Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [69]
The meeting was set for between 0300 and 0500 hours.
Matt and I reached the RV early and sat and waited.
Deep in a thorny thicket, the wind and rain having returned now, I pulled my hood over my head to try and keep warm.
We waited in alternate shifts to keep awake. But Matt, like me, was dead tired, and soon, unable to stay awake any longer, we both fell asleep on watch. Bad skills. I woke just as I heard the rustling of the other patrols approaching.
One of the 23 DS was in the first patrol, and I quickly crawled forward, tapped him on the shoulder and began to guide him back to where we had been waiting.
The DS gave me a thumbs up, as if to say ‘well done’, and by the time I had returned to where Matt was, he had shaken himself awake and looked like a coiled spring who had been covering all his fields of fire vigilantly all night long.
Little did the DS know that five minutes earlier, Matt and I had both been fast asleep, hats pulled over our eyes, snoozing like babies in a pram. If we had been caught we would have been ‘binned’ instantly.
(I challenge you, though, to find any SAS soldier who didn’t have at least one such narrow escape at some point during his journey through Selection.)
No one is perfect.
By first light we had guided the other patrols into our main OP location, a few hundred yards back from the main target. We rested up in our position and continued to observe. By late afternoon, still no activity had been reported.
Then, suddenly, that all changed.
We observed a van race up the track at high speed, approaching the house. Two men dressed in blood-red balaclavas exited the van, threw open the rear doors and dragged a girl out by her hair, screaming.
They went into the house and slammed the door shut.
We relayed the intel, and were immediately tasked by radio with forming a rapid plan of recovery and extraction.
That was all we needed.
Minutes later, with dusk falling, we were ready to carry out the hostage rescue.
One group was to hit the terrorists and recover the hostage – and the other patrols would cover them and take out any QRF (quick reaction force) that the terrorists might have in place to reinforce them.
The plan went like clockwork. It seemed that all the training had paid off. We stormed the building, ‘shot’ the terrorists and extracted the hostage.
The details are not for sharing. But it all happened very fast. Soon we were all huddled in the stripped-out rear of a transit van, speeding down the country lanes. Out of there.
Job done.
As arranged, our contact had met us as soon as the sting had gone down. Another vehicle had taken the ‘hostage’ away for debrief.
I felt electric, and was still buzzing with the adrenalin that coursed through my body.
The first part of the exercise was done, the finish goal within reach, and we were now barely one day away from getting badged.
But the final day and night of hell would be make or break.
CHAPTER 63
Some things are near impossible to prepare for. I was nervous as hell.
We were squashed in the back of the transit van: four sweaty, muddy men, all our belt kit, our rifles and packs all crammed on top of each other; and the low light on the inside roof of the cargo area flickered faintly as we careered around the lanes.
My compass told me that we were not heading south. I knew instinctively that something was wrong.
Suddenly the van pulled over, the brakes were slammed on and we stopped very sharply.
At first there was silence, then it started.
Bang, bang, bang, on the metal panels of the van.
It had begun.
What followed, and then went on until the following day, was a blur of mental and physical stress and trauma, intended to recreate and simulate the duress of captivity. It is truly unpleasant and truly terrifying – but as for the details, I am not at liberty to disclose what actually happens.
The day before our final exercise had begun, the DS had made the briefing crystal clear.
‘Don