Warrior Training (4 page)

On one stifling morning Rog and I each loaded two concrete blocks and a 20-litre jerry can into our packs before scrambling up the mountain. I didn't know which part of my body hurt most – my feet, legs, back and shoulders, or my lungs, which were rising and falling at an alarming rate. The only motivation we got was from each other. If I wanted to take my pack off, sit down and take time out, I could. I knew I didn't have to be there and that the pain was self-inflicted, my own doing. In the back of my mind was a niggling little voice, which reminded me that although I was putting in the effort, there was no guarantee I would pass the course. But I decided that if the program said that I was to wear a pack and punish myself for three hours, then that's what I would do.

My preparation for selection wasn't ideal – I suffered damaged ankle ligaments, was on crutches for a while, had infected feet and faced the possibility of a medical discharge. I had a choice. I could look for excuses, justify them to myself and then perhaps try again the following year. (I knew of a sniper from the Battalion who had trained for selection four times, and each time he had pulled out
the week before departure. He never did make it onto the course.) Or I could give it a go.

Life very rarely turns out the way we think it should. Those who wait for everything to line up perfectly before tackling their dreams are often the same people who arrive at the penultimate years of their life frustrated about what might have been. I decided that I would never live this way.

So I had a dodgy ankle – big deal. The army had shit-loads of strapping tape.

To pass the SAS selection course, you need to be self-motivated, disciplined and capable of setting mid- to long-term goals, and you have to have an ability to follow through when things become challenging. Those who are successful are not supermen. They just know what they want and are prepared to put in a great deal of effort to make it happen. Anyone who attains the top of their chosen field shares these attributes.

We are all motivated to achieve different things in life. I am drawn to new challenges and excitement. I am competitive by nature, but I don't gauge my success by comparing myself to others. Thinking about what someone else earns, owns, is doing or has done is negative. It makes you dissatisfied, destroys your self-esteem and prevents you from reaching your potential. Irrespective of what others around me are doing, I set my own goals and try to be relentless in my quest to achieve them.

I've also tried never to be discouraged by negative comments; instead, I often use them for motivation. When someone says ‘You haven't been in the army long enough
to pass the SAS selection course' or ‘You should finish your degree before you write a book', they enhance my desire to achieve. The motivation is already there, but I'm constantly searching for ways to make it stronger – whatever it takes to give me the edge I need.

Each year hundreds of applicants apply for the SAS selection course. The screening process, designed to weed out those who are unsuitable, begins nine months before the course. Applicants must pass the special-forces barrier test in order to prove they are physically capable of beginning the training. If a soldier fails to attain the minimum physical requirements, he will not be accepted onto the course because it's unlikely he will be able to complete the arduous three-month training program.

The next test assessed aptitude; it was the same test that applicants complete when they apply for the Australian Defence Force. SAS soldiers must be able to think clearly under stress and be able to absorb information quickly. Soldiers are graded on their ability to answer questions quantitatively and qualitatively. There is also a detailed section on problem-solving. The test isn't designed to be completed – there are too many questions. An applicant either displays the minimum aptitude required or doesn't.

The next test was a 300-question psychological examination. ‘When you're standing in a room, do you feel like people are staring at you from dark corners?' Who in his right mind would say yes to that? Rationally, it was relatively easy to work out what you were supposed to answer. There were many questions like this, framed in different ways. The assessors were looking for consistency and I took a reserved approach when answering the questions.

During my interview, I was questioned about one answer I'd given.

‘Private Fennell, in your psychological examination you answered that you didn't know if you had a higher tolerance to pain than most other people. Please explain the reasoning behind your answer.'

‘From a young age, I have always pushed myself physically,' I said. ‘But it's impossible for me to ascertain if my pain threshold is superior to others', as I don't know what other people are feeling. The only serious accident I've had was a broken arm when I was young. I don't recall how I handled that situation.'

‘But if we were to ask you whether you thought you could push yourself further than most people, which is something that is required of an SAS soldier, then what would you say?'

I grinned and realised that they were basically telling me the answer they needed to hear.

‘From what I have seen when I'm training with my peers in the Battalion,' I said, ‘I think I do have an ability to extend myself further than others.'

‘Thank you,' the assessor said.

And thank you
, I thought.

Only those who show potential are accepted into the SAS selection course. The number of applicants varies from year to year. One course might begin with 80 men, another with double this number. On our course there were 150 starters.

The first nine days of selection are designed to shock the participants and wear them down. The soldiers must pass many physical tests. If a soldier fails to make the minimum cut-off time on a run, he might be allowed one re-test. If he fails this, he's generally removed from the course. The first week is also when the most trainees drop out. It is not uncommon for 75 per cent of the course to be gone by day eight. On some courses the drop-out rate is even higher.

