Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [59]
Every soldier had worked hard to be there, and they had earned the right to choose their boots. We each knew the kit we liked, and we each had our own personal take on what worked best. Myself included.
We all stood quietly at ease, our big green packs leaning against us, like a ball and chain around a prisoner’s ankles.
The DS quietly checked and weighed our packs in turn, before sending us to the armoury to draw out our ‘weapons’.
These were old standard-issue SLRs, but with a twist. Instead of having bolt actions and working parts inside them, they were welded shut with steel.
Nice touch, I thought.
We were then loaded into the four-tonne trucks, which rumbled out of the barracks towards the mountains.
It was still dark.
I had no idea where we were going. I just sat in nervous anticipation.
Eventually the truck rumbled off the road and ground to a halt with a hiss of air from the brakes. I looked out.
I knew enough by now to recognize that we were in that horrible moon-grass region.
I should have guessed.
An hour and a half of fumes and nerves, though, had taken its toll, and I felt pretty sick.
I got off the truck and suddenly vomited all over the ground. All I could think about was all that valuable energy, that I’d desperately need all day, being wasted.
My confidence was at rock bottom at this point, as I sat waiting to be called forward and given my first map grid reference.
All those old doubts came flooding back.
I just felt suddenly way out of my depth.
I wasn’t a marine or a hardened soldier of any sort. I was pretty damn wet behind the ears in every respect – and I knew it.
I breathed deeply as I stood in line. Calm.
I just needed to start this and get going.
CHAPTER 53
Soon I was off and moving.
Up the first peak and across the next valley, then crossing a river before mounting up towards the next summit.
A few hours on, I passed Trucker, climbing up towards me. He nodded and smiled. He looked like he was going strong.
I set off up the next steep face, scrambling on hands and knees in the wet, boggy terrain.
I was soon on what I hoped would be the last leg back. It was only six miles, but I then made a bad decision and chose a route that led me into a quagmire of marsh and high grass.
I was forced to criss-cross endless thirty-foot-deep gorges with rocky, white-water streams pounding through them, and I had to lose vital ground and height to make any sort of progress.
I was determined not to lose my hard-earned time, and I pushed on aggressively through the moon-grass. I soon saw the trucks waiting at the bottom of the valley below.
I just made it in within the time, heaved the weight of the ‘green monkey’ pack off my aching back and collapsed in the back, pleased but dog-tired.
Everyone had gone through similar struggles that day, I found out. The route was designed like that. But I had survived.
The next day was once again in moon-grass terrain. And once more the noticeboard had increased the required weight of our packs. We were also now in a part of the mountains I had never been in before.
I tapped another recruit on the shoulder as we queued up in the cold, winter dawn, waiting to be set off individually at two-minute intervals. I asked him about the terrain, and he seemed to know the area well.
In about thirty seconds he briefed me on the pitfalls and shortcuts he had learnt.
Good lad. It was invaluable intel.
Selection was good like that. It wasn’t a competition. If the training major could be proved wrong, and all of us passed, he would have been the first to celebrate. The SAS aren’t restricted on how many recruits they can pass. They are only restricted by their standards.
I set off fast. By now, I had walked so many miles of this moon-grass that I was actually growing strangely accustomed to the harsh terrain.
That day I finished well, despite the torrential rain that had beaten down on us unceasingly. I stretched off in the back of the trucks and chatted to the other lads on the journey back.
I was gaining in stature and confidence.