Mud, Sweat and Tears

by Bear Grylls

  CHAPTER 50

  Our achievements are generally limited only by the beliefs we impose on ourselves.

  If we tell ourselves often enough that we don’t have what it takes, then that will inevitably become our reality.

  But I also knew if I could somehow replace my doubt with hope, my fear with courage, and my self-pity with a sense of pride, then I just might be able to do this.

  It would involve paying a huge price in sweat and hard graft; it would involve having to train longer and harder than ever before.

  And the mind would have to drive it all.

  It was a decision I had already made years earlier.

  Ed Amies, one of my oldest and closest friends, told me simply that: ‘So often, God’s callings have a birth, a death and then a resurrection.’

  I had had the birth, and had got stuck in to Selection; I had had the death, at that fateful dam in the Welsh mountains – now was a logical time for the resurrection.

  If my faith stood for anything it was this: miracles really can happen.

  So I made the decision to try again.

  This time, though, I would be doing this alone.

  I knew that support from my family and friends would be much less forthcoming, especially from Mum, who could see the physical toll that just four months had taken.

  But I felt deadly serious about passing this properly, now, and I somehow knew that it was my last chance to do it.

  And no one was going to do it for me.

  Some two weeks later I listened to a mumbled message on my answerphone from Trucker.

  He’d got lost on the final part of a march. After hours of wandering aimlessly in the dark, and out of time, he had finally been found by a DS in a Land Rover, out to look for stray recruits.

  Trucker was dejected and tired. He, too, had failed the course.

  He went through the same struggle over the next few weeks that I had, and like me, he was invited by the squadron to try again. We were the only two guys to have been asked back.

  With greater resolve than ever, we both threw ourselves into training with an intensity that we had never done before. This time we meant business.

  We both moved into an old, secluded, rented, farm cottage some six miles out of Bristol. And, Rocky-style, we started to train.

  The next Selection course (of which two are run annually) was just about to start. And just like in Groundhog Day, we found ourselves back in that old dusty gymnasium at the squadron barracks, being run ragged by the DS.

  There was another whole bunch of hopefuls. They would diminish down at a startling rate. We had seen it happen before.

  This time, though, we were there as the ‘old hands’. And it helped.

  We knew what to expect; the mystique had gone, and the prize was up for grabs.

  That was empowering.

  It was now wintertime, and winter Selection is always considered the tougher course, because of the mountain conditions. I tried not to think about this.

  Instead of the blistering heat, and midges, our enemies would be the freezing, driving sleet, the high winds and the short daylight hours.

  These made Trucker and me look back on the summer Selection days as quite balmy and pleasant! It is strange how accustomed you become to hardship, and how what once seemed horrific can soon become mundane.

  The DS had often told us: ‘If it ain’t raining, it ain’t training.’

  And it rains a lot in the Brecon Beacons. Trust me.

  (I recently overheard our middle boy, Marmaduke, tell one of his friends this SAS mantra. The other child was complaining that he couldn’t go outside because it was raining. Marmaduke, aged four, put him straight. Priceless.)

  The first few weekends progressed, and we both shone.

  We were fitter, stronger and more confident than many of the other recruits, but the winter conditions were very real.

  We had to contend with winds that, on one weekend exercise, were so strong on the high ridges that I saw one gust literally blow a whole line of soldiers off their feet – including the DS.

  Our first night-march saw one recruit go down with hypothermia. Like everyone else, he was wet and cold, but in the wind and whiteout he had lost that will to look after himself, and to take action early.

  He had forgotten the golden rule of cold, which the DS had told us over and over: ‘Don’t let yourself get cold. Act early, while you still have your senses and mobility. Add a layer, make shelter, get moving faster – whatever your solution is, just do it.’

  Instead, this recruit had just sat down in the middle of the boggy moon-grass and stopped. He could hardly talk, and couldn’t stand. We all gathered round him, forming what little shelter we could. We gave him some food and put an extra layer of clothing on him.

  We then helped him stagger off the mountain, to where he could be picked up by Land Rover, and taken to base camp where the medics could help him.

  For him, that would be his last exercise with 21 SAS, and a harsh reminder that the struggles of Selection go beyond the demons in your head. You also have to be able to survive the mountains, and in winter that isn’t always easy.

  One of the other big struggles of winter Selection was trying to get warm in the few hours between the marches.

  In the summer it didn’t really matter if you were cold and wet – it was just unpleasant rather than life-threatening. But in winter, if you didn’t sort yourself out, you would quickly end up with hypothermia, and then one of two things would happen: you would either fail Selection, or you would die.

  Both options were bad.

  CHAPTER 51

  Second time around, I could sense that I was stronger.

  I found my mind and body coping better, in comparison to my first attempt – and I was often now one of the front-runners at the end of a march.

  As the selection tests and weekends progressed, we were taken to more and more difficult and mountainous terrains around Wales: black, featureless peaks, endless bogs, and desolate old quarries.

