Suddenly the door to the bathrooms banged opened and I jerked out of my thoughts as someone called my name. It was Andy.
‘Duncan? You haven’t time to wipe your arse, the course is heading off.’
All thought of quitting disappeared as if it had never existed. It was like a nudge back from the edge. Without hesitation, I hurried out of the toilet, past the quitters, who eyed me suspiciously, and joined Andy as we sprinted to catch up with the course. I have often wondered if left to my own devices I would have nudged myself out of that dream state in time. I wonder what I would have done with myself if I had not. Maybe I would have ended up a clerk somewhere, keeping my failure on the SBS course and my disappointment in myself a secret.
That was the only time I ever came close to quitting. From then on, if I was going to fail, someone else was going to have to fail me.
With three weeks to go and just over twenty of us left, we were standing in a jagged line in full field kit in a thickly wooded Army training area. Our faces were streaked with black and green cam-cream. We stood like the trees, emulating them, blending with them, silent as them, soaked through to the skin. Rain dripped down our faces and off the ends of our fingers. It was midnight and a storm had been raging for days, but at least it was not freezing. We had just completed an exercise with a ten-mile infiltration to blow up a dummy target with live explosives followed by a ten-mile exfiltration across several deep rivers. Bright green ferns sprouted from gaps in the dense carpet of dark mauve heather that was everywhere. The DS were gathered a few yards away discussing something in low voices as they often did. We just waited quietly. By now we were lean and hard, numb to pain and coiled like springs. With the wearing down came an increased sensitivity and greater self-control. We were like prisoners fed on bread and water who can now see clearer than ever before. I never felt more like a Dog of War than at that time. If they tossed us dead rats for supper we might have eaten them without a word. But behind those pale eyes was a calculating alertness, waiting to spring like a bear-trap. If someone shouted ‘ENEMY FRONT!’ we would explode into position. A gun-group would automatically take a flank to give cover without a command being given. Smoke would go down to obscure our movements. Someone, anyone, would quickly order an assault and sweep through. Teams would automatically pair up. We would leap-frog relentlessly forward – not everyone moving at once – laying down controlled, accurate fire. The gun-group would set down an endless barrage just yards ahead of us to keep the enemy’s head down as we advanced. And God help any bastard who got in our way. We were close to what the DS wanted us to be. But not quite.
It was Friday night and there were rumours, according to Noah, of a rare day off the next day. We would believe that when it happened.
A shout went up from one of the DS to pick up our backpacks and we followed him in single-file in the rain.
Every twenty yards one of us was halted and told to wait. When we were all dispersed about the wood the instructor yelled that we had five minutes to disappear from sight, but we could not move from where we stood beyond a radius of twenty feet. We had done enough of this sort of thing by now and it was becoming second nature.
I quickly dumped my pack, took out my heavy field knife, slammed it hard into the earth and cut a line in the heather four feet long. I pulled up one edge of the heather as if it were a rug stuck to the floor and worked my hands in under it, separating the roots from the earth but being careful not to pull the weave apart. I lay on my back and worked my feet under, sliding in until my whole body was beneath the heather blanket. I pulled in my equipment and worked myself in even further until the opening flap could meet the ground again where I had cut it. I had made good time and had a minute before a whistle would blow indicating silence and cessation of all movement. In the blackness I pulled a waterproof off my pack – I knew where every single item was in my pack, webbing and pockets and could find them blindfold – and slid it over between me and the heather as best I could. I lay there in the fresh soil as the rain dripped through and felt confident I was hidden. The whistle blew. Everyone stopped moving. The only sound was the rain.
I could feel the damp creeping up through my wet clothes. I wiped some of the dirt from my lips and did not give a damn. One of the DS who had been watching me came over and prodded me through the heather with a stick.
‘Good,’ he said, and walked off. A rare compliment.
