Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [70]
‘The Red CROSS is not my white cross; a vicar’s CROSS is not my white cross … the offer of a hot-CROSS bun and a sip of tea is not my white cross. Do you understand?’
He reiterated. ‘Don’t get caught out – not at this stage of Selection.’
Their tactics were brutal but effective. But no one was going to rob me of this opportunity now. I was so close to finishing SAS Selection. I wasn’t going to give them anything.
My mind was racing, but deep down I knew that despite it all, I was holding my control. I would not give in to these bastards. I sang hymns in my head and prayed continually. Keep me strong.
I’d never felt this battered and tired.
My head ached uncontrollably and the muscles in my back screamed from cramp. I collapsed again, and again. I was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and shivering uncontrollably in the cold underground air.
The minutes blurred into hours, and the hours seemed to never end.
Was it day or was it night?
I no longer had any idea.
Finally, finally, I was thrown into this tiny, dark cell. It all went quiet. But I instantly noticed the warmth. And I could just make out the shape of the room under the crack in my blindfold.
I waited.
I was half-naked with my camouflage jacket pulled back halfway down my back, and I was huddled over shivering. I must have looked a mess.
I could taste the snot smeared down my face.
A hand pulled my blindfold off and a light went on.
‘Recognize this, Bear?’ a voice said softly.
I squinted. The DS was pointing at a white cross on his arm. I didn’t react. I needed to double-check in my mind.
‘This means the end of the exercise – Endex. Remember?’
I did, but still I didn’t react yet. I needed to check once more in my mind. Then, finally, I nodded weakly at him. And he smiled back.
It was the end.
‘Well done, buddy. Now take a seat, take five and get this brew down you. The quack will be in to see you in a few minutes.’
The DS put a blanket around my shoulders. A smile spread across my face and I felt a tear of relief trickle down my face.
For an hour a psychiatrist then debriefed me. He told me that I had done well and had resisted effectively. I felt just so relieved. I loved that psychiatrist.
The real lesson of this was two-fold: control your mind, and don’t get caught.
As the DS said: ‘Remember, at the end of the day, these guys are on your side. They are British, they aren’t a real enemy. If they were, then that’d be when things would get messy. So remember: do not get captured!’
It is a lesson I have never forgotten, and is probably why I have, over the years, become very, very good at getting out of all sorts of scrapes.
Back in the barracks, those of us still left were white-faced, and very shaky, but we were so relieved that the ordeal was finally over.
Trucker looked particularly bad, but had this huge grin. I sat on his bed and chatted as he pottered around sorting his kit out. He kept shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
It was his way of processing everything. It made me smile.
Special man, I thought to myself.
We all changed into some of the spare kit we had left over from the final exercise and sat on our beds, waiting nervously.
We might have all finished – but – had we all passed?
‘Parade in five minutes, lads, for the good and the bad news. Good news is that some of you have passed. Bad news … you can guess.’
With that the DS left.
I had this utter dread that I would be one of the ones to fail at this final hurdle. I tried to fight the feeling.
Not at this stage. Not this close.
The DS reappeared – he rapidly called out a short list of names and told them to follow him. I wasn’t in that group. The few of us remaining, including Trucker, looked at each other nervously, and waited.
The minutes went by agonizingly slowly. No one spoke a word.
Then the door opened