by Paul Jordan
We arrived at Swanbourne Barracks at about 3.00 pm on Sunday afternoon, and the first thing I noticed was that the guy on the front gate doing guard duty had this great mop of hair hanging out from under his sandy beret, and most of the blokes seemed to be wearing camouflage uniforms when the rest of the Army still wore greens. This is great, I thought, these guys weren’t worried about how short your hair was and were wearing fatigues for war — either that or the guy was on guard duty because he hadn’t got a haircut. That was it for me; I really wanted to be part of this and intended to work hard to get that sandy beret.
We moved into the old mess on the hill and handed all our paper work to the clerks. The same corporal who had collected us from RAAF Base Pearce then told us that the course was going to start on Tuesday morning at 8.00 am and that was when we would next be required. Then out he walked. Bloody hell, we were all shocked. We had expected to be busting our arses by now, not being given two days off. A few of the blokes were originally from Perth and showed us around the joint for the next couple of days. I didn’t do any physical training though. I figured that two days wasn’t going to make any difference, but I ate as much food as I could get into my gut. The selection course is famous for turning blokes into something that looked like it had just escaped from a Japanese POW camp, so a bit of extra weight wasn’t going to hurt. At this point in my life I was in the best shape I’d ever been — I just hoped it would be enough.
By Tuesday morning, about 120 men had assembled from all over Australia to start the SASR selection course. Every one of us had a dream. Some wanted the glory of being in the SAS — but that wasn’t me, because six months ago I didn’t even know what the SAS was. Some wanted to get some time off in Perth when they pulled the pin from the course — again, not me as I didn’t know anyone in Perth. Some wanted to be part of something special, to be the best soldier they could be and be surrounded by like-minded men — that was me. I had decided a long time ago that I wanted to be the best soldier that I could be and, from what I’d heard in these past few months, these guys were the best and I wanted to be part of it; that’s why I was here. I was hugely disappointed with the calibre of soldiers in the battalion. Most just viewed their military life as an opportunity to fill a gap and did just enough to get by. When a platoon is only as strong as its weakest link and 70% of the platoon couldn’t give a rat’s arse about being the best they could be, you ended up with a very ordinary product. You ended up with a handful of blokes busting their arse to be the best while dragging along too many fat, last fucks. As I looked around the bus I tried to work out who was going to be still around when the course was over. History confirmed that most wouldn’t be. I was realistic in my outlook. I expected to be around at the end of the course, but then I also expected the SAS to send me back to my unit. My estimation of the SAS standard had become so high that I just didn’t think they would select me.
We arrived at the Northam Army Camp at about 4.00 pm. Northam is an old camp originally built to house Italian immigrants after World War II. The buildings were small dormitory-style wooden buildings with gaps in the floorboards that allowed plenty of dirt and dust through. As I got off the bus I saw about 20 SAS soldiers, who were obviously going to be our Directing Staff (DS), and instruments of torture — trailers and massive logs etc. — lying around the place looking quite harmless for now. We were divided into different groups; some had to go to the medical centre for a check-up, others had to go to the Q store to collect various bits of equipment required for the course, including self-loading rifles (SLR). When I received my kit and SLR I walked outside and started trying to organise myself. A DS approached me and asked, ‘What do you do when you receive a weapon?’
‘Clear it,’ I said.
‘Did you clear your weapon?’
No point lying. ‘No, I did not, Sir.’ We had to call every DS ‘Sir’ regardless of rank, and we were called ‘rangers’, regardless of our rank. ‘Give me 50 push-ups.’
Far out, I’ve only just got off the bus and I’m in the shit. A mate from the battalion, Col, was with me on the course and started pissing himself laughing at my misfortune. There are 120 people and I’m the first one to get 50 push-ups.
We were allocated to a patrol, and two patrols were allocated one hut to live in. I wandered off with my patrol and found my hut. I was fortunate to be in the same hut as two other blokes from the 1st Battalion. Col was one and the other was John. Both John and Col were from Recon Platoon. The hut consisted of a number of beds in an open dormitory-style wooden building. There were no lockers and, because there were so many of us, the beds were about ten centimetres apart. There was no time to sit around chatting, my bed had to be made, I had to sort out my webbing and pack, my weapon had to be cleaned and the DS was coming to the hut to give us a brief.
