Great Britain. Army. Special Air Service. - The hard way: adapt, survive and win /Mark Billy Billingham with Conor Woodman

I had now been in 3 PARA for a few years, so I felt like I could handle pretty much any test thrown at me. Having gone up for a promotion to be part of a recce troop within the battalion, I was warned this phase of training in the jungle could be the toughest test Id ever faced. Here I was, at 0500 hours, ready to ship out via helicopter, in a scene from a Vietnam war movie. Six big UH -1s were lined up, blades spinning, the sound deafening us, as my unit ran over the ground and loaded into them one by one. When we landed, we would be split into our assigned patrols of eight plus a member of the DS (Directing Staff) our boss for the exercise. The helicopter took off and, suddenly, there I was, flying over the jungle canopy, like a field of steaming broccoli below. I thought to myself how fucking cool it was. It really was something else, a whole different league to anything that Id experienced before. I was flying in a helicopter over an Asian jungle. This was everything Id dreamed of, and now here it was, coming true.

The helicopter set us down in a small clearing surrounded by hundreds of miles of forest on all sides. We got off and began unloading the kit. As the helicopter lifted off again, the noise of the blades faded gradually, only to be replaced by the sound of the DS . He stood in front of us, a big old straggly beard on him, looking rough as fuck, dirty face, clothes already soaking wet with sweat and carrying his weapon. He looked exactly like the real deal, like hed just come straight off a tour of duty.

He told us to follow, and we carried the kit to the area that would be our camp. That first day we spent building, slinging our hammocks, learning the layout. We cut a path down to a wash point on the river, where we would wash from now on, and a water point, where we would only fill water upstream of the wash point, of course, so you dont drink peoples piss. There was one toilet area, and the DS explained all the rules and regulations of that, too dont throw any rubbish in the fucking toilet, which people have done, trying to get rid of stuff they didnt want to carry. He explained that, while we were in the jungle, we would leave nothing behind, just as we would on operations nothing that the enemy could use to prove we had ever been there. It was the first sign that this was going to be real; everything we did, we did as though we were in action.

So, any of you drop anything in there and youll fucking get in to get it out again, he warned.

For the next days, we were constantly on patrol. Each morning, the DS would give us co-ordinates for where we were and where we were expected to go. We moved as though we were on patrol, carrying full kit, moving silently, weapons ready, navigating while looking for the enemy. Moving through the jungle is hard. The terrain and the trees meant that a kilometre of jungle could take a few hours to navigate through. Wed break the ground in front of us into 10-metre increments, each 10 metres equivalent to seven lots of two strides. All the while we patrolled, counting, scanning the trees, maintaining a bearing, keeping silent, knowing that, somewhere hidden in the tree line, the DS was watching, evaluating our every move. It was all slow and methodical and time-consuming; and, because of the slowness, the measured pace, the type of terrain, the equipment we were carrying, the pressure and the fact that we were sweating the whole time, it was mentally exhausting.

We were limited to what we could carry, and everything felt heavy in the draining humidity. I had one set of dry kit and one set of wet kit, and it was vital to keep it that way. At the end of each day, as the darkness set in and everything settled down, I changed out of my wet kit and put on my full set of dry kit to sleep. My wet kit went into a plastic bag, ready to be worn again the following morning. I slept next to my rifle, and my boots sat upturned on sticks to stop nasty creatures climbing into them or the rain getting them wet in the night. Every moment we were primed, always ready to fight or run. We never slept without footwear of some sort. Every morning began forty minutes before it got light. In the pitch dark, I took out that wet kit, still soaking, sodden with yesterdays sweat and stinking like death, and put it on again. My dry kit went back into the bottom of my Bergen, safe for the next nights sleep, and the days patrol began just like the day before. Relentless, repetitive, exhausting.

The patrols were soul-destroying. All of us felt uncomfortable, carrying so much weight, constantly tired and hungry. All the skill sets wed been taught were being tested over and over again as wed stop and get down into a fire position every 20 or 30 metres. In that environment, its vital that the Bergen is taken off slowly and put down gently, so as not to make any noise, but doing that fifty times a day is a real test of character. The DS were watching, looking for signs of tiredness and weakness, looking for the person who threw their Bergen down or even dropped it. They were looking at how we held ourselves together. How we were working as individuals, but also how we were working as a team. So, if one person was taking off the Bergen and slowly putting it down, the other was still, watching, covering. Then, once the first Bergen was down, it became your turn to cover for me, and I took my Bergen off. It was those small things that the DS looked for to understand the characteristics of the team and of the person.

We got no feedback. The DS just silently took notes, evaluating us but never sharing their thoughts. That played havoc with my mind every night in my hammock, as I went over the events of the day in minute detail. Did I mess that up? Did I make that mistake? Did anyone notice me do that wrong? Every night was a constant exercise in beating myself up and playing mind games in my own head as I imagined getting to the end of this hell only to be told that Id failed for dropping my Bergen on day three or missing a checkpoint on day five. I realised what an idiot Id been to ever think this was going to be easy. Id massively underestimated the scale of the challenge. This was not what I was expecting and Id actually made it harder still by coming in with completely the wrong attitude. I knew I had to work twice as hard to get my head straight and catch up.

Every morning began at a small hut on the edge of camp, which we called the schoolhouse. Before the DS briefed us on the days patrol, he asked calmly and without judgement if anyone wanted to leave. I knew I was thinking the same as everyone else, that Id love to put my hand up and just go home, but nobody wanted to be the first to do it. It was just like P Company, only in a hot climate. Then it happened. By day four, we all looked like wed already been out there for a month. I glanced around the schoolhouse at all the beards and straggly hair and almost chuckled to myself at how rough we were looking. The men were filthy, gaunt and drawn, and we were staring at each other in a state of shock, searching for some sort of recognition from each other of how hard it was. The DS came in as usual.

Morning, fellas, he said. I liked how he always called us that, like we were his mates. Anybody want to get on the freedom bird to civilisation?

That was the carrot they dangled in front of us. A short, two-hour flight away were white-sand beaches, cold beer and hot food. If you withdrew that morning, you could be on the beach by the afternoon. But I wasnt going for it. Sitting on my arse with a cool beer wasnt the sort of going a little further that I had in mind. Just out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hand go up. I was stunned. I couldnt believe it and, at the same time, it lifted a weight from my shoulders. It was as though it was now a hundred times easier for me to quit. I wouldnt be the first. If he was quitting, then there was no shame in me quitting, too. But something inside me just wouldnt let me raise my hand. Even when another and then another hand shot up. Even when five men sat around me, hands raised, ready to get out of this torture and do something else with their lives, I couldnt do it.