by Geoff Wolak
I saluted, he saluted back, and off he went.
The next day we entered two teams to the map reading test, the course about sixteen miles, but it covered a few featureless expanses, so counting our paces and averaging them was essential. I led a team, Moran led a team, and we compared notes back in the tents. I had missed a signpost, Moran had seen it and noted the wording, but had missed a sign on a fence post that I spotted.
We duly warned the other teams what to look out for, but could not remember the numbers written on the signs, which was probably why they were numbers and not meaningful words.
As we rested the next day, two other teams tackled the map reading, both teams confident when they returned. But the weather had cleared and so we were now inundated with midges - and we had lemmings around our feet on occasion.
Rested, the next day we tackled again the speed march, but now knew what to expect, and we knew how to pace ourselves. I had timed our first attempt, and after nearly collapsing at the finish line this time I checked my watch; we had shaved fifteen minutes off our time.
As we struggled to breathe, a team of Americans were getting ready to go out, and they must have figured us unfit to be in such a state.
With all of our teams back we ambled to our tent, all soaked in sweat, and we cleaned up just as it started to rain, then it hammered down, the tents leaking in a few places, the floor soon wet and muddy.
We suffered an uncomfortable two days in the tents, but ran whilst it rained, the only ones out and about, the other ‘special forces’ afraid of rain. And so far no one had seen the SBS, so we figured them absent this year.
Applying for the Stage Two map reading, we prepared teams and were issued instructions – we would be taking rations and be gone overnight, back on the third day, a sat phone in plastic for emergencies as well as flares. The course was just about a hundred miles, the terrain varying. Each of my lads had plastic bin bags and clear plastic bags, since crossing streams would be part of this.
The next morning the first team, my team, stood ready, the route only then handed over, and we asked about deadly man-eating grizzly bears.
‘None around here, but ... could come across one I suppose, haven’t seen one for years.’
‘We have pistols, and some live ammo,’ I told him.
‘Oh, well, shooting bears is illegal, so if you see one make some noise and run away, fire a flare. Please don’t shoot one, there’d be an enquiry.’
‘We’ll use flares,’ I reassured them, and a minute later we walked off.
Map checked, the first leg straight forwards enough, we picked up the pace, chatting as we went, midges annoying us. It was a fine day, a cool northerly breeze, and towards sun down we hit our first stream. It was not wide, but it sat in the middle of swamp land, so we put webbing and backpacks into the bin bags, jackets and shirts into plastic bags, and across we went, up to our chests in the centre of the stream.
Out the other side we found our kit dry as we dressed, soon heading off, and we passed our first umpires, sat in a jeep, names given.
Moran said, ‘There’s a small bridge on the map, few miles left, so maybe the teams are supposed to consider using it.’
I said, ‘The whole point is to not be seen, so we’d avoid a road and a bridge normally. Anyhow, what do you reckon to sleeping? I’d say we march at night and sleep in the day when it’s warm.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Moran offered.
‘Swifty?’
‘Better to sleep when warm and dry,’ he responded.
‘Mouri?’
‘Whatever, skipper, I’m good to go.’
At midnight, checking the map, we realised that we had hit a snag and that this was part of the test. There was an area of cliffs and lakes ahead of us, and we could try and go through it or around, but going through it at night would be difficult. The net difference in miles was five miles around and three through the middle, but speed was key, because going around we’d have a track to use. We decided to go around.
As the dawn came up we found ourselves in a wooded area, keeping an eye out for bears, despite what they had told us. An hour on, the day warming up, we came across our second umpire, also sat in his jeep. Names were given.
‘Where did you camp, sir?’ he asked, passing the time.
‘We didn’t,’ I told him. ‘We marched straight, we’ll camp now when it warms up.’
‘Oh,’ he offered. ‘No rules as to when and where you camp, sir.’
A few miles on and we found a raised area next to a stream, the setting quite idyllic, and made camp. Rations cooked, kit checked, ponchos raised, we settled down to sleep. I woke after three hours, the midges killing me, and I found a small deer staring back at me. It scampered off as I eased up, the day hot.
