Warrior Training (11 page)

‘Mate,' he told me, ‘I know I've said it before, but I just want to apologise for giving you shit at the Swanny that night. Bloody hell – of all the guys to have a crack at!'

I laughed. ‘Yeah, don't worry about it. We were young and you were full of piss.'

‘No excuse. I was a prick. It's always bothered me, mate, and I just wanted to let you know.'

‘You do know you did me a favour? You guys inspired me to go harder.'

‘Bullshit! You would have gone hard anyway.'

This guy later sent me an inspiring email after reading
Warrior Brothers
. He didn't have to, but he took the time to craft something special. I realised then that we can all be hypercritical beasts at times, but those who grow the most are those who reflect with the deepest honesty.

SAS soldiers are selected for their ability to think clearly during high-stress situations. This sometimes means suppressing your natural survival instincts. The comprehensive training SAS soldiers receive, coupled with mental preparation – mentally rehearsing the sequence of actions that are to be carried out – allows them to make the right decision in a timely manner. This training once saved my life.

We were on a parachute training exercise. As we all fitted our parachutes – pulling down on the leg straps, wiggling our hips and making grunting noises – an outsider would have thought we were engaged in some kind of torturous bonding ritual. You then have to bend over and heave on your shoulder straps. As you attempt to stand up it feels like your neck and genitals have been squashed into your stomach.

If a rogue testicle isn't tucked away properly, it is now that a man will pay the price: the straps will tear into his groin without remorse. It's easy to tell if a man has been a little careless when packing himself away, because a leg strap biting into a testicle is not something a man can hide. His face will contort, and a web of veins in his face and neck will pulse to the surface. This is usually followed by a squeal that would embarrass a kitten as he bends over again, his fingers frantically trying to free himself. SAS soldiers are a passionate lot; besides laughing, they may
well come to their mate's aid and further tighten his shoulder straps.

Standing semi-hunched while waiting for parachute safety checks is as much fun as walking barefoot across a lawn full of bindies. I ogled the safety supervisor who was methodically working his way down the line, wondering why he was taking so long. I then noticed that he too was squashed into a parachute harness, and that his face had taken on the same hue as an overripe tomato.

He arrived – grinning – and began tugging at my equipment. ‘Hey, Fenno, your static line looks dodgy. I'd use another parachute if I was you.'

‘You freefall pussies are such pessimists,' I replied. ‘It's only 1000 feet and we're landing in water – we probably don't even need a parachute.'

We were conducting an ‘over the horizon' night jump, and the wind was gusting at 20 to 25 knots, the maximum allowable speed when jumping into water. Although we were jumping ‘roundies', with a 50-kilogram pack hanging off the front of our harnesses, we had no fears about breaking a leg or shortening our spines, since we were only jumping into water.

Our Squadron Sergeant Major bellowed at us: ‘Zulu One, winds are on limits but we'll make the decision whether or not you jump once we're over the drop zone. Move to the aircraft!'

We grabbed our packs and waddled out the hangar door towards the C130 aircraft, relieved that we would soon be in the water and able to take a piss. Once aboard, no one switches off. We fitted our seatbelts and silently recited the order in which things will take place.
The
sooner we exit this claustrophobic, gut-wrenching machine, the better
, I thought.

‘Six minutes,' the safety supervisor shouted, and we repeated his call down the line.

We stood up, hung our packs off the front of our harnesses, and then attached our parachute static lines to the cable overhead. The faint red glow illuminating the cabin was soon interrupted by another safety supervisor, who moved down the line with a flashlight, blinding the boys as he carried out his final safety checks. All joviality was now gone, and the men had moved into their own private worlds of deep concentration. The safety supervisor remained professional and offered little more than a wink and reassuring slap on the shoulder to confirm that my checks were complete.

With the rear ramp down, the three-minute call was silenced as the wind lashed the rear of the aircraft. The 30-second call saw us shuffle into position, bunched tight, adrenaline coursing through our bodies. All the men were wearing their fins – flippers – to negate any additional hassle when we hit the water. The only possible drawback, besides catching the wind as we exit the aircraft and being flipped upside down, would be a slightly delayed departure. We were to follow our two Zodiacs – four-metre black boats powered by twin 25-horsepower engines – out of the aircraft, and for every additional second we wait before jumping, we can expect a 100-metre swim. A four-second delay equates to a good 400 metres. We waited, staring at the red light and willing it to turn green.

The green light kickstarted our hearts and our boats punched into the night, their large parachutes springing to
life. We attempted to drive hard off the ramp, but with the hindrance of our fins we could only dribble out the back like penguins, falling head first and off balance. My fins caught the wind and I flipped over onto my back. My sweaty hands remained white-knuckled across my reserve chute, ready to deploy it should it be required.

