Warrior Training (3 page)

Our platoon was expected to be sent to the infantry training centre in Singleton, but as it was already at full capacity we were sent straight to Brisbane, along with another nine or 10 platoons – some 300 soldiers in all. Although the training program there was comparable, I did feel a little ripped-off. We arrived at Enoggera, in Brisbane, in the early afternoon; unlike at Kapooka, where we'd been met by half a dozen screaming instructors, our opening address was almost civil. Later that day we were taken for a run around the area and introduced to Enoggera Hill. The weather was humid, the road steep. I have no doubt that Townsville's Castle Hill and Enoggera Hill in Brisbane are two of the most challenging short runs around.

Over the next three months we were trained as infanteers. The physical training (PT) – a blend of circuits, runs
and battle training – was brilliant. My favourite session was the obstacle course: a series of walls, river crossings, traverse ropes and towers. Towards the end of our infantry training, Rog – a stocky and confident soldier – and I applied for the SAS selection course. We both passed the physical, aptitude and psychological testing and were fortunate to be given the chance to attempt the course the following year. Most infantry soldiers are required to spend a couple of years in the Battalion.

Obstacle course, basic training.

We had no idea what we were in for – the challenge was daunting. If we were to listen to all the negative comments about how impossible it was to make it into the SAS, then we would have failed the course before it even began. At the completion of infantry training, I was presented with an award for ‘best at physical training', which definitely enhanced my confidence.

I tried to imagine what sort of man made it into the SAS. How much fitter or stronger could they be? Physically,
Rog and I were in the best shape of our lives. We just had to believe in ourselves. I had never met an SAS soldier or knew anyone who had passed the selection course, but I was certain that even SAS soldiers were human.

Our platoon spent most of the next five months on field training exercises near Quilpe, a hot, dry area 1000 kilometres west of Brisbane. One late afternoon our section was allocated a defensive position along the bank of a river. I was lying near a log and kept myself amused by taking aim at a couple of sheep that were grazing on the opposite bank. There didn't appear to be a lot to eat.

I had a sick sense that someone or something was looking at me. My right ribs were flush against a large hole in the log. I shuffled back a little and peered inside. I was initially intrigued by a pair of beady dark eyes less than 20 centimetres from mine. I thought they belonged to a mouse. Then the creature stuck out its tongue and slithered towards me.

Instantly I lost all composure. ‘Aahh!' I shouted as I rolled out of the way, my left hand coming up to protect my neck. The snake followed me, positioned itself atop the log and flared its neck. It was a healthy specimen with a girth the size of my lower arm.

Locky, a bushy who was a natural with a rifle, also leapt out of the way. ‘Hey, Keithy, when you get back to Brisbane go and get yourself a lottery ticket. That's a king brown. If it had nailed ya' on the face or neck out here then it would have been all over.'

I didn't say anything but just stood there holding my neck.

Locky looked at my face and laughed.

‘I thought it was a mouse so I didn't bother moving,' I said.

‘You fuckin' idiot,' said Locky, laughing harder.

In October 1994 our platoon was sent to Brunei for a month of jungle training. Vietnam movies like
Platoon
give an accurate impression of the sounds, insects and weather of jungle operations, but I was still surprised, after just a five-day patrol, by how taxing that environment can be.

The humidity underneath the canopy is stifling. With no breeze, the air remains thick and dense. I have seen guys hyperventilate and panic during arduous physical activity. They complain of not being able to breathe; they gasp, with large frightened eyes, like a smoker who suffers from emphysema. Everyone is soaked from head to toe by his own perspiration. If a patrol is to last for five days, then you generally remain wet for five days.

Jungle training camp, Brunei.

When your skin stays wet in a humid environment, the onset of ‘prickly heat' or heat rash is inevitable. The pores of your skin become clogged, meaning the skin struggles to breathe. As the sweat glands release fluid, the moisture is trapped beneath the skin, creating a profound stinging sensation and a red rash.

The first time I experienced prickly heat was while eating a canteen of steaming noodles in the Bruneian jungle. I was nearing the end of my meal when, as a result of the hot food inside my stomach, I began to sweat. I stopped eating – which in itself is significant! – and pulled up my shirt, as I was certain I was being mauled by insects. After one of the boys checked my back and gave me the all clear, I resumed eating. As the hot noodles slid down my oesophagus into my stomach, my body began to perspire again.

What in the hell is going on?
I thought. I felt as though my skin was bursting underneath the surface. Upon further inspection, a mate noticed I had a red rash all over my ribs and back.

‘You've got heat rash,' said another. ‘It sucks – I get it all the time.' He then pulled out a couple of alcohol swabs and scrubbed my back. Instant relief!

When operating in the jungle, depending on the tactical situation, you should always attempt to go to bed dry. As a minimum, we learnt to replace our socks or our feet would soon rot. Having said that, soldiers will generally only carry one spare set of clothing, and monsoonal rain is pretty difficult to hide from. Within three days, most of our clothing and sleeping equipment would be damp. Then it's just a matter of sucking it up and enjoying the
experience for what it is – a chance to bond with nature.

