The Easy Day Was Yesterday (11 page)

I never got used to walking into a Penang nightclub. They were so dark inside you’d always assume they hadn’t paid their power bill, but in fact this was just the way these places were. Before my eyes could adapt to the darkness, I’d feel my way to the bar and then to a seat, and on the way I would trip and fall over couches and/or people.

Butterworth was a great place to train for the selection course. It was always hot and damned humid, so it was a great venue for some long, hard runs and pack work. But that was Malaysia and, in early December, we headed back to Townsville. In fact I arrived with just enough time to fly to Brisbane to help my old mate Dave celebrate his 21st. When I arrived back at the battalion I was promoted lance corporal and then sent on Christmas leave. But my holidays were over; it was time for the training to start. I decided I had better get serious about training for the selection course because I didn’t want to look like a dick, nor did I want to suffer too much.

I drove from Townsville to Brisbane for my annual leave. I had my pack, webbing, boots and greens with me to train while on leave. I also took my bike so I could vary my fitness training. During the six weeks I spent in Brisbane, my training schedule consisted of cycling 20 kilometres first thing in the morning, then having breakfast and relaxing for a while. Before lunch I went to the gym and spent two hours working out. I only worked out four times a week, the other three days I went to the pool to swim two kilometres. In the afternoon I would run eight kilometres in shorts and T-shirt, but I’d wear my boots with soft weight belts wrapped around my ankles. Again, I did the run four times a week, did a 15 kilometre pack walk twice a week, and then had one afternoon off. This may seem like a lot of training, but most of my mates in Brisbane were working, so I had to keep myself occupied during the day. I also knew that, if I didn’t do the training, I wouldn’t have a hope of surviving the selection course, let alone passing the thing. I’m not one of those naturally fit people who can run a marathon with little training. I need to train hard to maintain my fitness level. There’s a great old saying in the army: ‘train hard, fight easy’, and this became my mantra. For me, that translated to: ‘train bloody hard before, so the actual event is a little easier and I could perform better’.

Early in March 1988 I boarded a Hercules C130 at the Townsville RAAF base and, with a heap of other blokes, flew direct to RAAF Base Pearce in Western Australia. It was a strange situation on the plane with everyone checking one another out. The big goose across from me asked the bloke next to me what corps he was from.

‘Engineers,’ answered Cookie.

‘Hah! There’s no way in hell an Engineer will pass the selection course,’ replied this big mouth twit. This guy withdrew himself from the course on day five and Cookie went on to attain the rank of warrant officer in the SAS and I’ll bet he never forgot that wanker.

The Herc landed at Pearce and an SAS Corporal got on board. I was ready for a rain of abuse but, as calmly as you please, he said, ‘Okay fellas, grab your kit and jump on the bus.’ Gingerly and quietly we all located our packs and webbing, threw them into the storage compartment and then climbed on board. No-one said anything. They probably all felt the same as me — wondering what was going to happen next. I just wanted to play the grey man. I didn’t want to be noticed. I just wanted to be the bloke who was always there but never seen.

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 this 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.