Warrior Training (7 page)

Day six, Monday 27 March 1995, was a big day. We were woken earlier than normal. The usual nervous mayhem of not knowing what's going on buzzed through our hootchies like a swarm of bees on adrenaline.

‘Dress is cams, webbing and packs,' someone yelled. ‘Weigh your packs – we're doing the 20-clicker.'

I ran to the scales to weigh my gear. We were told that our packs must weigh a minimum of 20 kilograms and our webbing at least eight kilograms. But we weren't permitted to remove weight if we were over. My pack and webbing weighed 26.5 kilograms and 9.5 kilograms. With my rifle, I'd be running with 40 kilos.

We marched to the start line and assembled in squads, which were dispatched at 60-second intervals. One by one the groups departed. Some men walked, some ran, most shuffled. Eight Squad would be the second-last to leave, seven minutes behind the first group. The seven minutes would be deducted from our times at the end.

I had no intention of doing this test again. A couple of guys in our squad had talked about doing it together.
No way
, I thought. This was an individual test. With the exception of any hills and drinks breaks, my plan was to shuffle the entire way.

Finally, it was our turn to leave. My heart was already beating hard when we lined up. We were told to go, and go
I did. I was determined to pass this test the first time. For the first couple of minutes my legs felt heavy, but I soon settled into a rhythm. I was the first from Eight Squad to reach the trailing members of Seven Squad.

‘Hey, take it easy, mate – you'll burn out,' someone yelled.

I felt pretty good so didn't take any notice. I ran for 20 minutes, before slowing down to take a few sips of water. Trying to hold your breath and drink when your body is craving oxygen is always a struggle. I occasionally got it wrong, coughing and spluttering as water was sucked into my lungs. I continued running before I put my water bottle away.

After an hour I had passed at least half the starters. I knew Rog was in Two Squad and I was looking forward to saying g'day. Fifteen minutes later I recognised his stocky frame shuffling along the track some 200 metres down the hill. I increased my efforts, running almost as fast as I could, and pulled alongside him. He wasn't wearing a hat, and streams of sweat ran down his face and neck.

‘Hey, mate, I've been trying to catch you for the last 75 minutes,' I said. ‘How're you feeling?'

‘Yeah, okay. What about you?' he said.

‘Same. Feet are burning, though.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘I'm gonna get going,' I said. ‘Smash it, mate!'

‘Grab me a beer when you get there,' said Rog with a smile on his face.

I picked up the pace and didn't stop running until I came to a steeper section of track. Halfway up, two guys shuffled past me.
What the fuck?
I thought I was going hard.
Except for the SI, who wasn't carrying a pack, these were the only guys to pass me. I must admit, it did piss me off.

I saw several DS at a drinks station halfway up the hill to my front. There was also a man with a video camera. I filled up my water bottles and followed the track to the right. I knew there were at least four guys in front of me.

The track wound its way up the mountain. I stopped shuffling and walked fast. The sound of approaching footsteps behind me took me by surprise.
I don't believe it – not someone else overtaking me
, I thought. I glanced over my shoulder and started running when I saw it was the SI.

‘Are you coming first, trainee Fennell?'

He knows my name – surely that can't be good. So much for being the grey man
. ‘No, sir. I'm the first member of Eight Squad, but I know of at least four others in front.'

‘Why do you want to be an SAS soldier?'

‘I love soldiering and I want to take it to the highest level, sir.'

‘What will you do if you don't pass the course?'

‘I'm not considering that option, sir.'

‘That's a bold statement.'

‘No, sir. If I fail the course then I will be discharged from full-time service.'

‘Why's that?'

I then explained the ready reserve.

‘Well, don't worry about that. The regular army can keep the fodder. We're after thinking soldiers,' he said, smiling.

The SI didn't say a lot, but his body language and comments appeared positive. I reached the top of the hill. ‘Excuse me, sir,' I said, ‘I'm going to double-time.'

‘Don't let me hold you back,' he said.

I started running. Twenty metres later the SI ran past me and soon disappeared.
Bastard
, I thought. My feet felt like they were on fire. I kept on running.

I looked at my watch and thought that the end would have to be close. I reached another water station and, this time, the DS recorded my name.
This was strange
, I thought.

A kilometre later, a DS approached me and asked, ‘Trainee, how far do you think you have to go?'

‘I'm not sure – it could be another five kilometres,' I said.

‘Five kilometres?' he said, surprised. ‘How's your time and space?'

‘I believe the last water station was approximately 20 kilometres, sir. By my estimates, I should have already finished.'

The DS smiled and nodded his head. ‘Fair enough.'

Around the corner was the finish line, and I was eighth to cross. We had to provide our trainee and squad numbers.

‘Trainee 67, Eight Squad,' I said.

The sergeant PTI, a short, balding man with an athletic build and dark hairy legs, looked up from his time sheet and said, ‘Eight Squad? Well done. That's an excellent time. Go and dump your pack over there and get yourself a drink.'

I removed my boots and socks to inspect my feet. Apart from a large blood blister underneath my right big toe, my feet were fine. My ankle, still heavily strapped, felt like it was being strangled. I made a slight cut in the strapping, which did relieve the pressure.

