Warrior Training (5 page)

We changed into dry fatigues and once again boarded the trucks. The stuffy darkness was less intimidating than before. Forty-five minutes later we arrived at Bindoon training area. I had no idea where we were. We were placed in squads and introduced to our directing staff (DS). I was in Eight Squad. Our DS, a fair man who had no intention of being a prick just for the sake of it, told us to ensure we thoroughly cleaned our eating utensils after each meal.

‘Most of you guys have worked hard to get here. Don't let yourselves down with poor hygiene. If you get sick, even for a day, then you won't be able to cope with what's expected. If I find food or filth on anyone's KFS' – he meant our knife, fork and spoon – ‘then you'll owe me 50 push-ups. Got it?'

‘Yes, sir,' we replied.

We then assembled in the mess tent and were addressed by the senior instructor (SI), a captain who was in charge of the course.

‘Men, welcome to the 1/95 SASR selection course. You are all going to be challenged, so I would like to offer you some words of encouragement.'

I leaned forward, keen to embrace any advice on offer.

‘But none comes to mind,' the SI said, turning his back and walking away.

Talk about an anticlimax. It was a remarkable comment that took me completely by surprise.

We were sent to bed at 2300 hours. Our accommodation comprised lines of hootchies – two ground sheets joined together, draped over a piece of rope and staked at the corners. We slept on stretcher beds. There were two men to a hootchie and 12 to 16 men in each squad.

At midnight we were woken for a fire drill. We were also informed that day one had just begun. Yesterday, which in reality was just a couple of minutes ago, was just an admin day.

On Thursday 23 March 1995, I scribbled in my diary: ‘Worst night sleep ever.' Quite a surprising comment, considering I wasn't cold or in threat of losing my life. Fear of the unknown well surpasses reality. I checked my watch and it was 0400 hours. I decided to get up early and have a shave.
This could save me some time later
, I thought.

When I reflect on other experiences I've had – especially midnight road moves I trialled in Anbar province, Iraq, when I was running the security component of a reconstruction project – I can see I learnt to deal with stressful situations quite differently.

After being heavily scrutinised by the suits in London about my decision to hit the roads at night without any night-fighting capability (weapon lasers and night-vision goggles), I knew I would come under fire from above if we were hit and lives or assets were lost. But I knew that the US marines with whom we were collocated were being mauled three times a day on the roads around Haditha
Dam. I was aware that command and control, as well as trying to vector in support assets, would be far more difficult during the hours of darkness, but in order to dodge the insurgent bombs, it was a risk I was willing to take.

Lying on a warm asphalt surface at Alasad Airbase while waiting for the most suitable departure time – 0100 hours – I had no trouble dropping off to sleep. Sure, I was anxious, but over the years I had learnt to control my thoughts in order to be able to sleep when required. I knew that the return trip to Jordan, taking 10 or 11 hours, would be mentally demanding, so a couple of hours sleep were vital if I was to remain focused. We never did get hit at night.

At 0545, my clean-shaven face was tucked deep in my sleeping bag when a song from the movie
Pulp Fiction
– ‘Stuck In the Middle With You' – screamed out of a large set of speakers that were positioned on the fringe of our hootchies. This incited mayhem; some guys ran off to the bathrooms to shave, others frantically threw on their military fatigues, others yelled questions – ‘What's the dress? What do we wear?' – while a few men just stood up and waited.

The words ‘PT kit … dress is PT kit' were passed down the lines. PT kit comprised joggers, black shorts and a white T-shirt with your surname written on the front and back. We were split into two groups and told that we would be doing a BFA – a basic fitness assessment. The BFA was the standard fitness test for the Australian military. Group one would complete the five-kilometre run (at own pace),
while group two – my group – would perform a push-up/sit-up test.

For this test, each soldier was required to do 60 push-ups to a cadence – no more, no less. I felt pretty confident. I knew I was capable of pumping out double that number in a two-minute period if required. Up to a dozen soldiers were told to stop because of poor technique. During the sit-up test, the corporal physical training instructor (PTI) berated a man who struggled to do 20 sit-ups. The required standard was 100.

‘Jellyneck, did you do any preparation at all for this course?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Bullshit! What are you doing here? You can't even do 20 sit-ups. Did you follow the three-month training program?'

‘Umm, yes, sir. Parts of it.'

‘Parts of it! If you didn't follow the program, and it is obvious you didn't, then you have no chance of passing this course. And you've probably taken the position of someone who really wanted to be here. Do you think you should continue?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘If I were you I would seriously consider my volunteer status. You're a disgrace.'

The PTI was not an abusive man, just passionate. I would later get to know him very well. Kane (my training partner in the Regiment) and I had many hardcore training sessions with this guy. He was a freak with a ridiculous set of arms. And they weren't bloated, unpractical, body-builder arms that clag out after one set of
chin-ups. These guns could pump out five sets of 20 as a warm-up. Weighing in at 90 kilograms, he was a tremendous athlete. A testament to this was his ability to win the first
Gladiator
television series. At work he ran a mean circuit, but our troop generally ran our own training.

