Warrior Training by Keith Fennell Read Free Book Online Page A

with six because of poor technique.
    I was in the fifth line to begin and chose undergrasp. I completed 20 but was credited with just 16. I was not happy with this. After the course, I trained up and set myself a minimum standard of 25. A few years later, Kane,Mick and I were invited for a session with the Regimental PTI. We managed 126 in five sets, with a five-minute break in between each set, but this was as good as it got. Clawing your way up the side of an oil rig in the middle of a Bass Strait winter can be dangerous. For an SAS diver, chin-ups are like insurance – you pay up front and collect during times of need.
    The next challenge was 100 unsupported sit-ups, then we were taken outside and briefed on another test, a 2.6-kilometre run. We were wearing PT kit and carrying our rifles. We would only be informed whether we had passed or failed the run at the finish line. The course, a hot gravel track, ascended a series of ridges. I finished in the top eight with a time of nine minutes and 54 seconds. Three-quarters of the course failed to make the cut-off time of 10 minutes and 30 seconds. The heat was unbearable. I felt sick.
    Surely that’s it , I thought. But this was SAS selection, so of course there was more to come.
    We were told to start running up the track to a parked truck. The first 20 guys were to jump in the back, and everyone else was to keep on running. We had no idea how far we’d be expected to run. I was the 23rd or 24th guy to the truck, and my heart rate was through the roof. I had missed the cut so I kept running. Those who made it to the truck were soon yelled at and told to get out and get going too.
    We ascended false crest after false crest. I longed for the finish line. I tried to anticipate how far, realistically, we would be made to run. I was thinking 20 kilometres. There were a couple of drink stations but the white plastic cup ofwater at each one was barely enough to moisten my parched throat. I knew I was overheating, and my head began to ache.
    The red, gravelly track continued on and up. My legs felt weary and my brain like a fried egg. We ran for 11 kilometres, all the way back to camp. When I arrived, guys were guzzling from 20-litre jerry cans. I had a turn but only managed two or three gulps before I thought I was going to vomit. My legs and hands were shaking; I was definitely suffering from heat exhaustion.
    We showered and readied ourselves for dinner. There was no down time. Everything was rushed, every moment was hectic. At the completion of the third day we had lost almost half the course. At least 60 or 70 guys were gone. Some had suffered injuries and some were asked to leave, but most left because they’d had enough.
    I couldn’t eat that evening. I dry-retched after putting a single piece of chicken in my mouth. The lasagne fared no better. So I filled my stomach with fluid and hoped my headache would fade soon. I went to bed feeling like shit. But I had made it to the end of day three. Just 17 or 18 days to go , I thought.
    Day four began with a 90-minute PT session. In groups of five we were given a large truck tyre to guide around the gravel tracks of Bindoon. Our team decided to have two guys pushing from behind, a guy to the left and right to steer, and one off to the side resting.
    On a flat road it worked pretty well. Going uphill was hard work but the tyre was easy to control. Downhill was another story. Up to eight hands would be pressed down on the rubber as the tyre gained momentum, in afeeble attempt to slow it down. Most guys lost a fair portion of skin off their palms. Rogue tyres sometimes broke free, only slowing down when they collected the group in front.
    There was no shortage of prying eyes watching our every move. The DS constantly pulled notebooks out of their trouser pockets and scribbled away. I tried to take no notice. I placed my efforts and attention solely on the task we were completing. If I do this right , I thought,