One time, while lying in an ambush and being belted by rain on a training exercise, the guy to my left side looked at me and smiled.

‘That's better,' he whispered.

‘Did you just do a piss?' I asked, a disturbed look on my face.

‘Yeah, I was freezing. Now I'm warm.'

Some men are able to hold it together and some aren't. While on patrol, our platoon was instructed to halt while the section commanders conferred with the platoon commander. I was the section 2IC and sat on the track with everyone else. My section commander was annoyed with this and thought I should know better. Unable to control his frustration, on his way back through the men he launched a boot into my right kidney. I was caught unaware and winded. My face filled with blood, my eyes flashed. It was a struggle, but I dumped my pack and began to stand up. He had apologised before I was on my feet, so my angry red face and I sat back down.

By December of 1994 I was nearing the end of a promotion course – subject two for corporal – and was looking forward to getting home for a few weeks. In my quest to be different, I left a message on my girlfriend's answering machine. I rambled on with some banal account of what we'd been up to before casually asking her to marry me. I didn't find out her answer for 10 days. My anxious wait ended with the completion of the field phase of the course. Colleen said yes.

Our final parade was held at the 8/9 RAR boozer. I didn't bother having a beer. The remainder of our platoon had been granted leave a week before. Three of us – including Bradd, a mate who would later make it into the Regiment and narrowly avoid being turned into a tea strainer by the Taliban – decided to drive from Brisbane to Sydney as soon as we knocked off. We left in a convoy: three shitty cars with three impatient drivers. We hadn't had a decent night's sleep for nearly 10 days. The sensible thing to have done would have been to tackle the drive the following morning after a full night's sleep. Instead, driven by impatience and a strong desire for sex, we rolled out of Enoggera at 1600 that afternoon.

Nine hours later I woke up to the sound of tyres on gravel and a honking horn. My car had left the road, and I was lucky to avoid some large trees. I had fallen asleep, and chances were it would happen again. Bradd had seen my car drift then leave the road, so he'd slammed his hand on the horn.

I got out of my car and approached the white lights behind me, embarrassed and half-grinning.

‘I just saved your life, dickhead,' said Bradd, smiling.

‘Yeah, that was close. I'm going to get my head down for a few hours,' I said.

‘Yeah, I felt myself go a couple of times too,' said Bradd. ‘What time do you wanna get going?'

‘About five … or whenever we wake up,' I said.

We made it home and I got engaged. For me, life carried on.

I enjoyed my time in the Battalion, but I was never content. Training for the SAS selection course dominated my thoughts the way a writer dreams of getting published. My desire to be an SAS soldier was all-consuming.

There are those in life who whine about missed opportunities. ‘I could have made the Olympic swim team … I've always wanted to trek through Nepal … I could have been a doctor … I wish I'd spent more time with my kids when they were young … I should have tried out for the SAS …'

Some people prefer to pull others down, to make excuses about why others have achieved – rather than addressing the real reasons for why they themselves did not. Surely those who spend hours worrying about what others are doing would be a little more content if they kept life simple and concentrated on themselves. Then there are people who call others lucky: ‘She's lucky, he's lucky, they're lucky … I'm so unlucky.'

I believe people generally create their own luck – it's called hard work.

While I was training for the SAS selection course, I was chastised by one man who had recently been posted to the 6th Battalion as a section commander. He'd previously been a member of a reconnaissance platoon in one of the
Townsville infantry battalions and had a grandiose opinion of himself. When he heard I was panelled for selection even though I had only been in the army for 10 months, he became irritated.

‘Hey, private – I hear you're doing the Cadre Course,' he began.

‘Yes,' I said.

‘Yes,
Corporal
,' he replied with a sly grin on his face, looking to his left and right to make sure others were taking notice.

I bit my tongue and played the game. ‘Yes, Corporal.' There was no doubt about it.
You're a tool
, I thought.

‘How much fuckin' nav ya' done?' he asked, referring to navigation.

‘I completed subject two for corporal, which enabled me to square my nav away, Corporal.'

‘Huh, I heard about that fuckin' course. The Cadre is nearly all nav. It takes a soldier three or four years to get the skills. Without solid nav, you won't have a chance.'

I found out afterwards that this guy had previously attempted selection. He made it to the end of the first week. I made a mental note of our conversation and used it on selection for motivation when things got tough.

The army was beginning to look like an all or nothing option, at least in the short term. If I failed the SAS selection course, then I was to be discharged from full time service. I joined the Ready Reserve scheme, a one-year commitment, due to missing the regular enlistment by a few weeks. I was not prepared to wait another 12 months
and was told during enlistment that I would be able to transfer to the regular army at the completion of my 12-month obligation. The training was the same so I signed on. What we weren't told was that the politicians were determined to make the scheme a success. For this to happen, soldiers were required to return for 35 days of continuation training each year. Obviously, if soldiers were absorbed into the regular army, this would not be possible. It was decided that soldiers who had completed promotion or specialist courses were of value to the scheme so would not be offered regular positions. You gotta love performance punishment. At the end of the year, seven soldiers from our company were offered the opportunity to join the regular army. My platoon sergeant, Howie, knew I would be pissed so called me into his office.

