Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [51]
These two guys had been spotted crossing the dam earlier on in the day, and they were both quietly, and without fuss, RTU’d – or in our language, binned.
Trucker and I had got lucky, but we had also learnt another valuable lesson: if you are going to risk it all on an act of daring, then pick your moment, and don’t get caught.
By the time that we both set off for the night-march I was feeling a little stronger. I still had a headache, but I could stand without feeling faint. This was progress at least.
Trucker was also feeling like death, which was some consolation.
Luckily the route was relatively straightforward, and finally, at 3 a.m., and with a growing sense of strength (and also pride, that I had come through this and was feeling stronger again), I arrived back at our base camp in the woods.
I lay back and rested, awaiting the battle PT at 5.55 a.m.
The battle PT started out relatively straightforward – a three-mile pack run down a track along the valley floor.
Once again the group spread out, as the DS set a blistering pace, but we soon reached the end of the track where all the trucks were waiting for us.
I was feeling strong again now, and was almost enjoying the fact that I was managing to keep up, whereas almost everyone else was dragging behind.
At the point where I reckoned the DS should turn left towards the waiting four-tonner wagons, I saw the DS turn hard right and head straight up the sheer thousand-foot face to the ridge line.
It was then that the shouting really began, and this had hardly ever happened before.
CHAPTER 45
The DS always prided themselves on the fact that they never needed to shout. Selection was hard enough as it was.
They were there, as they often told us, simply to run the course and observe.
But suddenly there had been a tempo change, and the shouting was now firm, directed and serious.
‘Move. Now,’ the DS shouted. ‘If we see any one of you walking, you are out, get it? This hill is to be run up.’
I did as I was told, turned away from the enticing trucks, and headed up the steep hill, following in the DS’s footsteps. I had to pace myself, I knew that.
This was a big hill, and with the weight of a heavy pack, it was going to be near impossible to run up it all the way.
I just had to make sure that I was not the first to be seen to slow. I dug in and started to breathe harder and harder.
Halfway up, the DS stopped, turned and watched us. I determined to keep running, however slowly, until I reached him, whatever the fatigue I felt.
Finally I reached him, somewhere in the middle of the group. My legs and shoulders felt like they were on fire, and my heart and lungs felt as if they would explode.
I looked down beneath us, to see the last few stragglers pulling themselves up the hill towards us. Two guys had been reduced to only a slow shuffle. I knew they were in trouble.
The DS had told us the parameters – run, you pass; walk, you fail.
‘Right, you lot, get back down to the track and into the four-tonners. And you,’ he barked, pointing at the last two men, ‘you follow me.’ Back at the track, as we all piled into the wagons in the muddy car park, relief swept over me. I watched out of the back of my Bedford truck as these two recruits who had faltered were led off to another truck.
That was the way it worked: once someone was failed they were kept apart from the rest of us. It helped build us together into a team, and it gave those of us still hanging on in there a certain pride that we were still in the right truck.
It wasn’t much, but it meant a lot to us.
For the next three weekends, the pace continued to build: the distances got longer, the weights got heavier and the pressure mounted.
Routinely we would be covering up to thirty miles, across the mountains, carrying up to 50 lb of weight. On top of this, we were now doing every march on our own – during the day and night.
The SAS were beginning to test our ability to work alone. Could we motivate ourselves to keep going, navigate effectively and look after ourselves, even when we were cold,