Warrior Training by Keith Fennell Read Free Book Online Page B

everything else should take care of itself . Trying to second-guess what someone thinks of your efforts is a waste of energy. And the thought of kissing someone’s arse, especially in the SAS, never entered my mind.

    In the Regiment I socialised with guys I liked, regardless of their rank or position. Trooper, corporal, sergeant, warrant officer or ‘Rupert’ (an officer) – what did it matter?
    I remember chatting to Todd (a good mate) and Buzz (our team commander) at a function at the Gratwick Club – the SAS watering hole at Campbell Barracks. A drunken sergeant approached us and said: ‘When you guys are finished kissing your team commander’s arse, I’d like to have a chat to him.’
    His comment incensed me, almost to the point where I thought about landing one on the prick’s chin. Todd was an angry bastard at the best of times, and I could see he was thinking something similar. We’d only been in the troop for 12 months, but as far as we were concerned, we were free to talk to whomever we liked. Buzz was a sergeant, but so what? He was also a mate.
    Buzz saw our faces change. As a good leader does, he took care of it. ‘Hey, these boys are fucking solid and I’m chatting to them. The Gratto’s their pub, not ours.’
    Thankfully, there wasn’t much of that sort of attitude in the Regiment. The only pecking order that most guys cared about was performance.
    Am I anti-authoritarian? I don’t think so. I just don’t believe that rank or social standing gives you the right to speak down to others. Condescending language is the language of the inept – bigoted souls with something to prove.

    The guys of Eight Squad were team players. From the outset we all had a strong sense of camaraderie. Many squads had already folded because of withdrawals, resulting in the merging of two or more groups. Our squad, with only a couple of withdrawals, remained intact.
    After breakfast on day four we were driven to Julimar. The trucks stopped and let us off, we threw on our packs and webbing, then the trucks drove on again. It was hot and the sun was burning into the shoulders of our camouflaged shirts.
    â€˜Follow me,’ ordered the SI, taking off down the track.
    The pace was hectic. After 15 minutes the lead group of a dozen soldiers was told to stop and join the back of the line. Twice I worked my way to the front, only to be sent to the back. I then decided to stay in the middle. The pace remained fast, and some soldiers struggled to keep up.
    After 45 minutes I removed a water bottle from my webbing to take a drink, but my ankle rolled on the side ofa large tree root. I had not re-strapped it after the pool swim, which was a decision I would come to rue.
    Fuck , I thought. The pain was pretty intense. Someone helped me to my feet and I kept walking. For five minutes I felt nauseated and my ankle throbbed, lacking stability.
    Ten minutes later I rolled it again. That’s that , I thought. Only made it to bloody day four . I tried to stand up but my ankle couldn’t bear my weight.
    My DS – a fair man – approached me and asked what had happened. He could see the distress on my face. ‘Look, mate,’ he said. ‘I reckon those trucks are only a couple of hundred metres up the road. Reckon you can make it?’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ I replied as I got to my feet.
    Then the WSM arrived, and he was not so positive. ‘Would you like to remove yourself from the course, trainee?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Then why were you sitting down?’
    â€˜I rolled my ankle, sir.’
    He didn’t believe me. ‘I think you should re-evaluate your volunteer status.’
    â€˜No, sir, I will never remove myself from the course. I damaged my ankle prior to selection and got rid of my crutches three days before the course.’ I had no reason to lie. All he had to do was check my medical documents.
    The WSM called a medic