Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [57]
The first few weekends progressed, and we both shone.
We were fitter, stronger and more confident than many of the other recruits, but the winter conditions were very real.
We had to contend with winds that, on one weekend exercise, were so strong on the high ridges that I saw one gust literally blow a whole line of soldiers off their feet – including the DS.
Our first night-march saw one recruit go down with hypothermia. Like everyone else, he was wet and cold, but in the wind and whiteout he had lost that will to look after himself, and to take action early.
He had forgotten the golden rule of cold, which the DS had told us over and over: ‘Don’t let yourself get cold. Act early, while you still have your senses and mobility. Add a layer, make shelter, get moving faster – whatever your solution is, just do it.’
Instead, this recruit had just sat down in the middle of the boggy moon-grass and stopped. He could hardly talk, and couldn’t stand. We all gathered round him, forming what little shelter we could. We gave him some food and put an extra layer of clothing on him.
We then helped him stagger off the mountain, to where he could be picked up by Land Rover, and taken to base camp where the medics could help him.
For him, that would be his last exercise with 21 SAS, and a harsh reminder that the struggles of Selection go beyond the demons in your head. You also have to be able to survive the mountains, and in winter that isn’t always easy.
One of the other big struggles of winter Selection was trying to get warm in the few hours between the marches.
In the summer it didn’t really matter if you were cold and wet – it was just unpleasant rather than life-threatening. But in winter, if you didn’t sort yourself out, you would quickly end up with hypothermia, and then one of two things would happen: you would either fail Selection, or you would die.
Both options were bad.
CHAPTER 51
Second time around, I could sense that I was stronger.
I found my mind and body coping better, in comparison to my first attempt – and I was often now one of the front-runners at the end of a march.
As the selection tests and weekends progressed, we were taken to more and more difficult and mountainous terrains around Wales: black, featureless peaks, endless bogs, and desolate old quarries.
I spent hour after hour, day after day, slogging around these mountains in the cold and driving rain. I would have the hood of my army-issue jacket wrapped up tight, as I steadily plodded onwards towards the next checkpoint.
Mumbling to myself, humming to myself, and pushing ever onwards.
The worse that the conditions got, the more I had to learn to ride them out.
It is a learnt skill: to roll with the punches and to keep going.
I made that my mantra.
All of this was slowly becoming second nature to me.
Here I am again: waist-deep in another swollen mountain stream, wading through fierce white water. Or I am kicking my boots into the cold mud of another steep mountainside, as I carefully traverse a sheer face in the dark.
I am negotiating a narrow, slippery log across a gorge. It is dark and wet and I am weighed down under my pack, belt kit and weapon.
I am tired, but I keep going.
But the worst bit was always the waiting: lying in the cold, wet marshland trying to snatch a few hours’ rest in-between the marches.
Keep wiggling those toes, keep smiling, keep focused on the next task. You can do this, Bear.
And slowly I did.
Week, after week, after week.
By the end of the final test of the ‘hills’ phase, there were only a handful of us left from our squadron. It included both Trucker and myself, plus several others.
We’d done, and been through, so much together – and we all felt like brothers. It was a powerful feeling.
We’d seen each other at our lowest ebb, but somehow the five of us had prevailed. Each of us had waged a private battle, and that had forged in us a pride and a togetherness that is hard to find in civvy street.
But all of this had only really been preparing us for the rigours of