After completing the sit-up test, we moved to the start line for the five-kilometre run. Guys from the first group had been streaming in for five minutes, then, to my surprise, Jay the corporal – the guy I'd seen in training – crossed the line in a time of over 22 minutes. Hunched over and sucking in the big ones, he no longer looked confident and composed. I'm not sure if his time was good enough to pass, but that was the last I saw of him. The next day, I noticed his bed space was empty. The jet, the tough bastard, the man who would piss it in, was out of there.

I completed the run in a time of 18 minutes and eight seconds. There were a few gazelles who kicked my arse, but I was content with my time.

After breakfast we were lined up in squads on a gravel parade ground. We were ordered to lay out our ground sheets and remove everything from our packs, webbing and echelon bags. We were also required to remove all our clothing except our underwear and hats. The air was hot and dry. I felt anxious; sweat trickled down my ribs and the soles of my feet stuck to my groundsheet. A member of the directing staff read out a list of items, one at a time, that we were instructed to hold in the air. Anyone who was missing an item had their name recorded for failing to assimilate simple instructions. They were punished later.

The DS then inspected our packs, webbing and the pockets of all our clothing to ensure we didn't have anything that wasn't on the list. If soldiers declared the items then there would be no problem. If guys were hiding things – such as food or specialist equipment – and it was found, then they would be removed from the course due to a lack of integrity. I had spent considerable time waterproofing all my equipment. The DS removed each item from its snap-lock bag with care and precision. They methodically inspected the seams of my clothing, looked for hidden compartments in my pack and thumbed their way over every inch of my belt. They displayed no emotion.

In the afternoon, two physical training instructors smashed us with a weights circuit. I enjoyed it – I was being paid to do what I loved: hard training. Our efforts were heavily scrutinised by up to 10 directing staff. We were expected to hold nothing back. For me, the most painful exercise was the tyre shoulder press. By the end of the session, most guys struggled to raise their hands above their heads, me included.

The following morning we were told to dress in military fatigues, grab our rifles and weigh our webbing – it had to weigh a minimum of eight kilograms. There was a lot of yelling and guys were running everywhere. In squads, we were marched down a track and informed that we were doing a webbing run test. The required dress was boots, cams, webbing and rifle. To pass the test, we had to complete the 3.2-kilometre course in less than 16 minutes. We were not permitted to wear a watch.

Whatever your fitness level, a webbing run is one of the
most painful and difficult physical tests in the military. The added weight sees your legs heavy with lactic acid after the first 200 metres, and your heart rate will soon be operating at its maximum beats per minute. Just like running up a steep sandhill, there is no cruise mode, even for guys who can complete the run in 12 or 13 minutes. It is a grind that burns your lungs, calves and thighs from start to finish. We weren't informed of our times, simply given a pass or fail. I finished sixth. The 20 soldiers who failed the run were given one more chance. Those who failed a second time were removed from the course.

This type of fitness – battle fitness – is critical for SAS soldiers. If SAS soldiers are in heavy contact against a numerically superior force, then they must be able to break contact while heavily laden with equipment. The stress upon their bodies – and minds – will be extreme. It's vastly different from throwing on a set of joggers and running fast. A strong will is required to embrace the pain and to continue pushing when your legs are begging to be able to walk. Those who choose to walk are those who fail.

I'd pushed hard on the run so I struggled through breakfast. I was a bit nauseated and forcing the food down only exacerbated the feeling. We then completed a navigation exercise before lunch. In the heat of the afternoon, we boarded trucks and departed. I was certain we'd be doing the airfield run, a punishing session with a huge reputation. But this wasn't the case.

We assembled in a hangar and were briefed. ‘Okay, men, yesterday you completed the BFA – the basic fitness assessment. There is nothing special about that – everyone in the military has to do it. You'll now complete the special-forces
BFA. I'm sure you'll find it a little more challenging.'

The first test was 60 push-ups.
Easy enough
, I thought. I was wrong. The cadence was agonisingly slow: just one push-up every four or five seconds. Guys who broke form were told to stand up. There were many. After 50 push-ups in three and a half minutes, my thighs began to spasm. This pissed me off. I made it to 60.

The second test was maximum chin-ups.

‘When I say “adopt the position”,' the PTI said, ‘the front row of men will grab the bar – overgrasp or undergrasp – and hang at full extension. On the command “go” you will complete one set of maximum chin-ups. Are there any questions?'

Wisely, no one answered.

‘Adopt the position.'

On this command, one man, whose thick arms were covered in tattoos, jumped on to the bar and began a frenzy of chin-ups. The directing staff repeatedly yelled at him to stop but he didn't seem to notice. He had completed 13 or 14 before he stopped. The others were made to hang at full extension while the eager man was counselled.

‘You failed to assimilate simple instruction. None of those chin-ups will count.' This was followed by silence, then: ‘Go!'

The man managed another 10. He was credited with six because of poor technique.

I was in the fifth line to begin and chose undergrasp. I completed 20 but was credited with just 16. I was not happy with this. After the course, I trained up and set myself a minimum standard of 25. A few years later, Kane,
Mick and I were invited for a session with the Regimental PTI. We managed 126 in five sets, with a five-minute break in between each set, but this was as good as it got. Clawing your way up the side of an oil rig in the middle of a Bass Strait winter can be dangerous. For an SAS diver, chin-ups are like insurance – you pay up front and collect during times of need.