First Into Action by Duncan Falconer

but there was less chance of tripping. More importantly you could slip into a hypnotic rhythm more easily by staring down at the uninterrupted tarmac. I tried to shut out the pain and occupy my mind with something else but it was difficult to lock on to any subject for long. I had not tied my canoe as well as I should have and it was starting to slip back a little. I was having to compensate for it by leaning forward even more. My head was getting lower to the ground. I did not want to stop and adjust it, but if it slipped down any further I would have to drop my pack and rebuild it quickly. To get it up on to my back and rejoin the group meant someone would have to stay and help me. I thought about sherpas who carried as much weight up the sides of mountains. They supported the weight by passing a line under the bottom of the load and up over their foreheads which took the weight off the shoulders and placed it on the stronger neck muscles. We could not do that because of the tactical disadvantage – we would not be able to turn our heads and look from side to side. Not that any of us cared what was going on around us at that time. This was deliberate mental destruction and not a tactical march. Dave saw I was having a problem with my slipping load and moved alongside to study my pack.
    ‘How’s it look?’ I asked.
    ‘Not good.’
    He took a line that was dangling from the back of my load, a canoe bow-line, and tossed it over the top so that it dangled in front of my face.
    ‘Try pulling on that,’ he said.
    With a bit of a shuffle while I yanked down on the line the load came up a little. I could walk more upright now, although it meant I had to apply constant tension to the rope. But overall it was easier and as long as it stayed that way I did not need to stop. I wrapped it around my hand, held it tightly to my chest and got back into rhythm.
    After five more miles, Mister Nasty stopped again and waited for those in the rear to catch up. No one had wrapped yet. That did not please him. There was no truck. Anyone with any sense knew what was coming next. I kept stone-faced even after he said it.
    ‘Did I say five miles five miles ago? I must have meant ten.’
    Some expressions turned to pain and teeth were gritted in anger. I knew what some were thinking. Comments had already been muttered on the last leg.
    ‘This is sadism.’
    ‘Are they allowed to torture us like this?’
    I wondered if any recruits had died on previous courses. Perhaps the SBS had a death allowance for the selection process.
    Mister Nasty ordered us to get going. A few members seemed to hesitate, but when the first few got going the others trudged on behind.
    All comments of encouragement tossed between individuals earlier had by now ceased. The yomp was everyone’s personal ordeal now. We plodded on in our own worlds. Some were starting to lag further behind, but as long as they kept on going they were part of the course. The DS were looking for tenacity and willpower, not fitness. Jakers noticed some stragglers had lagged too far behind and whispered for those of us in front to slow down. The concept of team unity and looking after one’s buddy is paramount within the Royal Marines and therefore the SBS, unlike in the SAS. To leave a man behind is out of the question in the SBS. Over the many years I worked with ‘the regiment’ I grew to feel many SAS troopers experienced a cold aloofness when insinuating their calm acceptance of a fellow trooper ‘written off’ as a cost of a mission. Some talked about their oppos lost in battle in the same way macho men discuss their scars.
    It was getting dark.
    I was beginning to think the plan was to walk us until we literally dropped. There were some who looked close to falling apart. All they had to do was stop. That’s what was unique about this slavery and abuse. It was voluntary. We were not being ordered to do anything. All the pain and injuries were self-inflicted. No one shouted at you