by Azi Ahmed
She was sat a distance away from me and suddenly went into lecture mode about returning home and settling down. I was so angry that she’d turned against me and taken Mum’s side.
‘What for?’ I lashed out. ‘To live like you? Anyone can get married and have kids.’
The words came out before I could stop them. I could see the hurt on her face and immediately regretted it. I wanted to apologise but, call it arrogance or pride, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Inside I felt hollow.
I left Manchester feeling ten times worse. Not only had I left on bad terms with my family, but I had lost my oldest friend. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried, but that night I poured my heart out on my pillow.
I soon put what was going on in Manchester out of my mind, and when I got back to London, I researched the SAS and what selection training entailed. Luckily, I was sat down. It didn’t go into much detail, but what I did find out was enough to make anyone call up and cancel. Though I wanted some physical training, the description I was reading was much more extreme than I’d expected.
The next two days at work were a drag. All I thought about was how I was going to get out of work on time to get to the barracks. I was both excited and scared. Wednesday came around, which was the weekly training evening for selection. I psyched myself up and guiltily left the office early.
Once at the barracks I was directed to one of the classrooms. I was hoping to get an agenda tonight, detailing the course, so that I could remove the fear of the unknown that was killing me inside.
‘Come in!’ a chorus from inside the room called out when I knocked.
I opened the door to some ten girls sat on plastic chairs in a semicircle. Two familiar faces: Becky and Kate.
For some reason I waved at them and walked over to an empty chair tagged on the end. No one responded; they all sat in silence staring at a white wall in front of them. My eyes rolled around the room. In the corner there were a pile of cluttered desks, a whiteboard scribbled with notes from a previous class on some weapon descriptions, and a wooden lectern with the ‘Who Dares Wins’ emblem carved on the front. I remember reading about that quote as the signature of the SAS.
I still wasn’t sure what female selection entailed, because none of the research I had done mentioned females.
The door was flung open and in came the clipboard man from last week. He was surprisingly short, now I had a chance to see him again, very lean and slender-framed. He weaved between our chairs and stood at the front.
‘Right, ladies.’ He flicked through some papers in his hand, making a few of the girls move around in their seats uncomfortably. ‘My name is Staff Wright, and I will be taking female selection for any of you who decide to join after tonight. You all know a bit about the selection training we do here with the lads; the colonel wants to do a similar course for girls.’
Firstly I wondered why he was a staff and not an officer or captain – and what staff meant. Secondly, how did the other girls know about the training? Did they do the same research I had or were they ‘in the know’ by being part of the military? I presumed it was the latter.
‘I’ll start off by telling you it involves a lot of physical and mental stamina, so if you don’t feel up to it you can leave now.’
He paused, enjoying the silence while the girls exchanged glances amongst themselves. I observed in confusion. It was a strange way to introduce a course, but perhaps this was the way things were done to ensure commitment.
I noticed Becky in the front frantically taking notes and wondered if I should be doing the same. I’d brought a fresh notebook with me.
‘We have no idea how this will pan out as it’s never been done before and we cannot place any benchmark on how far the training will go for you with the lads. So it’s going to be as new for us as it will be for you ladies.’
Now it made sense why I couldn’t find anything about female selection online or in the material they’d provided, but he still didn’t explain why it was taking place, except that the colonel wanted it. Was this the same colonel I’d met during my interview with Officer Crane?
He paused to reorganise his papers, which I thought were handouts for us, but instead carried on talking.
‘The information you receive tonight will not leave this room, and that includes talking to lads in the unit, especially at the bar.’
I didn’t understand the last bit about not discussing with people who belonged to the same unit, and didn’t realise they had a bar here, but guessed that’s where the gossip started.
We listened in silence as he gave us a rundown of the training. It comprised of eight weeks, after which we would join the lads on pre-selection. Pre-selection was the initial training for the lads to test their fitness before being allowed onto the actual selection training course. If we got through pre-selection, we would go onto selection training in the Brecon Beacons.
All this was meant to be part time, but from all the evenings and weekends we were expected to do, I became concerned about how I would fit this in with running the company.
Apparently, out of the 200 or so lads that join up, only a handful get through and go on to the final part of training called continuation, which involves learning how to fight and use weapons, operate on every conceivable terrain and gather intelligence behind enemy lines. Those who got through that would go on to a two-week ‘battle camp’, after which each survivor would be presented with his SAS beret. This, he explained, was the training for the men.
Staff Wright went on to remind us we were part-timers attempting a challenge designed for the committed – for those who only had one aim in life: to be part of the most elite Special Forces unit in the world. The majority of us wouldn’t survive the training, but soon we would have to make a choice between this and our jobs. He also told us to forget what we were outside these barracks, and that we all started from the same place – the very bottom. At twenty-six, I felt old, but here I was the youngest on female selection. To my knowledge, none of the girls was married or had children and each had committed the next year of their life to this training.
‘Any questions so far, ladies?’ he asked.
Silence.
Why do we have to do an extra eight weeks’ training than the lads? I wanted to ask, but felt it was best not to say anything at this early stage.
‘Yes?’ He pointed his clipboard at someone.
