Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [58]
This was a week of back-to-back, cross-mountain marches that were the culmination of all the physical tests for both the regular and the reserve SAS – and it was a brute.
But pass it, and you were through the first phase of Selection.
For the duration of this Test Week, we would be based from SAS HQ, and all three SAS regiments, 21, 22, 23 SAS, would converge together for it.
We would have to cover a crazy number of miles, across mountainous terrain, carrying ever-increasing weights, and always against the clock. Test conditions.
For the regular SAS, Test Week is where they lose the majority of recruits, and it is 100 per cent effective in testing even the fittest soldier to their limit. Each and every day the numbers dwindle, as more and more hopefuls fail to make the time required.
Bearing in mind that after each weekend so far, I had invariably been hobbling for a day or so afterwards on swollen feet, the prospect of doing six marches back-to-back, over much greater distances and with much greater weight, filled me with terror.
I just had no idea whether I could manage it.
At the end of Test Week would come the hardest test of all.
After five days of solid marching, I would have to complete the mother of all marches, nicknamed ‘Endurance’.
It is a good description.
The distance of the march was far, far greater than anything we had ever done before. And it was measured as the crow flies, not taking into account elevation and steepness of terrain. (A ‘map’ mile is very different to an ‘actual’ mile, which involves going up and over three-thousand-foot mountains, through bogs and across rivers.)
We would also have to carry 55 lb of pack, plus weapon, water, food and belt kit.
No wonder I was scared.
I had some idea what it would really mean.
That Friday, the five of us sat cramped on top of all our kit, in one long-wheel-based Land Rover. We pulled out of our Welsh barracks, and headed north into the unknown.
When we arrived at our destination, we were all ushered into a large, stark, briefing-room full of hardened, weathered-looking soldiers.
The 22 SAS chief instructor, in his broad Yorkshire accent, told us simply that Selection’s Grim Reaper would likely claim the vast majority of us over the next six days. But that if we wanted it badly enough, then it was there for the taking.
‘You’ve got to want it in here, though, lads,’ he continued, thumping his chest. ‘It’s all in here.’
‘OK. First parade is at 0500 tomorrow morning. Further instructions will be posted on the noticeboard each evening. Good luck.’
With that he turned and left us to settle in.
CHAPTER 52
I carefully packed my kit into the locker. I set my alarm and tried to sleep.
In truth, I had never felt so nervous.
The whole billet was up early, long before dawn.
Every soldier was here for one purpose: to prove that they could do the distances and do the times. Everything that we had gone through so far was purely preparation for these next six days.
There would be no battle PT, no beastings, no bullshit barrack-cleaning or shouting. It wasn’t needed. The weights, the distances and the clock would dictate whether we passed or failed.
At the end of Test Week, the SAS would have a small group of self-motivated, capable, fit soldiers. They would be the raw material that the SAS would then take and mould.
The SAS would teach these few how to soldier in a whole new way. Unconventional. Highly specialized and highly trained.
I went to the cookhouse and ate as much breakfast as I could get down me. I would need every ounce of that energy today.
The noticeboard had told us the weights that our packs needed to be that day. We were expected to weigh our packs ourselves and then be ready on parade at the correct time. Again, no one was treated like a kid here. It was all about self-discipline.
At 0455, I glanced down the line of us on parade. Almost every soldier was dressed slightly differently. Basic kit was the same, but boots and hats were down to the individual.
The SAS want individuals, and they never try to