When the DS arrived he began to search all of our kit. Any item that wasn’t on the list of things to bring was confiscated, and wasn’t returned until our time on the course had finished. The DS was a sergeant and when he went through my kit he asked very quietly what unit I was from.
‘1 RAR, Sergeant,’ I said.
‘Five minutes ago, you were given a set of instructions as to how you are to address the DS. Do you recall those instructions or do you have trouble retaining information?’ he whispered.
You’re shitting me, I’m in trouble again, and Col is grinning. ‘Yes, Sir, I recall the instructions, and …’ Shit, what else did he say?
He looked at me expecting more, but I said nothing. ‘And do you have trouble retaining information?’
Oh, that’s right. ‘No, Sir.’
‘Then why did you call me “Sergeant” and not “Sir”? Were you being a smart arse?’
‘No, Sir, it slipped my mind.’
‘So you do have trouble retaining information. Give me 50 push-ups.’ Bloody hell, I’ve officially been on this course for half an hour and I’ve done 100 push-ups. So, as I’m pumping out the push-ups, the DS begins his brief.
‘You blokes came to us, we didn’t come to you. The DS on this course will not give you any encouragement; it’s up to you to motivate yourself. If you’ve had enough and wish to withdraw from the course, then all you have to do is tell me and I’ll make sure you’re on the next bus out. However, you cannot pull the pin before the fifth day; after then, do what you like. To pass this course you will need to continuously put in 110%. I do not need to impress you; you need to impress me if you want in. At the end of each day a program will be posted on the door. It will inform you of the timings for the following day. You will never know what you are doing more than one day in advance, so don’t ask. You have all been issued with a weapon. That weapon is never to be any further than arm’s length from you at all times. Any questions? Good, continue preparing your kit, I’ll be back later.’
I continued preparing my kit when the DS returned and called for me, ‘Ranger Jordan.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ I got it right this time, as I wasn’t too sure if I could manage another 50 push-ups right now.
‘Outside now, the RSM wants to see you.’
Oh shit, maybe 100 push-ups was the cut-off and I’m being removed after 45 minutes on the course — that must be a record. I walked outside and saw the meanest looking bastard on earth. He had eyes that appeared to look right through to my heart and I actually felt my heart jump.
‘Yes, Sir,’ I said.
‘Are you Ranger Jordan?’ Again, another quiet talker.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Was your father in the army?’
Where is he going with this? ‘Yes, Sir, he was.’
‘Is his name Bill Jordan?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I know him. He helped me on my RSM’s course.’ He then leaned in and said, ‘I’ll be watching you, Jordan; get back inside.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ I mumbled and ran back up the three steps and into the hut. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me; so much for trying to play the grey man. I’ve been on thi
s course for 45minutes, I’ve done 100 push-ups and the RSM is going to be watching my every move — I haven’t got a hope. Thanks, Dad.
Apart from everything else, we had to write our names on the front and back of two white T-shirts that we were required to bring with us to the course. We would wear these at certain physical training (PT) sessions. We had a quick dinner at 6.00 pm and then continued preparing our kit until 11.00 pm when I decided that I would need some sleep because I had a feeling that tomorrow was going to be big. That turned out to be an understatement.
Wasn’t I right; at 5.00 am shots were fired around our huts and one of the DS yelled for us to be on the roadway in ten minutes, dressed in boots, trousers and white T-shirt — it went without saying that we had to take our rifles with us. PT was like nothing I’d done before. It was never meant to be interesting, was very monotonous, incredibly painful, and the session always went for over an hour. To top it all off, it seemed as though I had my own personal DS permanently attached to my ear and he didn’t stop abusing me. ‘What’s that? You’re piss weak. You call that 110% effort? You might as well fuck off right now.’ These phrases, and others just as encouraging, were continually fired at me for the entire session. I wondered where the whispering guys had gone as I had liked them better. At the end of the session I had to clean out all the spit the DS had donated to my right ear.