On exercises in south-east Queensland with the 6th Battalion.

‘Hey, Fennell, the army, just like life, isn't always fair. What can we do about it? Nothin'. You want regs?'

‘Yes, Sergeant,' I replied.

‘Then all you gotta do is pass the selection course. If you don't get injured you'll go alright. You're fit enough. Don't worry about how long you've been in the army. Those SAS flogbags will teach ya' everything you need to know.'

I liked Howie. Behind his fiery sergeant persona, was a man who cared about his guys.

‘I was a sergeant by 26 and now I'm a fat bastard who gets to sort out admin bullshit for guys like you.'

His honesty made me laugh.

‘You'd get bored in the battalion. Why stuff around, you know what ya' want. Now piss off and go run up the mountain or do whatever bullshit you need to do to make sure you get in.'

I thanked Howie for his advice and left his office feeling pumped. I was getting married so it would have been nice to have had the security of a fulltime job if I failed the course, but the uncertainty made me more determined.

After our engagement party, Col and I returned to Canberra, where she was employed at a local radio station. While she was at work, I would train, preparing myself for the SAS selection course. After a few days, a couple of mates, Arny and Rog, came down to visit. Rog, who looked a little like Tom Cruise – when Tom Cruise was still cool – was also with us when Col selected her engagement ring. She has never been intimidated by the
relationships I have with my mates. In a sense, my brothers are her brothers.

Rog and I were both attempting selection, so we donned packs and tackled some of the mountains around Canberra. I had marvelled at the steepness of the terrain many times and often aspired to take them on. Although the area was private property, I couldn't resist the temptation to scale a steep mountain. For me, walking somewhere for the first time, taking in the angles, colours, vegetation and terrain, is far more exhilarating than a ride on a rollercoaster. I get to choose the speed of ascent and how hard I make my heart beat. It's a time when money and possessions mean nothing, like taking off on a wave, when the immediacy of living the moment means complete and utter freedom.

The immediacy of living the moment.

If I succeeded and was accepted into the SAS, then Col and I would be moving to Perth. In Canberra, Col's boss and close friend Jacqueline was less than thrilled at the prospect of Colleen being taken away. She thought SAS soldiers were psychopaths, so from the day I met her she referred to me as ‘Killer'.

‘So, Killer, tell me – what are you going to do if you don't make it into the SAS?'

I felt like I was being interrogated by my girlfriend's father. I had no idea what else I wanted to do. My sole employment ambition was to join the SAS. Nothing else turned me on. Being unemployed and clueless about where I was heading was not the answer Colleen's over-protective friend wanted to hear. So I said: ‘I'd go to uni and get a degree.'

‘Really … What will you study?'

God, who is this woman?
I thought. ‘Mathematics. I'll be a maths teacher,' I said with little conviction. I had as much desire to be a maths teacher as I did to return to my trade as a motor mechanic – none.

‘A maths teacher? Where will you live?'

A long way from you
. ‘Brisbane, perhaps back in Wollongong,' I said, realising the importance of getting Col's friend and boss onside.

‘What about Canberra?' she asked.

Not as long as you're still there
. ‘We haven't discussed where we'd live,' I said.

Colleen wasn't concerned in the slightest and let Jac know that she would definitely be moving to Perth. ‘He'll get in,' she said, as she poured chocolate syrup over her favourite meal – pancakes and ice cream.

I appreciated Col's belief in me, but although I knew I would never voluntarily remove myself from the course, I planned to approach the course just one day at a time. Colleen maintained this unflinching confidence in my ability throughout my years in the Regiment, never allowing the thought that I could be killed. This wasn't the case during my time running operations in Iraq and Afghanistan as a contractor, however. Waking up in the middle of the night drenched in perspiration as I wrestled with tactical options did catch her attention when I was at home.

Despite keeping Col well-informed – and this helped – it wasn't until she read
Warrior Brothers
and gained access to some of my most private thoughts that she fully realised the fragility of the soldier's lifestyle.

I returned to the Battalion in Brisbane on 4 January 1995. The SAS selection course was 11 weeks away. Three days later we deployed up north for our final six-week training exercise. Although it was difficult to find the time for extra training sessions when we were out bush, Rog and I were issued double rations. Instead of eating one disgusting can of ham and egg each day, we were able to chow down on two. This would have to be my least favourite meal in the military. Purely out of interest, I have eaten dog food before – both the tinned and biscuit varieties. The biscuits are alright, but tinned dog food is very, very average. Still, I would probably consider ham and egg to be even viler.

Due to exercise constraints, we were afforded very little time to train. A couple of 3.2-kilometre webbing runs, augmented with push-up and sit-up circuits, were as good
as it got. But that all changed as soon as we returned to Brisbane. Where possible, we followed the SAS's three-month training program, pounding the roads and tracks around Enoggera. But it didn't take long for our feet to fall apart. We tried everything, from wearing a thin second pair of socks, to regular soakings with Condy's crystals and spraying our feet with methylated spirits diluted with water. We'd already missed several weeks of training so, rather than allowing our feet time to heal, we taped them up and kept going.