Warrior Training (2 page)

As a young man growing up I had no idea that Australia had a special-forces unit called the Special Air Service Regiment. Then I read an article about an SAS team being involved in an incident in Somalia, which gave a vague description of what the SAS was and what its soldiers did. If I was to pinpoint the exact moment that I decided to strive for the SAS, then that would be it. The actions of the hard-hitting guys at the centre of that incident inspired me.

I had been restless for a couple of years. I was 19, and although I had contemplated leaving my trade as a motor mechanic before I was fully qualified, my father had encouraged me to persevere.

‘Look, mate,' he'd said, ‘I know you want a job that's exciting, but if you hang around for two years and
get your ticket, then I'm sure you'll get your chance.'

At 17, my job as an apprentice motor mechanic didn't do it for me.

He was right. Sitting in the military recruitment office and watching a video of soldiers parachuting was all the motivation I needed to join the army.

When I met the recruiting officer, I did my best to act cool and not sound desperate. But I couldn't help asking: ‘If I join the army, do I get to parachute?'

‘Providing you meet the medical and physical requirements, there's a very good chance,' he replied, as a slight, sardonic smirk worked its way to the corner of his mouth.

I tried not to grin, thinking I had just nailed the scam of the century.
Who gets paid to jump out of planes?

The recruiting officer had a cloth parachute badge on his right shoulder, the mark of one who was qualified. I bet that he, too, was trying to remain straight-faced: he knew very well that real military parachuting was vastly different from the recruiting videos he had just shown me. The videos were filled with images of soldiers jumping out the back of planes and gliding through the sky under canopy. But they never showed footage of anyone landing.

I asked the recruiting officer another question: ‘Are there decent gyms in the army?'

He smiled the sort of smile that said:
You fuckwit – of course there are decent gyms in the army
. But his answer was a little more diplomatic. ‘The army has some of the best training establishments in the country.'

So I get to parachute and train in the gym
, I thought.
Where do I sign up?

I filled out the appropriate paperwork, enrolled at TAFE to further my education, and waited. I must have called the recruiting office half a dozen times to check on
my application. And then it came – an official-looking letter announcing my test dates.

So in October 1993 I travelled to Sydney for my medical, psychological and aptitude testing. If I was found suitable then I would be interviewed later that afternoon. I passed the initial tests with no problems. One of the first questions I was asked during my interview was: ‘If you were sent to war, could you kill a person?'

I was so pumped to have made the interview stage that I'm surprised I didn't say something like: ‘If you let me in the army then I'm happy to kill as many people as you want.' But in reality my thoughts then were much the same as they are now. ‘It would not be something that I would enjoy,' I said, ‘but if I was confronted by a situation where I was required to take a life in order to save mine or another, then I would.'

My application was approved, and a few months later – on 25 January 1994 – I joined the Australian Army.

Saying goodbye to my parents. I joined the army at the age of 20.

Our induction ceremony was held in Sydney before we were herded onto buses and driven to 1RTB – the 1st Recruit Training Battalion at Kapooka, Wagga Wagga. During the ceremony one enthusiastic guy told me that he had been in the Army Reserve, and that I should
let him know if I needed a hand. Apparently polishing boots and brass was ‘a piece of piss'. Within three days of our arrival at Kapooka, this same guy walked into my room and said: ‘Fennell, you have to help me escape! I can't take this shit anymore. I gotta get out of here – I'm goin' crazy!'

He was an intense little bastard with a red face and wiry physique, but he was also a little crazy – in a likeable and humorous way. The next night – wearing just a pair of grandpa-type underpants – he came into my room asking for change so he could grab a Coke from the machine downstairs. Lights out was at 2200 hours; anyone caught out of bed after this time was going to have their face yelled off and possibly be subjected to some bullshit punishment like scrubbing bathroom tiles with a toothbrush. Besides that, the Coke machine was at the bottom of ‘God's stairs', an internal stairwell that was only to be used by our instructors.

I couldn't fathom why anyone would want to run the gauntlet for a can of Coke, but I got out of bed, unlocked my cupboard and pulled a two-dollar coin out of my wallet.