After taking a pee I kicked legs, and we got a quick brew on.
Sat there, I said, ‘The original settlers, they came out here with fuck all, and rode or walked a thousand miles.’
‘And how many of them died out here,’ Swifty noted.
Moran put in, ‘The Indians survived out here with stone axes and flint to make fire.’
Mouri said, ‘My ancestors, they sailed the Pacific in tiny canoes, crazy bastards. How many of them found a small island and never left it, stuck there.’
‘Not a bad place to be stuck,’ I said. ‘A small island. And if you had a young lady native with you, pleasant enough.’
‘And when she becomes a large and fat old lady native?’ Swifty asked, making us laugh. ‘No way to get away from her on a small island, and what would you talk about after twenty years.’
‘OK, so the image in my head is good for a few weeks,’ I admitted.
Packed up, we joined the track, no other teams about, and set off at a brisk pace.
At the next lake we spotted what looked like otters, but they could have been beavers, and we circled around it till we realised that the stream on the map was a hundred yards wide.
Stripped down to our pants, everything else in the bin bags, rifles on top and strapped to wrists – just in case, we swam across, legs getting cut from underwater logs. Out of the brown water, I gave everyone antiseptic cream, a few plasters placed on as we dressed, rifles cleared of water, and off we set, turning south.
A series of ridges presented themselves, but instead of going around we went up and over, sliding down scree slopes in places, a few streams crossed, legs permanently wet.
On the far side, joining a good track south, we found an umpire, who was surprised that we were there, he had not expected anyone till the following day. We gave names and headed off.
The track curved around to the east, back towards camp, and with just ten miles to go we started jogging, two sets of umpires paused at, all of us sweating and out of breath, the umpires puzzling that.
We got back to find no umpire at the end of the track, he had to be sent for, because he was not expecting us this early. Opening a map over a jeep, he asked what route we had taken, and we detailed it, surprising him.
‘No rules against that route, but there are easier routes,’ he noted.
‘We wanted a good time,’ Moran told him.
‘You’re about ten hours early, sir,’ he responded.
‘Good,’ I told a perplexed NCO, and led the team off, back to the tents as lads closed in and asked about the route.
Two of our teams were still out there, others to set off in the morning. Kit down, legs still damp, we grabbed food in the mess tent, the Americans asking after our dishevelled and tired state. I told them we had run most of the way, just to wind them up, and offered a wager if they could beat our time.
I slept well that night, my back not twinging too much, and we lounged around the next day, sunbathing as our teams came back in, the four SAS lads having camped out for two nights, Rizzo’s team having camped twice for five hours each. He had used the bridge, avoided the ridges and lakes, his time longer than ours – by sixteen hours.
Our next team came in half d
ead, the umpires worried. Smitty and Tomo, Travis and Jacque, they had not slept at all and had kept going, their time just an hour behind mine.
I knew what was coming, and he came an hour later, our concerned Canadian major. With the day hot, I had my shirt off.
He blinked, and took a moment. ‘Are your men ... OK?’ he tentatively asked.
‘Be OK in a day or two, sir, they pushed themselves.’ Soldiers wandering past glanced my way.
‘You broke the record,’ he noted. ‘No ... injuries?’
‘No, sir.’ I waited.
‘And you went without sleep?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s normal for us.’ I was enjoying his expression, but I worried if he might pull us off the competition. ‘How are the other teams doing, sir? Are they ... making an effort to catch up to us?’
‘The scores are not issued till next week, then you can put forward teams to try and beat scores.’
‘Be interesting to see them, sir.’
‘You’re well in the lead.’
‘That’s what we came for, sir, to compete and to push ourselves. No point being here otherwise, is there.’
‘No, quite.’ He pointed at my chest. ‘What ... er ... what happened to you, Captain?’
‘Shot a few times, sir, plus I picked up a few grenade fragments.’
