by Bear Grylls
Deep in a thorny thicket, the wind and rain having returned now, I pulled my hood over my head to try and keep warm.
We waited in alternate shifts to keep awake. But Matt, like me, was dead tired, and soon, unable to stay awake any longer, we both fell asleep on watch. Bad skills. I woke just as I heard the rustling of the other patrols approaching.
One of the 23 DS was in the first patrol, and I quickly crawled forward, tapped him on the shoulder and began to guide him back to where we had been waiting.
The DS gave me a thumbs up, as if to say ‘well done’, and by the time I had returned to where Matt was, he had shaken himself awake and looked like a coiled spring who had been covering all his fields of fire vigilantly all night long.
Little did the DS know that five minutes earlier, Matt and I had both been fast asleep, hats pulled over our eyes, snoozing like babies in a pram. If we had been caught we would have been ‘binned’ instantly.
(I challenge you, though, to find any SAS soldier who didn’t have at least one such narrow escape at some point during his journey through Selection.)
No one is perfect.
By first light we had guided the other patrols into our main OP location, a few hundred yards back from the main target. We rested up in our position and continued to observe. By late afternoon, still no activity had been reported.
Then, suddenly, that all changed.
We observed a van race up the track at high speed, approaching the house. Two men dressed in blood-red balaclavas exited the van, threw open the rear doors and dragged a girl out by her hair, screaming.
They went into the house and slammed the door shut.
We relayed the intel, and were immediately tasked by radio with forming a rapid plan of recovery and extraction.
That was all we needed.
Minutes later, with dusk falling, we were ready to carry out the hostage rescue.
One group was to hit the terrorists and recover the hostage – and the other patrols would cover them and take out any QRF (quick reaction force) that the terrorists might have in place to reinforce them.
The plan went like clockwork. It seemed that all the training had paid off. We stormed the building, ‘shot’ the terrorists and extracted the hostage.
The details are not for sharing. But it all happened very fast. Soon we were all huddled in the stripped-out rear of a transit van, speeding down the country lanes. Out of there.
Job done.
As arranged, our contact had met us as soon as the sting had gone down. Another vehicle had taken the ‘hostage’ away for debrief.
I felt electric, and was still buzzing with the adrenalin that coursed through my body.
The first part of the exercise was done, the finish goal within reach, and we were now barely one day away from getting badged.
But the final day and night of hell would be make or break.
CHAPTER 63
Some things are near impossible to prepare for. I was nervous as hell.
We were squashed in the back of the transit van: four sweaty, muddy men, all our belt kit, our rifles and packs all crammed on top of each other; and the low light on the inside roof of the cargo area flickered faintly as we careered around the lanes.
My compass told me that we were not heading south. I knew instinctively that something was wrong.
Suddenly the van pulled over, the brakes were slammed on and we stopped very sharply.
At first there was silence, then it started.
Bang, bang, bang, on the metal panels of the van.
It had begun.
What followed, and then went on until the following day, was a blur of mental and physical stress and trauma, intended to recreate and simulate the duress of captivity. It is truly unpleasant and truly terrifying – but as for the details, I am not at liberty to disclose what actually happens.
The day before our final exercise had begun, the DS had made the briefing crystal clear.
‘Don’t give them anything or they will exploit it. Be smart. Stay focused despite the pain and fatigue. Slip up for a second and you fail. And no one is your friend, until you see me walk in wearing a white cross on my sleeve. Only then is the exercise over.’
‘The Red CROSS is not my white cross; a vicar’s CROSS is not my white cross … the offer of a hot-CROSS bun and a sip of tea is not my white cross. Do you understand?’
He reiterated. ‘Don’t get caught out – not at this stage of Selection.’
Their tactics were brutal but effective. But no one was going to rob me of this opportunity now. I was so close to finishing SAS Selection. I wasn’t going to give them anything.
My mind was racing, but deep down I knew that despite it all, I was holding my control. I would not give in to these bastards. I sang hymns in my head and prayed continually. Keep me strong.
I’d never felt this battered and tired.
My head ached uncontrollably and the muscles in my back screamed from cramp. I collapsed again, and again. I was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and shivering uncontrollably in the cold underground air.
The minutes blurred into hours, and the hours seemed to never end.
Was it day or was it night?
I no longer had any idea.
Finally, finally, I was thrown into this tiny, dark cell. It all went quiet. But I instantly noticed the warmth. And I could just make out the shape of the room under the crack in my blindfold.
I waited.
I was half-naked with my camouflage jacket pulled back halfway down my back, and I was huddled over shivering. I must have looked a mess.
I could taste the snot smeared down my face.
A hand pulled my blindfold off and a light went on.
‘Recognize this, Bear?’ a voice said softly.
I squinted. The DS was pointing at a white cross on his arm. I didn’t react. I needed to double-check in my mind.