We knew at least one of them would remain to watch us throughout the night as we lay in our cramped hovels spread about the wood. An army could have marched through and not found us. I doubt if anyone slept. There was nothing to do but think as the rain trickled in through the heather. If you could form a block of stone by thought alone for each hour of lonely, silent wakefulness, by your career’s end in special forces you would have enough to build a castle.
A whistle blast came with first light. It meant we had seconds to muster on the track in full equipment ready to go. I ignored my stiff joints and muscles and, with ligaments as taut as violin strings, burst out of my lay-up position (LUP), pulled on my pack, grabbed my rifle and formed up with the others on a track. We followed the DS at a brisk pace up a steep incline that led out of the wood and on to an old, worn, narrow military road. A hundred yards away was a four-ton truck with its back to us and tail-gate down. Our transport home. The camp was twenty miles away.
‘From now until tomorrow morning your time is your own. There’s the truck. If you don’t get on it you walk back to camp.’
That would take us most of the day.
‘Go!’ he shouted.
As we set off, the truck gunned its engine and moved slowly away. It matched our speed, the driver watching us in his side mirrors keeping a distance from us as a tease. We broke into a run because it was expected of us, though by now we knew what game was being played. The truck increased its speed to match ours. It was obvious we were not meant to catch it, but we had to show determination. Our equipment bounced and rattled on our shoulders as we loped along. Something clattered to the ground – a weapon magazine – hands went to pouches in case it was theirs. The man who had dropped it quickly went back for it then hurried to catch up – you never left any equipment behind. If the DS found so much as a Spangle wrapper they would terrorise the guilty person, and if he could not be identified, all of us. I had emerged as the fittest and fastest on the course by then and as we pounded along the road, chasing the back of the truck that remained fifty yards in front of us, I was suddenly possessed.
Without thinking about it, I increased power and accelerated away from the others. I had decided to catch the truck. I don’t know why. To this day I cannot identify what motivated me at that second. I simply broke into a sprint. I was not angry, nor had I lost control in any way. I just knew I wanted to catch it. I moved directly behind the truck so the driver could not see me in his mirrors. I was going flat out and gaining on it. My arms pumped, my heavy pack bounced on my shoulders, my rifle banged against my side. I had halved the gap. If the driver did not go any faster, if I did not stumble or drop any equipment, I might make it. I was an animal at that moment. The back of the truck was yards from me now. All I had to do was reach out, put on a spurt, grab it and pull myself in. The old military road was coming to an end and once the truck joined the main road the driver would speed up and head back to camp, empty. I put everything I had into it and reached out for the truck. I would be the only one to get in it if I did. The others had not increased their pace and were many yards behind me. Then, just as suddenly, something else came over me which seemed out of my control. I ignored the back of the truck and ran past it down the narrow gap between its side and the trees. This was not an expected reaction for me. My conscious thoughts were always of personal survival – get yourself through the course. I’d always been a loner and my only concern previously was looking after number one, not in a malicious way, but instinctively. Had the Marines’ dictum, ‘look after your buddy and he’ll look after you’ finally worked its way into my subconscious?
As I drew level with the cab my strength started to fade. My mouth was wide open, sucking in as much air as it could. My arms pumped and my pack was a ridiculous appendage slamming up and down against my back. My rifle with its attached strap fell off my shoulder, down my arms and into my hands but I kept going. I glanced up at the driver. It was old Noah and he had no idea I was there below his passenger door. I turned in front of the truck and with a final effort threw myself forward to sprawl on the road like a sack of vegetables. Noah slammed on his brakes and the truck screeched to a stop a foot from me. I was totally spent and just lay there sucking in air. Noah revved the engine, honked his horn and shouted at me out of the window. He did not mean a word of his cursing, but he knew the DS were watching and wanted to put on a display.
The DS were quickly upon me, shouting and kicking me to get up. Their plan was going awry. I did not have to feign limp exhaustion. They dragged me out of the way and tossed me and my equipment into a ditch at the side of the road. Noah was ordered to quickly get going. He gunned the engine and the truck accelerated past me. When I looked into the back of it from the ditch I saw the last course member and his backpack being dragged on board. The others were looking down at me as they drove away. The course officer, a lieutenant, appeared on the road above me. He was a tall, hawkish South African. His expression was not angry but curious. He lifted his radio to his mouth and ordered the truck to stop.