‘Oh, right.’ And with a false smile he sloped off, leaving me wondering why the other teams were here at all.
Next came canoes, and half the lads got a bus to one of the lakes we had skirted around, the lake about a mile in length. We were required to canoe to the far end and up the stream to the bridge, give names to the umpire stood there, turn around and return.
At five minute intervals we set off, myself and Rocko since we were about the same size, Swifty and Moran behind. I set a steady pace, then picked up the pace, calling it out every second stroke. Moran failed to catch us, and we shouted our names at the man on the bridge with a clipboard, a three point turn badly executed in a hurry and scaring a few ducks, and off we went, passing Moran at the mouth of the stream, rude words exchanged – Rocko soaking Swifty.
The wide lake loomed large ahead of me, looking much bigger from the angle of just a few feet off the water, and I was sweating, my back aching from the sitting/kneeling position. We put the power on, calling it out, and at the finish pontoon we were exhausted and covered in sweat, the umpires noting our time.
Easing out of the canoe, I put my foot on the side, Rocko unbalanced, and he went in head first.
Surfacing, and cursing, I told him, ‘Staff sergeant, this is no time for fooling around,’ the umpires smiling.
Rocko trudged up the muddy bank, cursing as he went. Still, it cooled him off.
Moran and Swifty came in five minutes later, so they had not closed the gap, we had beaten them by twenty seconds.
With plenty of time on our hands we stripped down, no ladies around, and dried clothes on a fence, then sat sunbathing as the other teams hit the water, tea in an urn provided by the ever helpful and polite Canadian infantry, cake issued.
The following day we applied to tackle the infiltration exercise, but they were not ready yet, but we would be able to try it the following evening, so we had little to do. I led the team on a route march to the lake, where we either sat around sunbathing or swam.
Knowing that swimming was good for my back, I dived in and tried a fast front crawl down the lake, comfortable enough, and I kept going, all the way to the pontoon with the umpires. I said hello, turned around and swam back.
‘Thought we lost you,’ Swifty said. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘Down to the pontoon and back.’
‘How far is that?’ Travis asked.
‘Mile and a half,’ I said as I stood drying.
‘Good swimmer then, skipper,’ Mouri noted. ‘They say you swam the English Channel.’
‘He did, and broke the world record,’ Swifty put in. ‘Bleeding show-off.’
The following evening, at 8pm, we were handed the instructions for the infiltration exercise, eight of us to attempt the exercise, and we would be required to walk six miles southeast, away from the hills and the lakes, and to infiltrate an “enemy” camp, throw thunderflashes and fire blanks, and how well we did would depend on being spotted, and how close we got to a command hut. It seemed straight forwards enough, no time limit indicated, but I guessed that dawn was a limit.
I led my team southeast, away from the camp, testing radios as we went. Halting, I said, ‘OK, we have five miles, then it’s cross country infiltration, so I suggest we run the five miles to get there quick and surprise them, they won’t be expecting us. We go across country and sneak in, downwind, and attack. Right, all of you, jump up and down.’
They did as asked, a few items adjusted, cloth used. We had gloves and facemasks, but would not put them on till later. All ready, we jogged down the track through the dark, counting paces. At seven thousand paces, whispered counts being exchanged about whether it was seven thousand or not, we cut across country, gloves and face masks placed on, a line of men two paces apart.
Noticing a small outcrop of high ground I led the lads towards it, and we eased up over the top. In the distance, perhaps four hundred yards away, sat a well lit camp, tall guard towers, fences, dog patrols.
‘Dogs!’ Rocko noted.
‘We’ll have to time the patrols,’ Moran suggested.
‘Look,’ I hissed. ‘They’re doing roll call. We go now! Which way is the wind blowing?’ I took off my face mask, as did others.
‘Right to left,’ was the consensus.
Facemask back on, I hurriedly led the team to our left whilst bent-double, moving as fast as we could across the soft moss and tundra, but quietly. We moved left three hundred yards, and penetrated a narrow and overgrown stream by accident. I followed it towards the camp bent-double, the depth of the water allowing us to offer lower profiles.