‘This means the end of the exercise – Endex. Remember?’
I did, but still I didn’t react yet. I needed to check once more in my mind. Then, finally, I nodded weakly at him. And he smiled back.
It was the end.
‘Well done, buddy. Now take a seat, take five and get this brew down you. The quack will be in to see you in a few minutes.’
The DS put a blanket around my shoulders. A smile spread across my face and I felt a tear of relief trickle down my face.
For an hour a psychiatrist then debriefed me. He told me that I had done well and had resisted effectively. I felt just so relieved. I loved that psychiatrist.
The real lesson of this was two-fold: control your mind, and don’t get caught.
As the DS said: ‘Remember, at the end of the day, these guys are on your side. They are British, they aren’t a real enemy. If they were, then that’d be when things would get messy. So remember: do not get captured!’
It is a lesson I have never forgotten, and is probably why I have, over the years, become very, very good at getting out of all sorts of scrapes.
Back in the barracks, those of us still left were white-faced, and very shaky, but we were so relieved that the ordeal was finally over.
Trucker looked particularly bad, but had this huge grin. I sat on his bed and chatted as he pottered around sorting his kit out. He kept shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
It was his way of processing everything. It made me smile.
Special man, I thought to myself.
We all changed into some of the spare kit we had left over from the final exercise and sat on our beds, waiting nervously.
We might have all finished – but – had we all passed?
‘Parade in five minutes, lads, for the good and the bad news. Good news is that some of you have passed. Bad news … you can guess.’
With that the DS left.
I had this utter dread that I would be one of the ones to fail at this final hurdle. I tried to fight the feeling.
Not at this stage. Not this close.
The DS
reappeared – he rapidly called out a short list of names and told them to follow him. I wasn’t in that group. The few of us remaining, including Trucker, looked at each other nervously, and waited.
The minutes went by agonizingly slowly. No one spoke a word.
Then the door opened and the other guys reappeared, heads down, stern-faced, and walked past us to their kit. They started packing.
I knew that look and I knew that feeling.
Matt was amongst them. The guy who had helped me so much on that final Endurance march. He had been failed for cracking under duress. Switch off for a minute, and it is all too easy to fall for one of the DS’s many tricks and tactics.
Rule 1: SAS soldiers have to be able to remain sharp and focused under duress.
Matt turned, looked at me, smiled and walked out.
I never saw him again.
CHAPTER 64
So that is how we came to be standing in a sparse room, in a nondescript building in the barracks at SAS HQ – just a handful out of all those who had started out so many months earlier.
We shuffled around impatiently. We were ready.
Ready, finally, to get badged as SAS soldiers.
The colonel of the regiment walked in, dressed casually in lightweight camo trousers, shirt, beret and blue SAS belt.
He smiled at us.
‘Well done, lads. Hard work, isn’t it?’
We smiled back.
‘You should be proud today. But remember: this is only the beginning. The real hard work starts now, when you return to your squadron. Many are called, few are chosen. Live up to that.’ He paused.
‘And from now on for the rest of your life remember this: you are part of the SAS family. You’ve earned that. And it is the finest family in the world. But what makes our work here extraordinary is that everyone here goes that little bit extra. When everyone else gives up, we give more. That is what sets us apart.’
It is a speech I have never forgotten.
I stood there, my boots worn, cracked and muddy, my trousers ripped, and wearing a sweaty black T-shirt.
I felt prouder than I had ever felt in my life.
We all came to attention – no pomp and ceremony. We each shook the colonel’s hand and were handed the coveted SAS sandy beret.
Along the way, I had come to learn that it was never about the beret – it was about what it stood for: camaraderie, sweat, skill, humility, endurance and character.
I moulded the beret carefully on to my head as he finished down the line. Then he turned and said: ‘Welcome to the SAS. My door is always open if you need anything – that’s how things work around here. Now go and have a beer or two on me.’
Trucker and I had done it, together, against all the odds.
So that was SAS selection. And as the colonel had said, really it was just the beginning.
Since I did Selection all those years ago, not much has really changed.
The MOD (Ministry of Defence) website still states that 21 SAS soldiers need the following character traits: ‘Physically and mentally robust. Self Confident. Self Disciplined. Able to work alone. Able to assimilate information and new skills.’
It makes me smile now to read those words. As Selection had progressed, those traits had been stamped into my being, and then during the three years I served with my squadron they became moulded into my psyche.
They are the same qualities I still value today.
The details of the jobs I did once I passed Selection aren’t for sharing publicly, but they included some of the most extraordinary training that any man can be lucky enough to receive.
I went on to be trained in demolitions, air and maritime insertions, foreign weapons, jungle survival, trauma medicine, Arabic, signals, high-speed and evasive driving, winter warfare, as well as ‘escape and evasion’ survival for behind enemy lines.
I went through an even more in-depth capture initiation programme as part of becoming a combat-survival instructor, which was much longer and more intense than the hell we endured on Selection.