‘Get on board,’ he said. His manner was cold but I could sense what I can only describe as a sort of veiled niceness, if that doesn’t sound too much.
I grabbed my pack and rifle and made my way to the truck. I climbed on board with help from the others and Jakers made a space for me on the bench beside him. The truck pulled away. For the first time ever Jakers was not wearing his usual scowl when he looked at me. He nodded then looked away. Others glanced at me as they breathed heavily.
Everything was the same on the course after that except for one thing. Though I was still a punk nod, hard as it was for them to admit, it seemed I was, after all, all right. Psychologically that point was the end of the course for me. I’d been beginning to think it was going to be harder to be accepted by these men than by the SBS. That part was over now.
The final exercise was the last two weeks of the course. We were divided up into teams and Jakers chose me to be in his, and what’s more, as his canoe partner.
‘This doesn’t mean we’re mates,’ he warned me.
When the final day of the course arrived it was like the first day of spring after being buried underground for the winter. The survivors were mustered in the squadron lines to be officially dismissed by the DS. Out of the 134 who began the course, nine of us were left including Andy, Dave and myself. There were actually ten of us counting the only officer to pass, Smith, who was virtually there at the end. Although we have had many fine officers, there was always a shortage, so when one looked even remotely suitable his failings were often overlooked. Today the SBS, having expanded, is so short of good officer material the vacant positions (mostly administrative) have had to be filled by SAS officers.
For the three of us nods it had been virtually a year of continuous selection conditions since leaving civvy street. But it was not quite over. Not for us three. As we waited outside the HQ block for our final assessment the others were relaxed and joking with each other. They knew they had passed. The three of us stood quietly waiting to one side. Even though we had got to the end, the rumour was that Andy, Dave and I would only eventually be allowed to join the SBS after spending a couple of years in a commando unit. I did not want that. Not after all I had been through. Yes, I was inexperienced, but I would make up for that if they gave me the chance. But we were, after all, an experiment, and perhaps that was all we were ever meant to be.
We waited while the other six, in turn, marched into the SBS headquarters building and within a few minutes exited cheerfully and walked away. The three experiments were kept till last. I was called up first.
I was nervous as I marched into the office and stood to attention in front of the course officer while he remained seated. It dawned on me that this was the most important moment of my life so far. He told me to stand easy. He casually went through the phases of the course telling me my strengths and weaknesses, but all I wanted to hear were his final words.
When he finished he stood up, offered me his hand and said calmly, ‘Welcome to the SBS. You achieved the third highest assessment on the course.’
He never mentioned anything about my inexperience or being a nod, or going to a unit for three years first. I was in.
I left the office in a mild state of euphoria. I walked down the corridor lined with honours, photographs and memorabilia of a special forces unit that had seen action in every war and confrontation Britain had been involved in since the Second World War without a blemish to its name. I wanted to shout, ‘I fucking did it!’ But that would have been egotistical, and the faces of the old and bold that lined the walls were a reminder that this was just the first step, and losing self-control was no part of this job. I had no idea what the future had in store for me but one thing was certain. I was not going to be a civvy in two years.
As I left the building, Dave and Andy stared at me for any sign. I remained poker-faced, knowing that if I was in, they were too. As I passed by I winked and said, ‘Welcome to the SBS.’
Corporal Jakers came top of the course and maintained his high standards throughout his career. He is still an active member of the SBS with the rank of major.
Soon after selection Dave had to leave the SBS, and eventually the Marines, due to a knee injury sustained on the selection course. He had surgery on it but the operation was unsuccessful. When I said goodbye to him he needed a stick to help him walk out of the SBS lines. Andy left the SBS a few months after that for personal reasons. The last I heard he was a civilian working in security somewhere.