After PT we were told to shower, shave and have breakfast. The food that was served on the selection course was always great, there was always heaps of it and we were encouraged to take as much food as possible. This was due to the high level of physical activity we had to endure. However, it was difficult to eat a big meal after having come very close, on several occasions, to throwing up; but I knew that I had to eat so I forced the food down. After breakfast, and dressed in greens, we were seated in the classroom and were addressed by the CO of the SAS.
I thought we were going to be welcomed to the course, but the CO spoke to us as though our mere presence had offended him in some way. His attitude was the same as the DS: ‘you came to us, it is up to you to prove you are worthy of entry into the SAS’. There was no encouragement in his words, but he did say that if we were still here at the end then we had a 90% chance of moving onto the next phase of selection. I admired the CO and the DS for their attitude. They were clearly all professional soldiers who only wanted genuine professional soldiers to join them. What a great set-up this was. Soldiers of the Regiment got to decide who got in and who didn’t. They were saying that there is no place in the SAS for dreamers, only performers — and they were right.
The CO left and we began navigation theory lessons. The DS started from lesson one and went through every navigation lesson. Morning tea was served and again the amount and quality of the food was unbelievable. At this time people were starting to get sore from the PT that morning. I found this amazing; it was only the first session and we had another one planned for the afternoon. These blokes had sore muscles and couldn’t lift their arms above their shoulders. Obviously they had not put in the hours of training. One poor prick was given 50 push-ups, but he couldn’t swing his arms when marching so the 50 push-ups promised some entertainment.
Week one went by with PT twice a day. The only day we didn’t do PT again in the afternoon was the day we did the 20 kilometre forced march. This entailed carrying a pack weighing 20 kilograms, our webbing weighing 10 kilograms and our weapons, and we had three hours and 15 minutes to complete the distance. We were despatched by patrols at five-minute intervals; my patrol was the fourth patrol to leave. It was still dark when we left and we were told that water would be positioned every five kilometres. I calculated that, if I could complete each five-kilometre distance in less than 45 minutes, I’d be on target with time to spare. Initially, most of the blokes decided to make up the weight of their packs with water and then drink it on the way, which would lighten the load. But this idea was quickly squashed. The DS said that our pack had to weigh 20 kilograms when we started and when we finished. So, in went the sandbag of dirt to make up the shortfall. We also carried a 77 set radio with us at all times, so with that and the water, I didn’t have to add a great deal of dirt.
Off I went, and was feeling pretty good. I quickly got into a run-walk cycle and reached my first five kilometre mark in 40 minutes. I didn’t stop for water, but continued on. I had six water bottles on me and drank every time I walked, whether I was thirsty or not. A few kilometres later, the sun came up and it started to get hot. My back started to ache in the lumbar region and on my shoulders as the pack bounced up and down, so I had to hoist the pack off my shoulders, bend over as much as I could, and continue running. Some blokes passed me, but generally I passed more. At the 15 kilometre mark I was 15 minutes up, so decided to have a quick water break and fill my bottles to ensure I had the right weight at the finish. I had no idea what was going to happen after this was over, so I thought it was good to be ready. I set off from the 15 kilometre mark with one hour and 15 minutes to complete the last five kilometres. My pace didn’t slow and I ran-walked the remaining distance. However, 45 minutes later, I was still running and could not see the finish line. One hour after making the water break I was still running and still couldn’t see the finish. By now I was starting to panic. I hadn’t walked for the last 25 minutes and certainly wasn’t about to walk now. As I rounded a sweeping corner a DS appeared and yelled, ‘What group are you with?’ ‘The fourth,’ I managed to force back.
‘Well, you’d better pull your fucking finger out then, hadn’t you?’
Then I saw the finish line and, as I passed, the time-keeper yelled ‘three hours and 25 minutes’. Fuck it, I was gutted. I’d failed. How could this be?
‘No,’ I said, ‘that can’t be right.’ I couldn’t believe that I was talking to the DS like that, but I was sure I’d passed. The DS looked at me with a bored face and replied tiredly, ‘What group are you with, Ranger?’