During the second week, the soldiers are assessed on their individual navigational skills and their ability to work independently – operating alone. With no one to provide motivation, only the most highly disciplined and self-motivated soldiers are capable of passing this phase of the course.

There is also a roping component that is designed to test
those who suffer from a fear of heights. You don't need to enjoy yourself in order to move onto the final phase of the course, but you must complete all the activities to prove you are capable of operating outside of your comfort zone.

The last four or five days are the most exacting. Those who remain are divided into teams and sent from one gruelling activity to another. The men are subjected to enormous physical activity and at the same time are deprived of food and sleep. When soldiers are running on empty, who of them remains team-focused and who looks out just for themselves? Men who sneak into the bush to sleep, who volunteer themselves for the less arduous tasks or who fail to contribute to the team are soon identified as non-team-players and usually fail the course. The SAS requires high-performing personnel who can remain team-oriented regardless of what is going on around them.

It's impossible to determine how many soldiers will be left at the end. On some courses, up to 20 per cent of the applicants might complete the course, while on others there will be fewer than five per cent. I know of one course where just one officer and four soldiers remained. On average, only five per cent of soldiers who apply and 10 per cent of soldiers who attend the course make it into the SAS.

The directing staff (DS) who assess the trainees are predominantly senior SAS soldiers who hold the rank of sergeant or above. The DS carry notebooks and continuously scribble down whatever they observe, whether it's positive or negative. At the end of each day the DS get together and discuss the performance of the trainees.

The trainees are assessed on their physical fitness and
endurance, integrity, self-discipline, motivation, ability to work with others, acceptance of responsibility, leadership potential, stress management and work ethic. All comments by the DS are recorded in a trainee's personal file.

At the end of the course, the DS will meet and discuss the attributes of each trainee. The documentary evidence that was collected throughout the course will be closely scrutinised and a decision will be made about whether a trainee shows potential – that is, whether they are suitable for further training and assessment. It's not uncommon for the DS to disagree about soldiers' potential; when this occurs, it's the senior instructor (SI) who makes the final decision.

Rog and I headed to Amberley Airfield on 21 March 1995. It was a sultry, cloudy afternoon. The following morning, with no expectations and oversized lunch boxes, we boarded a C130 transport aircraft. First stop Sydney, second stop Melbourne, third stop Adelaide, fourth stop RAAF Base Pearce, Western Australia.

Packed and ready for SAS selection.

Even the C130 was foreign to me – I had never flown in one before. At RAAF Base Richmond, in Sydney, dozens of soldiers from the 3rd and 5/7 Battalions boarded the aircraft. There were a few tense faces, but as a group they appeared far more relaxed than I
felt. These guys were all regular soldiers. I looked them up and down, searching for strengths and any obvious signs of weakness. I wondered who would be there at the end. How fit were these guys? How many years had they been in the army?

Rog and I were both 21 years old. Most of these men appeared to be several years our senior. I noticed that there were officers, corporals, lance corporals and privates in the group – in fact, there were more soldiers with rank than without.

I remember three soldiers in particular from that flight. One had an adolescent face. He appeared to be only 18 or 19, was of slender build and probably weighed no more than 70 kilograms. I was surprised when I found out Craig was 21. He was there at the end.

Another guy, Mick, had dark skin and looked exceptionally fit. He had strong, large-veined arms and a thick neck. He wore dark sunglasses and had a peculiar grin. He too was there at the end.

I also noticed an olive-skinned man who seemed about 25 years of age. He looked fit and wiry. Brian was a full corporal and would go on to pass the course too.

I had to force myself to eat during the flight. I tried to sleep, both by dropping my head onto my knees and by pushing it back against the netting, but I couldn't. My body was anticipating something violent when the plane finally touched down. Sleep was never going to happen.

We landed at RAAF Base Pearce some 13 hours after departing Amberley. It was early in the evening and the sun was still up. I wondered what we'd be asked to do first. My imagination and pulse were running wild. Trying to
second-guess what was coming created additional angst. I knew if I was to be there at the end I would have to settle down and back myself. There would probably be confusion and mayhem, perhaps a lot of yelling, but I decided I would react to whatever instructions were thrown my way and to nothing else. I wasn't going to be crippled by the nervous energy that had silenced the plane.

The rear ramp was lowered and hot air rushed into the aircraft. I felt nervous but in control. I saw a couple of SAS soldiers dressed in military fatigues standing on the tarmac behind the aircraft, their eyes focused on the C130. I knew they were SAS soldiers because they wore the trademark sandy beret. I had never seen an SAS soldier in the flesh before.

A confident man with a deep voice walked onto the aircraft. He was around six feet tall, of medium build and aged in his forties. Although I have a clear image of this man in my mind, including his expressionless face and confronting stare, I can't recall the precise words he spoke.