Just a hundred yards from the fence I stopped, movement seen. Men were coming out. I clicked on the radio. ‘Get down, cut the moss overhanging the water and get under it.’
Hurried activity behind me indicated that they were doing as I had asked, and I cut roots twelve inches above the cold water, easing under. I clicked on the radio. ‘Five or six minutes. Get under as best you can.’
I cut further into the moss, soon a heavy blanket above me, my feet still in the water, some small animal squeaking its protest at my lads disturbing it.
‘Here they come, patrols both sides of the stream.’
Flashing lights could soon be seen, but they were not looking for us, they were trying hard not to trip over, chatting as they went. I could smell cigarette smoke as they passed, and it seemed that they took up static positions a hundred yards out from us.
I clicked on the radio. ‘We’re inside their outer perimeter. Ease out slow, dead quiet, slow in the water. On me.’
My heavy moss blanket tugged at me as I eased out, and as I turned my head I could see an orange glow in the distance, a solider smoking. Dark shadows squelched slowly towards me. With Moran’s hand on my back I moved forwards, following the stream, and it took us to within thirty yards of the fence.
With my feet now cold, I clicked on my radio. ‘Observe them, time the patrols.’
Fifteen minutes passed, and finally a lazy dog handler did the rounds, his dog earnestly sniffing the ground as his handler waving a torch around. I eased lower as they passed us, suddenly blinded by a bright light. High on a guard tower a search beam scanned the area, but they had not seen us as we ducked low in the stream, its overgrown sides hiding us.
When the search light shut down, I clicked on the radio. ‘Search beam was outside the wire, dog patrol is fifteen minutes at least, and the handler ain’t sharp. On me, dead slow.’
The stream turned away from the camp, so we were soon leopard crawling, which was hell in thick dense moss. I found a winding path and followed it, and ten yards short of the wire I got my knife out, Moran behind me.
‘Moran, smelly decoys please, left of us only, long way.’
I started cutting the roots of the moss as Moran took out his secret weapon, strips of smelly cloth wrapped around small stones, soon throwing them over the fence. One hit a hut, we all heard it and ducked down, a face peeking out, a torch shone, the man withdrawing after a minute.
I had cut forwards ten feet. ‘I’m cutting the roots, move forwards, bunch up, get cutting. Moran, lift the moss and get under, then each man in turn.’
Fifteen minutes later our dog handler returned, and I radioed a warning for everyone to keep perfectly still as they lay under the moss. And I was just twelve yards short of the fence, a risk.
The dog glanced my way a few times, and ten yards past us he barked and went crazy. The search beam came on, men came out of huts, the area searched, a few men from behind us coming forwards to have a look.
‘There’s no one here!’ they complained, the dog chastised by its handler. ‘No one has moved past us,’ the static guard insisted, and he trudged back, the torch lights fading, the chatter receding, the search beam finally turned off.
I clicked on the radio. ‘We have fifteen minutes to get under the fence, and then between those two huts. No noise. Move now.’
I eased out from under the moss blanket, crawling slowly forwards with my rifle cradled, away from the protection of the moss and onto cut grass. That grass was long, but not long enough.
At the fence I moved to its mid section, the section offering the greatest play, and scanned for sensors. Kneeling, I took off a glove and touched the wire, not getting any shock, and I could not feel any straight wires threaded through the fence. Stood upright, I touched the top and felt along, finding just standard barbed wire fence.
Back down, a hand on the fence, I could feel sections pinned down, a slow steady pull lifting them. Moran joined in, both of us kneeling, and a section lifted up, high enough for a man.
‘Go!’ I whispered at whoever’s dark outline was laying there. He crawled through, followed closely by five wriggling dark outlines, one caught on the fence and assisted. Moran held up the fence for me, I slipped under, holding it for Moran, and we stepped quietly to the huts and knelt in the shadow of the huts, the search lights bursting on, our previous position scanned along with much of the perimeter.