I had some difficulty getting my boots off. The rain had swollen the para-cord and tightened the knots. After picking away at them, and breaking a fingernail in the process, I finally managed to ease off the sodden leather. My feet seemed to sigh with relief as the boots came off and I immediately felt a different person. I tugged off my wet gear and slipped into the dry kit I’d kept in a plastic bag in my bergen. I filled my one-pint mess tin with water and put it to boil on the stove, then found a packet of beef stew from my ration-pack, ripped it open and sprinkled the unappetizing contents into the simmering water. I crumbled some tack biscuits and threw them into the stew to thicken it up a bit. Then the masterstroke: in with the garlic and chilli sauce I had bought in town. A fearsome relish, my all-time favourite! It would knock a crap-hat down at fifty paces. The racing spoon moved at double-quick pace between mess tin and mouth.
After making a mug of tea from my brew kit – with the help of the real powdered milk I’d brought along instead of the poor-quality Armyissue powder which always floated to the top and looked like dandruff on the surface – I cupped my hands around my mug for warmth and glanced at the other lads. I was unsure whether or not to strike up a conversation in case it was an RTU offence. The problem was that nobody told you the rules. It was a form of psychological warfare. So I took the safest way out, stared into my tea and kept my mouth shut.
It suddenly grew darker as a large black cloud glided in from the right and obscured the setting sun, splitting its watery evening light into broad beams that fanned out over the hills in a breathtaking display.
I got up and walked away from the rest of the lads, looking for a level piece of ground to sleep on. In view of my tiredness and the failing light it was rather a quick scan of the terrain but I managed to find a reasonable spot. I brushed away the broken branches, pulled out any stones that protruded from the earth so that they wouldn’t dig into my back, and laid out my sleeping bag. I then rigged up my waterproof poncho to cover my sleeping area. The secret was to keep it as tight as possible so the rain would run off. I checked the OG para-cord at each corner, ensuring that it was as taut as I could make it without tearing the material. I crawled into my sleeping bag and, utterly exhausted, stretched out my aching body. A shower of rain crackled on the canvas as the large cloud I’d seen passed directly overhead. The sound of the steady rain was strangely peaceful and soothing. I curled up, luxuriating in the soft dry touch of the Royal Engineers boiler suit I’d changed into. It had been washed a thousand times and felt like silk against my skin. As I drifted off to sleep I decided I was going to wear it for the rest of selection. Its softness would be a good defence against bergen blister.
We spent most of the second day wearily cross-graining bukits again. But worse was to come. Tim had saved up the most challenging ordeal for the end. He lined us up and introduced us to the horrors of the entrail trench: a ditch beside a hawthorn hedge, two feet deep, four feet across, filled with stagnant water and rotting sheep’s innards. A real cesspit! ‘It’s time to go back to Mother’s womb, lads, afterbirth and all!’ began Tim. ‘Now let us imagine we’re dug into a trench in Korea under heavy fire. Up front we’ve got no man’s land littered with blown-up bodies. It’s dusk and you have to do a night patrol to gather intelligence on the enemy’s position. The only way to do it is over the top with the leopard crawl, right through the bodies, the bits of brain splattered on the rocks, the guts and gore strewn over the ground. Right, who’s first?’
Geordie visibly blanched. Jim swallowed hard. Tommo’s sneer became even more pronounced.
‘Oh, I see. Perhaps it’s because you don’t know what the leopard crawl is that no one’s moving,’ said Tim. ‘You don’t want to be embarrassed by your ignorance. I can’t see any other reason for your reluctance. Right, who knows how to do the leopard crawl?’
A few blank faces stared back at Tim. I took the bull by the horns. ‘I do.’
‘Good. Then perhaps you would be so kind as to demonstrate it for the benefit of your mates here along this stretch of ground in front of us all.’
‘Right, Tim.’ I got down flat on my stomach and, using only knees and elbows, proceeded to crawl along while holding my rifle horizontal to the ground, pressed against my forehead. The idea was to keep the lowest possible profile to avoid being seen by the enemy.
‘Very good, just like an officer on the job,’ observed Tim wryly after I had struggled along for a few moments. ‘Right, as you’re obviously an expert you might as well continue across the trench while you’re down there!’
I took a deep breath and plunged into the foul mess. It was an ugly experience. Two feet doesn’t sound very deep, but when you are crawling on all fours so close to the ground it is very deep. As I felt the loathsome liquid begin to crawl through the gaps in my clothing, I really understood for the first time why they called this part of selection Sickener 1. Halfway across, weighed down by my bergen, I felt my belt snag on a rock. I couldn’t use my hands to free myself as they were holding my rifle clear of the surface. I had to resort to wriggling free by shaking my hips – and as I did so I set up a turbulence in the water, and the filthy stinking sheep-gut-filled liquid splashed up around my lips. I coughed and spat out in disgust.
As each trainee made it through the ordeal we assembled on the other side of the ditch, with the noisome liquid dripping from our clothes, until we stood watching the last man struggle across. The only consolation was that this was the last exercise of the day. Smelling like old decrepit tramps in a doss house, we settled down for the night.
At first light on the final day, as I rubbed my numbed limbs back into life, Tim gave his instructions: we were to set off straight across the river in front of us. As we waded across, our rifles above our heads, up to our chests in fast-flowing water, Tim watched us comfortably from a nearby bridge. Although dripping wet, at least when we emerged on the far bank we were fresher and cleaner than we had been after the previous day’s ordeal. I thought to myself, I’ve survived two days and nights. Only one more day to go and it’s back to basha, a decent meal and a soft bed. I focused my mind on this comforting picture all that day as we sweated again over endless bukits. I locked out every urgent protest from my body, which had never been pushed to such physical extremes; and I ignored every scream from every tortured muscle.
As the afternoon of the following day drew to a painful close, we were briefed on the final exercise of the day: the stretcher race. We had to cover the last mile carrying a stretcher, upon which Tim perched – complete with loaded bergen, heavy rifle and satisfied smile. Labouring towards the final RV, just when I thought I couldn’t force another step out of my weary body, I caught sight of the Bedford four-tonners lined up in the distance. Thank Christ for that, I thought.
‘There you are lads,’ barked Tim. ‘Your ticket to easy street. Your transport out of hell!’
The pace quickened, the relief swept over me; it wouldn’t be long now. When we were about a hundred yards short, I heard the engines cough into life. They’re just warming them up, I thought to myself. Then, to my horror and disbelief, one by one the Bedfords pulled away and disappeared like a bad dream down the road through the woods. Shit, I thought, we’ve been conned.