leader might make a decision you don't agree with doesn't give you the right to fly solo. Not everyone can lead, and not every decision a leader makes is going to be popular or even correct.

So when a poor command is issued, what is a soldier to do? I've learnt to choose my battles. If there is little at stake then I'll probably let it slide and save my energy for something more important. If it's important, your skills of persuasion come to the fore. Most people are open to advice, especially if it's for their own benefit and is delivered in a non-threatening, positive way.

The SAS isn't a ‘Chinese parliament' – where everyone's opinion is worth an equal amount – but anyone in a patrol can and does contribute when a complex decision must be made. The strongest leaders I know are not driven by ego or intimidated by the abilities of others. They embrace the knowledge and ideas of those around them in order to establish the
best
course of action.

Often it's a commander who comes up with the right solution because of his superior experience, but sometimes it's the least experienced member of the team. He might bring something new, or have an ability to think outside
the box. And of course there can be any number of hybrid solutions. When time permits, I believe this option offers the most diverse and rewarding results.

During my time in the POW camp I made some mistakes. Rather than become frustrated when I was ordered to ‘play the game', I should have been more discreet with my actions. The times when I made an obvious stand – my refusal to sing, to discuss the Sally Man or to allow myself to be filmed – ended with me being targeted and ostracised. Conversely, the times when I was more prudent in my refusal to engage – such as when I signed my name with an X, or when I drew the multicoloured box instead of writing a letter – enabled me to blend into the group without giving anything away.

Overall, it was a huge test of my self-belief. Having our captors, a superior and several colleagues challenge my actions, especially at a time when we were all deprived of sleep, did make me question my decisions. I took the time – when I was in isolation – to assess my thoughts. I had decided to back myself, and although I was concerned about being branded a non-team player, you should never follow a team if it's obvious they're headed in the wrong direction.

This is a message that I've tried to instil in my children: ‘If you know something isn't right, then trust yourself and don't allow yourself to be pressured by anyone. To make a stand – to remain in control – requires far more courage than to jump aboard the popularity train to nowhere.'

While deployed to Indonesia on a special-operations training team in 1996, our troop – a conglomerate of soldiers from the water, freefall and mobility troops – took part in ‘Binta', a task designed to win the hearts and minds of the local people, who had been providing us and the Kopassus – the Indonesian special forces – with fresh food.

An Indonesian commander organised a couple of favours for us to do in return. ‘Tomorrow morning,' he said, ‘everyone except the medics will be painting the mosque.'

I was a patrol medic so I grinned and tried not to laugh.

‘Medics,' he continued, ‘you are to meet at the clinic at 7 am with your medical packs. You'll be doing circumcisions.'

Did he just say circumcisions?
I thought to myself. Most of the boys were still trying to come to terms with their job of painting a mosque, so no one really acknowledged the patrol medics' task.
Nah, he probably just made a mess of the translation
. I didn't give it another thought and continued to take the piss out of the painters.

The next morning, relieved to have dodged mosque-painting duties and under the guidance of a corps medic, three of us walked up the hill to the clinic, our med kits slung over our shoulders. We didn't know what we'd be doing and we didn't care.
Whatever it was, it had to be better than painting the mosque
, we thought. As we trudged along the heavily dewed track, I noticed a bunch of boys sitting outside the clinic – there were 17 in total. They were aged between about six and 14. The commander's previous words – ‘doing circumcisions' – bounced between my ears like an echo.

‘Did any of you guys hear the commander say we'd be doing circumcisions?' I asked.

‘Yeah, but I thought he must have fucked up the translation.'

‘Me too,' said another.

‘They can't be serious,' I said.

For the village boys, the thought of being circumcised was terrifying: their pallid faces told us so. But for their parents and families, it was exciting, a time of celebration – an important initiation from boy to man.

A couple of Indonesian doctors were in charge of the operations and our job was to assist them. From the outset, their lack of hygiene and disregard for sterilisation posed a moral dilemma. The doctors weren't changing their gloves between operations, and their bloodied medical tools were used on one patient and then the next. We were horrified by the potential for cross-contamination. And apart from all that, in Australia many people – including medical practitioners – believed the operation itself was unnecessary and potentially harmful.

‘Man, these guys are military doctors but they don't give a shite about hygiene,' I said. ‘I'm all for gaining experience, but lopping off some poor kid's foreskin isn't what I had in mind.'

But we knew that, irrespective of what we thought or said, these boys were going to be circumcised. That was a given. We had a choice: we could refuse to take part and walk away, or we could employ our own stringent protocols of hygiene in an attempt to make the operations safer. We were all qualified to administer local anaesthetic and were competent in suturing – tying stitches. We unzipped our med packs, laid out our equipment and donned gloves.

Moral dilemma: circumcisions in Indonesia.

While locking off the final suture on my first patient, I glanced at the boy's face to ensure he wasn't in any discomfort. I couldn't believe what I saw. The operation was not yet finished but a man who appeared to be the boy's grandfather had popped a cigarette into the corner of the child's
mouth. I completed the stitch at the same time that a match sparked the cigarette to life. A coughing fit ensued.

‘
Maaf pak, silakhan tunggu ya
,' I said – excuse me, sir, please wait.

The boy's grandfather just nodded his head in excitement.

I was more relieved than pleased with how the sutures looked. I'd taken my time. I wouldn't appreciate someone rushing stitches on my penis, and I'm sure this little guy would some day feel the same. I removed my gloves, shook the boy's hand and congratulated him for being very brave and strong. He smiled and I followed the doctor to the next bed.