‘The fourth group.’
‘Well then, stupid, you have to take 20 minutes off that time, don’t you?’ Oh yeah, that’s right. I walked off and gave my time to the timekeeper while bracing myself to get my arse handed to me for talking to a DS in such a way. But nothing happened and, after a few minutes, I was happy to lift my head again and stand up straight.
Once again the cooks had outdone themselves. There was a buffet of cakes and snack foods that we were encouraged to eat. So I dumped my pack and webbing and, with my rifle in hand, I pigged out. John and Col had beaten me over the line and were already hooking into the food. John had some cramps in his back so the dopey medic told John to take off his shirt and he began to rub in the Deep Heat. As soon as the Deep Heat hit his back, John started to swear and curse, because the pores of his skin were open and the Deep Heat got right into his skin and began to burn his back. The medic ran water over his back and we used his shirt to wipe the Deep Heat off. John was still in some pain, but it wasn’t as bad, so Col and I hung some shit on him for good measure, just for being a sook.
At the four-hour mark, blokes were still coming over the line. This was unbelievable. Sure it was hard, damn hard, but certainly attainable with the training hours put in. The DS were disgusted with the general performance and told us that this time, as a group, we were going to do it again, and do it right. So, with packs and webbing back on, we formed up on the road. John put his shirt on (the shirt that I’d used to rub off the Deep Heat) and again got burnt, but he didn’t want to complain at this stage. The DS set a blistering pace and I had to run to keep up. I couldn’t believe that we were going back. I looked around and everyone looked as depressed as I did. But I just thought, bugger it, I might as well just suffer through it. We had done about five kilometres when we rounded a corner and saw the trucks. You beauty, I thought, as did everyone else, and the pace picked up marginally. But we got to the trucks and kept going past them and the pace backed off again. A couple of hundred metres later, we stopped and the DS told us to get on the trucks.
T
he 20 kilometre march was just one of the tests we had to pass during the first week. We also had to do the 3.2 kilometre run. Now the difference between the one we had to do on the selection course and the pre-selection run was that, on the selection course, we did the run on day four and were pretty run down by then. We were suffering from lack of sleep and the effects of doing two gut-wrenching PT sessions every day. To make matters worse, the first 200 metres of the run was uphill, so it was bloody hard to pass. I made it by 15 seconds and I was well and truly shattered when I had finished. That run is the hardest of all runs in the army.
Another run we did was known as the airfield run. In patrols, we marched up to the airfield dressed in PT gear (shorts, T-shirt and runners). As patrols, and in single file, we approached the airfield and, to my alarm, I noticed that there were tents set up on the side of the airstrip. In those tents the medics had set up intravenous drips on stands next to a stretcher — there were five of these set up. This is going to hurt, I thought. The patrol of 10 started to run around the airstrip with the last man continually sprinting to the front. We just kept going and going, and it was bloody hot. After about half an hour of this, the stretchers were full and some blokes were on the ground getting filled up. My patrol started to get smaller and smaller until there was only Col, John, one other and me. Then a DS decided to join us and we picked up the pace. Another two laps later and, having run for an hour, we stopped. Thank Christ, I thought, I didn’t have much left in me. Again, I was well and truly rooted.
Day five of the course presented an unbelievable sight. I hadn’t given any thought to pulling the pin and I assumed everyone else was the same; but on day five there was a mass exodus — half the course withdrew. Call me selfish or whatever you like, but I drew an enormous amount of strength from their failures. One of the original blokes from 4 Platoon also withdrew on that day. From this day, we were continually asked, ‘Who wants to pull the pin? Pull the pin now, and tonight you’ll be having a few beers down in Fremantle.’ Sounded nice, but no way. I’d come to realise the SAS was indeed special. You couldn’t get into the SAS because you were rich and could buy your way in. You couldn’t get into the SAS because you came from a privileged family and went to the right schools. The SAS was available to anyone in the Defence Force and the selection course treated everyone as equals. If you wanted it badly enough and were willing to go beyond anywhere you’d been previously, then maybe you’d get through. But pulling the pin wasn’t happening.