Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [47]
It is a mental game, and it is hard to tell how people will react until they are squeezed.
All I cared, though, was that weekend one of Selection was done.
The squeezing had begun.
CHAPTER 42
How on earth could lying on the metal floor of an army truck, cramped, exhausted and inhaling diesel fumes, be the best feeling on earth?
But somehow, such moments, curled up in our bivvy bags, having survived and passed another weekend exercise, made all the effort and pain worthwhile.
The weekly drill nights kept the same momentum – running, PT (or physical training, which consisted of log runs, gruelling strength circuits, fireman’s lifts and general beastings), map-reading lessons, medic-training and weapon-handling.
As the new recruits we dressed in green, standard-army uniform. You couldn’t help but notice the confident, purposeful air that the SAS fully badged soldiers, wandering around camp, possessed.
In contrast, us recruits knew nothing and were nothing. We were just numbers.
Nothing more, nothing less.
I looked with hidden admiration at the carefully moulded berets and wing-daggered belts that the SAS guys wore. I was also beginning to appreciate the work that had gone in to earn them.
Our next Selection weekend in the mountains was soon looming over me again.
No sooner had my body begun to recover from one test, than the fear and stress of what was to come next was upon me again.
I mean, no one looks forward to being driven physically to their knees – over and over again.
The four-tonne green army truck pulled into a quiet lay-by at the foot of another cold, windswept mountain, at about 1 a.m. It was raining hard.
In pairs, we tried to find a small patch of flat ground to sleep. But sleep was impossible, and tucked into the side of a gully in what was fast becoming a soaking-wet bog, we made what we could of the five hours until dawn.
At 5.55 a.m. we were all stood to attention in the marsh, in the pouring rain. The SAS officer in charge told us that this was our last ‘accompanied’ set of marches, and to remember the importance of learning key lessons from the DS with us.
He handed over to the corporals, then turned and walked away.
No sooner was the briefing over, than the DS just turned and shouted at us to follow them.
They stormed ahead across the steep, marshy ‘moon-grass’, and within minutes they were what seemed like miles ahead of us all. They then stopped and waited – looking back, as we slowly reached them in a heaving gaggle spread out across the bogland.
We were all wet, muddy and looking like an utter shambles, heaving along under the weight of our packs.
In contrast, the DS looked crisp, fit and composed. They were never loud or aggressive, they were just indifferent. And they had been fast – very fast.
I had no idea how they had managed to cover almost a mile of steep, boggy ground in so little time – and look so unaffected.
They calmly told us that this was the sort of pace we would need to be doing as a ‘minimum’ speed later, during Selection. I tried not to think about that, but just told myself to keep up with them at all costs.
It was obvious that the gulf between a recruit and a badged SAS soldier was vast.
We started moving again and soon I began to feel stronger, as I got into my rhythm.
Under the DSs’ guidance, we practised crossing swollen streams with full kit, as well as carefully getting the feel of traversing the steep and exposed mountain faces with the weight of pack, webbing and rifle.
At 1.30 p.m. we had a short break to take on food and water, and we sat huddled in a group in a small gulley. But the stop didn’t last long, and soon we set off again for the next leg of the march, the final fifteen miles of the day.
As we headed up the next peak, I noticed all the other recruits alongside me: heads down, straining, with sweat pouring off their foreheads. No one spoke. We were all just busting our backsides to