Parachuting into Singapore Harbour.

My chute opened with a violent jolt.
My testicles may well be squashed
, I thought,
but there's no time to ponder such trivialities
. It was time to unlock my toggles and steer towards the boats, which themselves would soon be in the water. Fixated on the closest craft, I willed myself across the black sky. Thirty feet above the water, I undid my chest-snap – the clip that secured the top of my harness – and unclipped my left capewell – a metal tab – to expose the small wire ring that, when pulled, would collapse one side of my parachute.

I assessed my speed and noticed that I was flying backwards. The water reflected just enough light to show me that I was going to land hard. I began to breathe quickly, trying to time my last breath before I made contact. The
black water was flying under my feet like a treadmill on full speed.

I slammed into the water, and the gentle sound of the wind was overwhelmed by the gushing waves that filled my ears. I exhaled through my nose and mouth as I tugged at my left capewell, attempting to collapse the parachute, but the fucker would not release – it had seized up, perhaps because of one too many saltwater jumps. The wind gusted hard and I was dragged underwater, the parachute now acting as a kite.

My pack was still attached to my stomach, as I hadn't bothered to lower the line – it was just another thing to get tangled in the water. My heart was sprinting and my lungs were begging for air. With a greater level of commitment and using both hands, I wrenched on my capewell again, but still it refused to release.

I was caught in an ugly place. My instincts were to claw at the surface and attempt to get my head above water, but my training – a voice that was beginning to fade – told me to settle the fuck down and to try my other capewell. I reached to my right shoulder to locate the coin-like tab at the apex, but the cold water was inhibiting my dexterity. I felt like a beetle trapped on its back.

My body was pulled taut as the wind screamed again. To conserve my energy, I had to resist the urge to kick and thrash my way towards the surface. Finally, I located my right capewell, released the tab, put my thumb through the ring and pulled hard.
If only masturbation was this exciting
. I was still underwater, but my speed appeared finally to be slowing. My head broke the surface, I gasped for air and my chute collapsed into the water.

After half a dozen salt-watery coughs, I removed my leg snaps, pack, belly band and lowering line. I pushed myself up onto my pack and did a quick 360, expecting to see a safety craft so I could offload my parachute and get going. But as I rose and fell across the swells, all I could see was dark, choppy water. There was no sign of the red Cyalume glowsticks that should be illuminating the boats.

Although I was supposed to hand the apex of my parachute to a safety craft, I had no intention of wrestling with it in the dark. The harness, which I was holding in my left hand, would have to do. I removed a green Cyalume from my right wetsuit sleeve, cracked it and waved it above my head. I did another 360-degree turn but met with only cold, eerie darkness. I was 20 nautical miles off the West Australian coast, and unpleasant thoughts of what might be lurking beneath me briefly entered my mind, but there was little point worrying about the outcome of what would have been a brief and one-sided encounter.

After another 20 minutes passed, I saw the glow of a safety craft some 200 metres away. Again I waved the Cyalume above my head, before placing it in my mouth so I could kick more firmly to keep my head above water. I held onto my pack with my right hand, only letting go every now and then to wave the Cyalume towards the safety craft. My parachute had submerged completely, and remaining afloat required a sustained effort. I was no longer bobbing above the swells but was dragged through them by my heavy parachute.

After 35 minutes in the water I was struggling to stay afloat. I considered ditching my parachute but decided that drowning would probably be less embarrassing.
I'll reassess
after 45 minutes
, I thought. Finally, after about 40 minutes, a safety craft meandered over. I passed my parachute harness to the bowman.

‘Hey, mate,' he said. ‘Both your boats are upside down – the closest one is probably 300 metres that way. If you have trouble finding it just give us a wave. We've still got one more guy to account for.'

I selected a star on the horizon as a point of reference and set off, relieved to be free of my parachute. I reached the boat 10 minutes later. It had been flipped upside down and its engines were full of water. As we worked on the engines in the dark – removing the spark plugs and pulling the engines over – the heavy seas and sickly waft of fuel saw all of us share the contents of our stomachs with the ocean. Twenty minutes later we were ready to go.

‘Hey, guys,' yelled a man from the safety craft. ‘The wind's picked up, so the exercise has been cancelled.'

Damn! Those fucking freefallers miss out again
, I thought. I pictured them taking their parachutes off and laughing as they got back on the bus. Although I knew we still had a two-hour kidney-thumping transit to go, it was nights like this that attracted me to the Regiment.

While being dragged backwards underwater, my instinct had been to thrash around in order to get my head above water. But because of the severity of the wind gusts, this would have been futile. Remaining flexible does not mean cuffing it when things go wrong. If you have a plan, then it's more efficient to modify that plan than to formulate a new solution from scratch. My training, not my instincts, helped me to make the right decisions under testing conditions.