‘Would female selection involve classroom work?’ a girl asked.
‘No is the straight answer. Your training with me is to assess which of you would be physically fit enough to train with the lads.’
‘How long will the whole course last?’ another piped up.
‘As I said before, we have nothing to measure against but if any of you ladies do get to the end, it would become a thirteen-month course.’
There were a few soft gasps from his audience.
‘Ladies,’ – Wright put his hands up – ‘I’m not going to bullshit you, it’s a big commitment physically, mentally, and especially time-wise considering most of you have jobs.’ He pointed his clipboard to another girl.
‘What will we go on to do if we pass?’
‘I can’t say any more at this point. The colonel will be coming in during the course and may talk about his plans.’
There were mumbles amongst the girls. I looked around, wanting to join in, but no one was looking my way. He had confirmed what I’d read but hadn’t yet given any details of the training sessions.
‘OK, ladies,’ Wright broke in, ‘I want you down in the courtyard in sports kit in fifteen minutes.’
The girls quickly dispersed. I grabbed my bag and followed the girls out because I had no idea where the changing rooms were situated. These girls seemed to know their way around. By the time I got out they were gone.
Panic-stricken, I walked down the corridor past a few blokes who stopped and looked round at me. I asked them if they knew where the girls’ changing rooms were, but by the look on their face
s I decided not to waste any more time. I quickened my pace, then spotted one girl disappearing down a flight of stairs and went after her.
The changing room was tiny and smelt like it hadn’t been used for ages, but, surprisingly, had pink walls. Most of the girls were already changed and stood around in groups chatting about the training. I made a beeline for a quiet spot in the corner and got changed quickly.
I noticed a few girls looking round as I wrapped a towel around my skinny body and tried to get changed underneath it with my bony shoulders sticking out. I felt embarrassed by my body in comparison to their built-up, fuller bodies.
The door suddenly swung open and another girl walked in. ‘Is this female selection?’ she asked. A couple of girls nodded her way then continued talking.
She came over to where I was and put her sports bag down next to mine. ‘I’m Liz,’ she said, getting her kit out. I thought she looked like the actress who played Juliet Bravo on TV.
I was surprised by her friendliness, as most of the other girls had not acknowledged me yet, let alone talk to me.
‘Which unit are you from?’
‘I’m not from another unit.’
She was the fourth person to ask me that question. First it was the officer I registered with, then the medic, then Kate, and now her. ‘I’m from Civvy Street,’ I replied. I had picked the term up from one of the girls.
Liz put her T-shirt on and winked at me. ‘So am I.’
I wanted to believe her but she seemed familiar with the place and had said hello to a few girls on the way in. I looked round and sized them all up. Judging from the posh accents, most were probably officers and fell into two categories: Amazonian and butch. Their legs looked like solid tree trunks, shoulders and biceps like the Incredible Hulk, and they all towered over me. I suddenly panicked; here I stood, 4 ft 11, weighing 7 stone, with no military experience. These girls were scaring the hell out of me, and I hadn’t even started training with them yet.
The girls filed out.
Liz tied the shoelaces on her trainers and followed them. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’re going to miss all the fun.’
Outside, the courtyard was dark and silent. I was stood in the back rank, copying the others; hands hooked behind my back, legs slightly apart, staring straight ahead. We’d only been out a few minutes and the tips of my fingers pinched from the cold. I wanted to tuck my T-shirt inside my jogging bottoms, but didn’t dare move and stand out like the idiot civilian.
Faint voices emerged from the building behind us. Staff Wright’s voice getting clearer on my left, coming round the ranks to the front. He was with another trainer, Staff Taylor, who was, surprisingly, my height, bulky, with a face like a bulldog and a funny left eye. Both were wearing sports kit.
A nervous whisper passed between two girls on my right.
‘Listen in,’ Taylor growled, his eyes scrutinising each one of us. ‘Yes, you in the T-shirt, wanna share the joke? Shut up and listen!’
Silence.
I swallowed a mouthful of saliva, which I’m sure they all heard.
Taylor began walking through the ranks. ‘Over the next eight weeks I’ll be getting rid of the wasters. Half of you will go tonight.’
My heart was in my throat as he passed by me.
‘Your training will not just be confined to these walls; it will be seven days a week. When you’re not here you will be running, cycling, swimming, running … and you won’t stop until we throw you out. Got it?’
We got it.
I forgot about the cold, then wriggled my toes but couldn’t feel them. A part of me wanted to get moving to warm up, but another wanted him to carry on talking to delay the physical training.
Wright glanced at his watch. ‘OK, ladies, tonight we’ll just do a warm up. Let’s go.’
He ran out of the barracks’ gates and the girls filed out after him. I was the last one out. The heavens suddenly opened and it poured down. I blinked the rain out of my eyes and ran after everyone onto the King’s Road. Wright was at the front setting the pace.
I was second to last running up to Sloane Square station when the girl behind me whizzed past, saying something under her breath about getting a move on. I recognised her from earlier in the changing room, where she had kept staring at me. She had long frizzy hair tied back and looked like her face would crack if she smiled.