  I spent hour after hour, day after day, slogging around these mountains in the cold and driving rain. I would have the hood of my army-issue jacket wrapped up tight, as I steadily plodded onwards towards the next checkpoint.

  Mumbling to myself, humming to myself, and pushing ever onwards.

  The worse that the conditions got, the more I had to learn to ride them out.

  It is a learnt skill: to roll with the punches and to keep going.

  I made that my mantra.

  All of this was slowly becoming second nature to me.

  Here I am again: waist-deep in another swollen mountain stream, wading through fierce white water. Or I am kicking my boots into the cold mud of another steep mountainside, as I carefully traverse a sheer face in the dark.

  I am negotiating a narrow, slippery log across a gorge. It is dark and wet and I am weighed down under my pack, belt kit and weapon.

  I am tired, but I keep going.

  But the worst bit was always the waiting: lying in the cold, wet marshland trying to snatch a few hours’ rest in-between the marches.

  Keep wiggling those toes, keep smiling, keep focused on the next task. You can do this, Bear.

  And slowly I did.

  Week, after week, after week.

  By the end of the final test of the ‘hills’ phase, there were only a handful of us left from our squadron. It included both Trucker and myself, plus several others.

  We’d done, and been through, so much together – and we all felt like brothers. It was a powerful feeling.

  We’d seen each other at our lowest ebb, but somehow the five of us had prevailed. Each of us had waged a private battle, and that had forged in us a pride and a togetherness that is hard to find in civvy street.

  But all of this had only really been preparing us for the rigours of ‘Test Week’.

  This was a week of back-to-back, cross-mountain marches that were the culmination of all the physical tests for both the regular
and the reserve SAS – and it was a brute.

  But pass it, and you were through the first phase of Selection.

  For the duration of this Test Week, we would be based from SAS HQ, and all three SAS regiments, 21, 22, 23 SAS, would converge together for it.

  We would have to cover a crazy number of miles, across mountainous terrain, carrying ever-increasing weights, and always against the clock. Test conditions.

  For the regular SAS, Test Week is where they lose the majority of recruits, and it is 100 per cent effective in testing even the fittest soldier to their limit. Each and every day the numbers dwindle, as more and more hopefuls fail to make the time required.

  Bearing in mind that after each weekend so far, I had invariably been hobbling for a day or so afterwards on swollen feet, the prospect of doing six marches back-to-back, over much greater distances and with much greater weight, filled me with terror.

  I just had no idea whether I could manage it.

  At the end of Test Week would come the hardest test of all.

  After five days of solid marching, I would have to complete the mother of all marches, nicknamed ‘Endurance’.

  It is a good description.

  The distance of the march was far, far greater than anything we had ever done before. And it was measured as the crow flies, not taking into account elevation and steepness of terrain. (A ‘map’ mile is very different to an ‘actual’ mile, which involves going up and over three-thousand-foot mountains, through bogs and across rivers.)

  We would also have to carry 55 lb of pack, plus weapon, water, food and belt kit.

  No wonder I was scared.

  I had some idea what it would really mean.

  That Friday, the five of us sat cramped on top of all our kit, in one long-wheel-based Land Rover. We pulled out of our Welsh barracks, and headed north into the unknown.

  When we arrived at our destination, we were all ushered into a large, stark, briefing-room full of hardened, weathered-looking soldiers.

  The 22 SAS chief instructor, in his broad Yorkshire accent, told us simply that Selection’s Grim Reaper would likely claim the vast majority of us over the next six days. But that if we wanted it badly enough, then it was there for the taking.

  ‘You’ve got to want it in here, though, lads,’ he continued, thumping his chest. ‘It’s all in here.’

  ‘OK. First parade is at 0500 tomorrow morning. Further instructions will be posted on the noticeboard each evening. Good luck.’

  With that he turned and left us to settle in.

  CHAPTER 52

  I carefully packed my kit into the locker. I set my alarm and tried to sleep.

  In truth, I had never felt so nervous.

  The whole billet was up early, long before dawn.

  Every soldier was here for one purpose: to prove that they could do the distances and do the times. Everything that we had gone through so far was purely preparation for these next six days.

  There would be no battle PT, no beastings, no bullshit barrack-cleaning or shouting. It wasn’t needed. The weights, the distances and the clock would dictate whether we passed or failed.

  At the end of Test Week, the SAS would have a small group of self-motivated, capable, fit soldiers. They would be the raw material that the SAS would then take and mould.

  The SAS would teach these few how to soldier in a whole new way. Unconventional. Highly specialized and highly trained.

  I went to the cookhouse and ate as much breakfast as I could get down me. I would need every ounce of that energy today.

  The noticeboard had told us the weights that our packs needed to be that day. We were expected to weigh our packs ourselves and then be ready on parade at the correct time. Again, no one was treated like a kid here. It was all about self-discipline.

  At 0455, I glanced down the line of us on parade. Almost every soldier was dressed slightly differently. Basic kit was the same, but boots and hats were down to the individual.