A medic came to inspect my feet. ‘I can drain that blood blister for you and pump it full of antiseptic to help dry it out, if you like?'

‘Yes please,' I said.

He drained the blister, filled a five-millilitre syringe with a yellowish fluid and smiled. ‘I forgot to tell you – this shit really stings.'

I did my best to show no emotion, but my big toe was totally freaking out. My diary entry that night said it all: ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch, instant fucking burn.'

I threw on a fresh set of socks, stretched my legs and tried to eat a cold bacon and egg sandwich. I was stoked to have passed the test.

That afternoon, we were tested on our basic signalling, medical and weapon skills. Test one: set up an ANPR 77 radio and use correct ratel (radio telecommunications) procedures. Test two: treat an array of medical conditions, from heat illness and leg fractures to snake bites. Test three: basic weapon handling.

Three hours later, the corporal PTI with the massive guns smashed the hell out of us with metal pipes. He didn't bash us with them – it was a weights session – but I probably would have preferred it to the 90-minute flogging our shoulders and arms received.

At midnight we received a lesson on Morse code.
Alpha – dit-dah; Bravo – dah-dit-dit-dit; Charlie – dah-dit-dah-dit
…

I woke early the next morning. My first thought was:
Made it to day seven
. It was now Tuesday 28 March. My legs, hips, lower back and shoulders were as stiff as they'd ever been. I no longer tried to anticipate how many days there were to go. Thinking too far ahead was dangerous. When things became more challenging, I even broke my
day up into two-hourly blocks.
Made it to 1000 hours; midday; 1400 hours …

The day began with another physical test – a 15-kilometre hell run. Once again, our dress was cams, webbing (eight kilograms), boots and rifle. It was less than 24 hours since we'd completed the 20-kilometre pack run, and most guys were heavily fatigued.

After two kilometres my legs loosened up and I maintained a steady cadence. At approximately 10 kilometres, while running up a sharp gradient, I noticed a sniper from the 3rd Battalion ahead. Battalion snipers are some of the most highly respected soldiers. I increased my pace and caught him up. We were at a similar physical standard; we'd consistently finished near each other on the previous physical tests.

‘Hey, mate, how're your legs?' he asked.

‘Pretty fatigued,' I replied.

‘Let's smash it to the top of this hill,' he said.

‘Yeah, let's do it.'

Halfway up, he said: ‘Keep going, mate; I'm gonna walk for a bit.'

I felt okay so I continued on. I finished in fourth place in a time of 97 minutes and six seconds. My legs were shattered. We'd been allowed 100 minutes to complete the run, and more than half the course had failed.

As soon as I had finished, I felt my legs begin to tighten. I pulled out a water bottle, took small sips and stretched. I saw Rog come in. His legs were also starting to cramp, so we helped each other stretch, offering words of encouragement. I stood up, spun around and noticed the SI standing directly behind me. Wearing a dark set of
sunglasses and a blank face, he'd been listening to our conversation. It was slightly unnerving – this time he gave away nothing.

We were then ordered to line up and were told we would be running the 15 kilometres back to Bindoon training camp.
Holy shit
, I thought. My legs were hammered.

A couple of guys remained seated. They'd had enough and voluntarily removed themselves from the course. The rest of us began the march. Five hundred metres down the road there were several trucks. We were told to get on and were driven back to camp.

The first week of the course was designed to wear us down, to remove our protective shells and expose the quality of the flesh beneath, to weed out the majority of those who were unsuitable. After just those seven days, there were 80 or 90 empty stretchers at base camp. Seeing this enhanced my self-belief. The intense physical testing ensures that applicants are at the minimum physical standard required, but it also deliberately wears them out, so that their performance in the more challenging phases of the course will reveal their true persona – what lies beneath the surface.

After breakfast, it was time for more mind games. The SI assembled the course and told everyone that he had lost his compass and that we had to help him find it. We were also told to bring our packs and webbing. The SI's pack did not cut into his shoulders the same way that ours did. Nor was he hunched over, which suggested to me that his pack was
filled with perhaps just a bulky sleeping bag and a pillow. Holding a map upside down, he began walking down the road. He was a tall man with long legs – this guy could stomp hard.

The pace was frantic, and within 20 minutes soldiers were strung out over hundreds of metres. The SI told our lead group of eight or nine soldiers to keep going, and to stop in the shade some 200 metres up the track. For the first time on the course, he also offered some words of encouragement. ‘Well done, men. I'll be back in a few minutes.'

As soon as the SI left us, one soldier – a guy who was struggling to keep pace – vented: ‘Fucking slow it down, guys …' His whining antics continued all the way to the shade.

The SI returned a few minutes later and it was on again. I was up the front and on his left side. I struggled to match his stride and so had to continuously break into a shuffle to keep pace. It was a hot day and the dry air stripped our mouths and throats of moisture. Fifteen minutes later the SI once again stopped our lead group. To say I was relieved was an understatement.

He stormed off and when he came back, his voice was terse. ‘As you can see,' he said, ‘I have split the course into three groups: those who are serious, those who are undecided, and those who are wasting our time. Group one, you will march with me. We've cut away the crap, now keep up.'