My breathing got heavier. I thought I was a good runner; I did OK on a treadmill, but running on hard ground with these girls… I was gasping for air, we’d only been going a few minutes but it felt like ages. The girls were now way ahead, becoming dots in the distance.
The rain was coming down in buckets, making it difficult to dodge the people on the narrow pavement. I weaved between lampposts and parking meters, squinting through my screwed up eyes and trying not to lose sight of them.
Jesus! When do we stop?
Through the black puddles I splashed. My T-shirt was drenched and heavy around the chest, and the beginning of a stitch in my side was excruciating. I wanted to stop but instead pressed a finger down on the side of my waist.
‘Widen your strides.’ Taylor was suddenly behind me, breathing down my neck loudly.
Out of fear I stretched my legs, taking deep breaths to keep the stitch away. But it wasn’t working. The girls ducked into a subway that looked miles away and disappeared. Taylor didn’t leave my tail and I knew he wouldn’t until I caught up with the rest of them. A few passers-by beneath brollies flitted eyes between me and Taylor, trying to figure it out. I crossed the junction of Brompton Road with Knightsbridge and finally joined the group inside Hyde Park. It was pitch black and deserted. The girls were on the ground doing press-ups.
I tried to calm my breath down and wiped my runny nose with the back of my hand before getting down and joining them. But then they all got up, throwing dirty looks my way. It suddenly dawned on me that Wright had them doing press-ups while waiting for me. I felt terrible putting this burden on them, and worried it would happen each time I was last in.
Wright called us over to where he stood at the edge of a steep bank. ‘Two groups, single file.’
I watched the girls quickly form two lines and I followed, shuffling fourth into one of them.
I couldn’t think straight or hear what he was saying with all the heavy breathing going on around me, and the rain bashing on my forehead was giving me a headache. I glanced at my watch, hoping the hand had moved on to the next number.
‘Go!’ Taylor screamed at the first two girls, who jolted into action and sprinted up the bank.
They were powerful, charging up with wide strides. They sprinted around the two trees conveniently located at the top of the hill and ran back down, arms furiously swinging by their sides.
‘Go!’ Taylor screamed again.
The next two were off before the others got down. I shuffled forward, heart pounding as I watched the first two join the back. Their shocked faces made my stomach churn. I realised how much they had underestimated the short sprint.
‘Go!’ Taylor’s voice rang in my ear.
I sprang forward as fast as I could. My trainers slipped uncontrollably on the muddy bank from the deep footprints left by others. I could feel myself slowing down after the second stride and pressed the palms of my hands down on each thigh to help me up, but the burning sensation in my legs was too much.
‘Ahmed!’ Taylor shouted from behind. ‘What are you doing up there!’
Desperately I tried to catch my breath, closed my eyes and tried not to think of the pain. What were these girls made of? I thought. I pushed my body up, using shorter strides, feeling another stitch coming on as I swung around the tree, where I wanted to collapse in a dizzy spell. Going back down, I suddenly lost control of my feet and fell on my bum. I clutched blades of grass to stop myself slipping as the girls continued running up and dodged around me. I got to the bottom feeling relieved, but also embarrassed, and joined the back of the queue. Within seconds, I was at the front again.
>
‘Go!’ Taylor was shouting in my ear.
Two strides up, my legs turned to jelly. I couldn’t go on.
‘Don’t stop!’ Taylor shouted after me. ‘You’ve got another eight to go.’
Taylor ended the exercise with a run around the field, leaving me wheezing and wanting to die.
‘Right you lot, in pairs. Now!’
I hobbled over to the group and could feel vomit rising up my chest, which I swallowed back down.
‘You!’ he growled.
My eyes shot open thinking he was talking to me, but it was someone over my shoulder.
‘Had enough? Go on, piss off … waster… The rest of you, on piggy back, now!’
I looked round and watched a girl jog across the field and disappear into the darkness. Before I could figure out which one it was, I felt a crash of weight hit my back. My knees buckled beneath me as I tried to pull the girl’s thighs round my hips, but they were so big I could hardly get my hands round them. Somehow she stayed on, but my lower back took all her weight. I squinted at the blurry bench in the distance, which was our target, and dragged one foot in front of the other.
Taylor’s voice tannoyed behind, hurling a string of abuse as we raced forward.
Focus. Just focus. Come on.
After a few metres, my legs stopped but my body was still moving forward. The girl on my back thumped my shoulders telling me to hurry up. I recognised the voice from the girl who’d whizzed past me earlier and told me to get a move on – Frizzball. My hands desperately grabbed the flesh of her thighs but it was too late, I fell flat on the ground with my face in the mud, my rib cage crushed by her weight. Frizzball, who I later found out was called Adele, suddenly grabbed a fistful of my T-shirt, pulled me up and swung me over her back. Relieved by the rest, I clamped my arms round her neck, my body jiggling furiously as she ran back to the start point, her pace so powerful I thought I was going to slip off.
We made it back, she let go of my legs, and I dropped in a heap on the ground. I checked my watch; only half an hour had passed. Next, we were ordered into press-up position. I stared down at the blackened grass, inches away from my nose, fingertips dug deep into the cold mud. I had never done press-ups with legs straight before, always with bent knees on a mat in the gym.