  The SAS want individuals, and they never try to discourage that spirit.

  Every soldier had worked hard to be there, and they had earned the right to choose their boots. We each knew the kit we liked, and we each had our own personal take on what worked best. Myself included.

  We all stood quietly at ease, our big green packs leaning against us, like a ball and chain around a prisoner’s ankles.

  The DS quietly checked and weighed our packs in turn, before sending us to the armoury to draw out our ‘weapons’.

  These were old standard-issue SLRs, but with a twist. Instead of having bolt actions and working parts inside them, they were welded shut with steel.

  Nice touch, I thought.

  We were then loaded into the four-tonne trucks, which rumbled out of the barracks towards the mountains.

  It was still dark.

  I had no idea where we were going. I just sat in nervous anticipation.

  Eventually the truck rumbled off the road and ground to a halt with a hiss of air from the brakes. I looked out.

  I knew enough by now to recognize that we were in that horrible moon-grass region.

  I should have guessed.

  An hour and a half of fumes and nerves, though, had taken its toll, and I felt pretty sick.

  I got off the truck and suddenly vomited all over the ground. All I could think about was all that valuable energy, that I’d desperately need all day, being wasted.

  My confidence was at rock bottom at this point, as I sat waiting to be called forward and given my first map grid reference.

  All those old doubts came flooding back.

  I just felt suddenly way out of my depth.

  I wasn’t a marine or a hardened soldier of any sort. I was pretty damn wet behind the ears in every respect – and I knew it.

  I breathed deeply as I stood in line. Calm.

  I just needed to start this and get going.

  CHAPTER 53

  Soon I was off and moving.

  Up the first peak and across the next valley, then crossing a river before mounting up towards the next summit.

  A few hours on, I passed Trucker, climbing up towards me. He nodded and smiled. He looked like he was going strong.

  I set off up the next steep face, scrambling on hands and knees in the wet, boggy terrain.

  I was soon on what I hoped would be the last leg back. It was only six miles, but I then made a bad decision and chose a route that led me into a quagmire of marsh and high grass.

  I was forced to criss-cross endless thirty-foot-deep gorges with rocky, white-water streams pounding through them, and I had to lose vital ground and height to make any sort of progress.

  I was determined not to lose my hard-earned time, and I pushed on aggressively through the moon-grass. I soon saw the trucks waiting at the bottom of the valley below.

  I just made it in within the time, heaved the weight of the ‘green monkey’ pack off my aching back and collapsed in the back, pleased but dog-tired.

  Everyone had gone through similar struggles that day, I found out. The route was designed like that. But I had survived.

  The next day was once again in moon-grass terrain. And once more the noticeboard had increased the required weight of our packs. We were also now in a part of the mountains I had never been in before.

  I tapped another recruit on the shoulder as we queued up in the cold, winter dawn, waiting to be set off individually at two-minute intervals. I asked him about the terrain, and he seemed to know the area well.

  In about thirty seconds he briefed me on the pitfalls and shortcuts he had learnt.

  Good lad. It was invaluable intel.

  Selection was good like that. It wasn’t a competition. If the training major could be proved wrong, and all of us passed, he would have been the first to celebrate. The SAS aren’t restricted on how many recruits they can pass. They are only restricted by their standards.

  I set off fast. By now, I had walked so many miles of this moon-grass that I was actually
growing strangely accustomed to the harsh terrain.

  That day I finished well, despite the torrential rain that had beaten down on us unceasingly. I stretched off in the back of the trucks and chatted to the other lads on the journey back.

  I was gaining in stature and confidence.

  By the morning of the next day I noticed a few less trucks. I had heard that quite a lot of recruits had already been binned. They had either got lost, been beaten by the weight of their pack or failed to make the time.

  It was hard to keep track of, but the noticeboard listed the recruits left on the course each evening, and so far my name was still on there.

  I wanted to stay the grey man, no dramas, no fuss.

  Just do the job, keep within the time and stay on the list.

  CHAPTER 54

  Our slowly diminishing group of recruits clambered once more into the back of the big metal lorries, heading yet again to the moon-grass hellhole.

  That day we would be covering a lot of the same area that I had been in when I had failed six months earlier. It was time to put those demons to bed.

  I was careful not to make the same mistakes: I nibbled on the snacks that I had stuffed in my pocket from breakfast and I drank regularly to keep hydrated.

  But just when I was gaining confidence that I had this one under control, I made a careless mistake.

  I dropped off the high ground too early, and soon found myself floundering again in the worst of the boggy marsh. Burning up valuable energy and precious time. I could feel my tired limbs leaking energy, and the weight of the pack was pushing my sinking legs further and further into the boggy ground with each step.

  To make matters worse, I could see distant figures on the skyline above steaming past me.

  I was soon so exhausted that I just had to stop and rest. Just for a minute, to get the weight off my shoulders. I needed to take stock. I downed all the nibbles I could find in my pockets. Rationing was now out. I needed energy.