I'm very much a visual person. I'm often able to recall detailed information, mainly numbers and images, from my past. It's not always a good thing – my mind is cluttered with lots of useless information. Abstract things seem to be etched most deeply, such as the names of three Russian gymnasts from the 1988 Seoul Olympics – Dmitry Bilozerchev, Valeri Liukin and Vladimir Artemov. I saw their names on the bottom of the television screen in white bold writing, thought they were a little weird and have never forgotten them. Although this level of recall has been a useful skill, there are also ghastly images rolling around in my head that remain too clear. I wish this wasn't the case
but I'm resigned to the fact that these memories will never fade, not even a little.

Upon exiting the aircraft at RAAF Base Pearce, we retrieved our equipment, were marched off the runway to a sparsely vegetated area and told to line up. We were facing the setting sun. As we stood at ease – our feet shoulder-width apart and our hands crossed behind our backs – the wing sergeant major (WSM) introduced himself and mentioned the names and positions of a couple of other people. We were told to remember these names.

He then had a question for us: ‘Can anybody tell me the role of the SAS?'

There was no way I was going to open my mouth. But there were a number of soldiers who were keen to be recognised.

‘Reconnaissance,' said one man.

‘Yes, strategic reconnaissance. What else?' said the WSM.

‘Counter-terrorism,' said another.

‘What else?'

‘Gather intelligence.'

And then came an answer that took us all by surprise.

‘Kill people.'

‘What was that?' said the WSM.

‘Kill people,' said the man, even louder than before.

Even if someone truly believed such a thing, who in their right mind would say something so ridiculous?
I thought to myself.

The WSM didn't miss a beat. ‘Kill people, you think? Well, the last person I killed was someone who tried out for selection and didn't drink enough water.'

The WSM called out our names, and in groups of 12 we were ordered to grab our kits and jump on the trucks.
Once we were in, the rear canopy was tied down, leaving us sweating in the dark. The drivers drove fast, revving their vehicles hard. I looked at the other shadowy figures seated around me. Some heads were down, others flicked nervously to and fro, but no one said a word.

The truck stopped, the rear canopy was unlaced and we were told to get out. I saw a dozen soldiers swimming in a murky 25-metre pool, and dozens more lined up, waiting for their turn. We were told to remove our boots and everything from our pockets. My right ankle was heavily strapped with my foot locked at right-angles to my lower leg. I had wrongly presumed we would be doing a hell-march when we arrived in WA. I removed the strapping tape, revealing a tender, swollen joint.

We were required to swim 300 metres while dressed in military fatigues. The first 100 metres had to be freestyle, and after that any stroke was permissible. I recognised a regular army corporal from another Enoggera-based infantry battalion. He had a powerful build, was aged in his late twenties, and was the first in his squad to complete the swim.

This guy and I had crossed paths at least half a dozen times while training in Brisbane. On two occasions, while we were both weighed down with heavy packs, we walked past each other from opposite directions. It's obvious when someone is training for selection. I said: ‘Good morning, Corporal,' but received no reply. I described the man to my platoon sergeant and he immediately knew who I was enquiring about.

‘That's Jay,' he said. ‘He's a real tough bastard, a jet' – army slang for a high-performing soldier. ‘He'll piss it in.'

The next time I saw Jay he was shuffling down the mountain while I was stomping up. When we were no more than a metre apart, I looked him in the eye and said, ‘G'day, Corporal.'

This time he sneered and shook his head, as if disgusted that a soldier with less than 12 months' experience in the army had the gall to attempt selection, or even to speak to him.
Arrogant prick
, I thought. I have never rated people who look down on others. It doesn't matter what you own, how many degrees you have, where you live, what you do for a job or what position you hold – if you're a wanker, your cock is all you've got, and all you're ever going to be.

Jay stood at the end of the pool, removed his shirt and waited for the second phase of the test: a 25-metre swim underwater while wearing camouflage pants. Once again Jay was first, breaking the surface looking composed and confident. At least half the guys in his squad failed this test.

Then it was my turn. I was then a pretty average swimmer, capable of swimming a kilometre in approximately 19 or 20 minutes. Swimming freestyle while dressed in military fatigues is especially tough, as you cannot glide. I was no Grant Hackett but had no trouble completing the first swim. I exited the pool behind two others and waited for the remainder of our squad to finish. Our next test was the 25-metre underwater swim.

I was surprised by how many guys were failing this test. I dived into the water knowing that if I was to fail, they would be pulling me from the water unconscious. I would not break the surface before I touched the opposite wall,
no matter how much it hurt. I'd drink the pool dry and crawl along the bottom if I had to. I was excited and swam quickly, burning up lots of oxygen. The cam pants were a hindrance, and so too was the filthy water, which made it impossible to gauge the end. More than half of our squad failed the test, possibly because their nervous energy robbed them of oxygen. I was pleased to have passed.