‘Thanks, man – I owe you one,' he said as he scurried down the hall.

The next thing I heard was his can of Coke slamming into the bottom tray of the machine. Anyone within 100 metres would have heard it.
Surely he'll get busted on the way back to his room
, I laughed to myself. A minute later he strolled into my room with a large smile on his face, drawing on his can of Coke like he was a gangster sucking on a Cuban.

‘Hey, Fennell, want a sip?'

I visualised his sweaty lips on the can, held back a dry-retch and refused the offer. ‘No thanks, mate. You have it.'

‘I'll put the change in your drawer.'

‘Cool.'

Within five seconds of him leaving my room and reentering his own, which was just across the hallway, an angry white light burst through the doorway.

‘Which one of you fucks was out of bed?'

Neither I nor my room-mate answered.

The angry prick – the duty corporal – turned on the light. ‘Were you out of bed?'

‘No, sir,' I replied.

‘I'm a corporal, fuckwit.' He turned on my room-mate: ‘Was it you?'

‘No, Corporal.'

‘I saw someone's shadow near the window. Who was it?'

I opted to play dumb. ‘I don't know, Corporal.'

The duty corporal was aware that unless we admitted it, there wasn't a lot he could do. He turned off the light, shone his torch into the room opposite, then disappeared down the hallway.

The next morning, during a routine inspection while we were having breakfast, our section commander found the loose change in my drawer. I was yelled at for nearly 10 minutes and accused of promoting thievery. When quizzed as to how the money got there, I said I planned to use it for the pay phone when we were allowed to call home.

‘Call home? I'll tell you when you can call home, fuckwit. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Corporal.'

‘Next time you'll be charged with insecurity. Get out of my sight, shit-stain.'

I marched up the hallway and straight into the room of the guy who put the change in my drawer.

‘Hey, Fennell, what'd he say?'

‘He asked me why the money was in my drawer and I told them you put it there. You have to go to the office.'

‘Man, you're shittin' me?'

‘Yeah, I am.' I left his room laughing.

The only things I enjoyed about basic training were the physical training, our four-day furlough and the couple of nights we had on the piss. Getting yelled at didn't really do it for me, but some of the one-liners were amusing. While marching back from the range, my section commander yelled: ‘Hey, Barrington, close your fucking hand when you march or I'll come over there and stick my dick in it!' Even in the Regiment, soldiers on selection are sometimes surprised by the odd witty remark. On one course, the trainees were lined up waiting for their turn in the shower when one of the senior instructors – a guy with an ability to remain completely deadpan – bellowed: ‘Trainee 66, you've got a great arse. What do you feed that thing – cock?'

I can honestly say that I entered the army with one aim in mind: to join the SAS as quickly as possible. The physical training we did at Kapooka was only mildly challenging, as most of the pack marches and runs had to allow for the soldiers at the bottom of the group. We were constantly reminded that the army was about teamwork – a section is only as fast as its slowest man.

Negotiating obstacles during basic training.

At times I found this frustrating, as the physical standard of some guys was so far below what I expected that it was painful. When someone puts in, regardless of what level they are at, then no probs. But when someone dives on the ground like they've just been shot after a casual 500-metre run, then I tend to question their commitment to the team. I longed to be part of a hard-hitting group of men who all wanted to go the extra mile. I'd seen
Chariots of Fire.
If we had to run, then that's how I wanted it to be.

At Kapooka I met a few like-minded people, so each evening we would supplement our training with sets of chin-ups, push-ups and sit-ups. As for our section commanders giving us grief, well, there appeared to be some sort of code – they left us alone while we were training. During one of our evening sessions, one man, Dalton – a blond-haired guy with a sharp sense of humour – passed a comment that gave me confidence.

‘Hey, Fennell, I reckon you're going to make it into the SAS.'

I finished the push-ups I was doing, then faced him and raised an eyebrow, thinking he was taking the piss.

‘I'm serious … you're focused, man. There has to be guys who get in, and I think you'll be one of 'em.'