We became proficient in covert night parachuting and unarmed combat, amongst many other skills – and along the way we had a whole host of misadventures.
But what do I remember and value most?
For me, it is the camaraderie, and the friendships – and of course Trucker, who is still one of my best friends on the planet.
Some bonds are unbreakable.
I will never forget the long yomps, the specialist training, and of course a particular mountain in the Brecon Beacons.
But above all, I feel a quiet pride that for the rest of my days I can look myself in the mirror and know that once upon a time I was good enough.
Good enough to call myself a member of the SAS.
Some things don’t have a price tag.
CHAPTER 65
Meanwhile, Trucker and I, through all of this, had been renting that cottage together, on a country estate six miles outside of Bristol. We were paying a tiny rent, as the place was so run-down, with no heating or mod-cons. But I loved it.
The cottage overlooked a huge green valley on one side and had beautiful woodland on the other. We had friends round most nights, held live music parties, and burnt wood from the dilapidated shed as heating for the solid-fuel stove.
Our newly found army pay was spent on a bar tab in the local pub.
We were probably the tenants from hell, as we let the garden fall into disrepair, and burnt our way steadily through the wood of the various rotting sheds in the garden. But heh, the landlord was a miserable old sod, with a terrible reputation, anyway!
When the grass got too long we tried strimming it – but broke both our strimmers. Instead we torched the garden. This worked a little too well, and we narrowly avoided burning down the whole cottage as the fire spread wildly.
What was great about the place was that we could get in and out of Bristol on our 100 c.c. motorbikes, riding almost all the way on little footpaths through the woods – without ever having to go on any roads.
I remember one night, after a fun evening out in town, Trucker and I were riding our motorbikes back home. My exhaust starting to malfunction – glowing red, then white hot – before letting out one massive backfire and grinding to a halt. We found some old fence wire in the dark and Trucker towed me all the way home, both of us crying with laughter.
From then on my bike would only start by rolling it down the farm-track that ran down the steep valley next to our house. If the motorbike hadn’t jump-started by the bottom I would have to push the damn thing two hundred yards up the hill and try again.
It was ridiculous, but kept me fit – and Trucker amused.
Fun days.
We lived the life of our many student buddies out and about the town, yet would also then suddenly disappear for three weeks with our squadron, returning as soon as we could with a nice suntan – back to the pretty girls of Bristol.
It was a perfect existence, and only a handful of our close buddies ever knew that we weren’t just normal students – albeit students who didn’t go to lectures. (Although few of our buddies seemed to go to many of those, either!)
It was a perfect ‘work hard, play hard’ lifestyle. We were fit, doing a job we both loved, yet, when we were not with our squadron, we were having a great time in a university town.
Two years passed like this, and as a young man I was living my dream.
I mean, find me a young man who isn’t going to love being trained in how to blow stuff up, climb cliffs, skydive at night and practise evasive high-speed driving!
But it had taken a lot of hard work to reach that point.
Along the way, Trucker and I encouraged several close friends to try for Selection as well, but sadly none of them ever got very far down the road. Some people suited the life, others simply didn’t.
One of those friends once asked me to sum up the qualities needed for life in the SAS.
I would say that what matters is the following: to be s
elf-motivated and resilient; to be calm, yet have the ability to smile when it is grim. To be unflappable, able to react fast, and to have an ‘improvise-adapt-and-overcome’ mentality.
Oh, and good tunnel vision when it comes to crunch time.
Looking forward, these are also many of the same qualities that I have relied on so heavily in subsequent adventures, from big expeditions like Everest to filming the likes of Escape to the Legion, Man vs. Wild, Worst-Case Scenario and Born Survivor: Bear Grylls.
It’s not rocket science; it’s just about showing heart in the big moments. I have always liked that.
But, and this was the big but … little did I know quite how much I was going to need some of those qualities when my accident happened. And like Selection, some things are hard to prepare for.
That cool evening, high in the sky above the desert plains of Africa, was one such life-changing, life-defining moment.
PART 3
‘There is no education like adversity.’
Benjamin Disraeli
CHAPTER 66
In the summer of 1996 I was helping out for a month on a game farm in the northern Transvaal in South Africa, culling deer and advising on how to keep poachers at bay. I was working alongside the black workers every day, and being paid for the privilege.
I decided to head north to Zimbabwe for some down time, and some fun. To spend some of my wages, before heading home to the UK.
Fun, for me, meant skydiving with good friends, with cool drinks in the evening.
Life was all good.
The sky was beginning to fade and the brilliance of the African sun was being replaced by the warm glow of dusk.
We huddled together in the small plane, and my feet began to get cramp. I tried to tense them and get the blood flowing again.
As is often the case, there was no eye contact with the others as we climbed up to nearly sixteen thousand feet. People were engaged in their own little world.