As qualified SAS patrol medics, we were required to spend a couple of weeks each year attached to a hospital casualty ward to enhance our skills. We were permitted to give inoculations, to take blood, to establish IV (intravenous) access, to suture and dress wounds, and to assist with anything else that needed doing. Taking blood or establishing IV access in elderly people or children is far more difficult than it is in SAS soldiers. Most of the boys in the troop have veins like drainpipes, but if a soldier suffers from shock or blood loss, their veins soon contract. Locating a vein in a trauma situation is more like establishing a line in a young child.

When treating a casualty, SAS soldiers are advised to go for the median cubital vein – the large vein in the crook of the arm – but if access is unfeasible due to severe trauma or hypovolemic shock, they are trained to perform a venous cutdown – an emergency procedure where an incision is
made in the ankle to gain access to the veins. Rehearsing on an old unconscious sheep in the hour before it is put down is one thing, but actually cutting into a mate's leg would take a lot of self-belief, especially if it had been many years since your initial training had taken place. The anatomy of a sheep's throat is comparable to a human's, so we were trained on them to perform other life-saving procedures, such as a cricothyroidotomy – making an incision in the front of the throat and inserting a small tube to bypass a restricted airway.

While working in Royal Perth Hospital, I was paired up with a sixth-year medical student. We were both under the guidance of a senior nurse.

‘Which one of you would like to establish an intravenous line in the young girl in bed three?' the nurse asked us.

I looked at the soon-to-be doctor, indicating I was keen but I was happy if he wanted to give it a crack. He shot me back a look that said:
No thanks – I'm shitting myself
.

‘I'll give it a go,' I said.

I established the IV. ‘Nice work, Keith,' said the nurse.

Then it was the young doc's turn. An elderly lady also required a line. The doc swabbed the site and removed a 20-gauge cannula from its packet. He was having trouble locating a vein.

‘Remember to tighten the tourniquet,' said the nurse.

He turned to me and said: ‘Is it okay if you wait outside, because I get really nervous with someone watching me?'

I thought he was joking and laughed.

He secured the tourniquet around the woman's upper arm, wiped the site with an alcohol swab and lined up the
cannula. Just before he punctured the skin he stopped again and asked the nurse and me to leave. I rolled my eyes and walked away.

‘That really hurts,' I heard the elderly woman say.

I knew he had blown it – when you punch through the vein there is an instant dull ache. I had experienced this countless times in training while one of my mates attempted to persuade an assessor that they were in the vein. Some would even go so far as to turn on the IV and squeeze the bag, forcing fluid underneath my skin. I'd try to smile and would say: ‘Yeah, good job, you're in, mate.' But in reality, what I really wanted to say was: ‘You dick! My arm's killing me and I'll be left with a haematoma the size of a golf ball!'

While conducting his medical requalification training in the Regiment, one mate pierced my arm with an 18-gauge cannula. Over the years my arms had been stabbed many dozens of times, but never had I experienced such a sharp and intense pain. I knew he had fucked it up, but even the nurse who was assessing him was initially confused by the brilliant flashback of blood that had shot into the cannula. As he argued with the nurse, telling her that he was in the vein, I had to turn away because the pain was contorting my face.

‘I don't think you're in,' said the nurse. ‘How does it feel, Keith? Do you feel any discomfort?'

Discomfort … If this idiot doesn't stop arguing then I might have to punch him in the face
, I thought. ‘Yep, feels pretty good to me,' I said as I grimaced from the pain.

‘I'm in,' he said as he attached the line and turned on the IV. But rather than clear fluid flowing into my body,
bright-red blood shot up the line and began to fill the bag. ‘See, look at the flashback,' he said in a pissed-off tone.

‘Remove the IV,' said the nurse. ‘You've cannulated his artery.'

He looked at me and I nodded with a clenched jaw and large eyes.

‘Jesus, sorry, man.' He removed the cannula but didn't apply any pressure to the puncture and a stream of blood pulsed through the air, painting the grass at least 10 metres away.

‘Put pressure on it!' yelled the nurse.

‘Man, when it's my turn to jab you I'm gonna stick the thing in your eye,' I said, laughing.

He tried again on my other arm. This time he was successful.

At the hospital another time, a young woman – a model – arrived. She'd been involved in a minor vehicle accident and required a couple of sutures in her forehead. A doctor asked if I would like to do it.

‘No probs,' I said.

He asked me whether I had sutured before, and I told him that I had never stitched a person but had practised on slabs of pig skin. The doctor's eyes bulged and he politely said he would take care of this one. Later that evening, a drunken, abusive man came in with a busted nose. He also required stitches; this time, my pig-skin qualification was sufficient.

After returning from my first operational deployment, in February 1998 – an anti-poaching task in the southern Indian Ocean – I was keen to gain more medical experience.
I decided to organise a trip of my own. At the time, SAS soldiers were encouraged to venture overseas in what were known as ‘Amelio' deployments. The primary aim was for soldiers to gain additional knowledge and experience, thus enhancing the capability of the Regiment.

In the 12 months that the project had been active, only one other soldier had made a submission. Although I was still a relatively junior member of the unit, I was confident I would gain approval for either a medical deployment to Chole Island, a small island 20 kilometres east of Tanzania, or a trip to Johannesburg, where I'd be attached to a hospital casualty ward. The prospect of treating gunshot wounds in Johannesburg was enticing, but I chose Chole Island as I believed I would learn more under the supervision of a former SAS Regimental Medical Officer (RMO) who had established a small medical clinic on the island.

I have always been drawn to positive people who aren't afraid to put themselves out there. The Doc was one such person. To be selected as our RMO was a feat in itself, as the position is always one that attracts much competition. Not content with this, the Doc decided to complete the selection course so he could better understand what it was like for the soldiers who took part. He received no favouritism and I'm sure that like everyone else, he learnt a lot about himself along the way. He passed the course and hobbled back to work.