Free Warrior Brothers by Keith Fennell Page A

walking for the best part of the night. Charlie and I took turns at the front, bearing the brunt of tangled vines and spikes, tree branches and mammoth spider webs blocking our way. We tried not to think about the tropical-sized eight-legged creatures that, having created such enormous webs, lurked in the darkness.
    With each step the vines wrapped themselves around our necks, limbs and packs. We felt choked by the foliage, and fearful about the deep holes that swallowed our feet, causing us to twist and roll before being belted in the back of the head by the frames of our packs. Throughout, it was critical to maintain stealth. If it were just a matter of blazing away and cutting a path, movement through this area would have been relatively easy. But the aim was to part the vegetation calmly and without destroying it. We needed to minimise any sign of the patrol’s presence. And so we continued on our slow jungle dance.
    After about two kilometres we reached the primary north–south river. The banks resembled small cliffs and Steve decided that the patrol should locate an area to sleep (a ‘lying-up place’) and then search for a crossing-point before first light.
    Sleeping in the tropics is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Attracted by the carbon dioxide of our breathing, a relentless swarm of mosquitoes swooped in to feast upon our exposed skin. Necks, cheeks and hands were fair game, and in the hush of the night, the whine of mosquitoes ebbed and flowed incessantly. The problem ran deeper than mere irritation. One sting from these pint-sized vampires could result in a recurring legacy of fever. Many of the men, me included, didn’t bother with the anti-malarial prophylaxis, a drug called doxycycline. The side-effects, including nausea and sensitivity to light, were probably a small price to pay incomparison to a life of malaria, but the mentality of ‘it won’t happen to me’ often won out.
    Despite the mosquitoes, we managed to get some rest before G, who was on security piquet, gently woke us just as the dark skies slowly began to turn grey. We sat silently, making the transition from deep sleep to total alertness. Steve instructed us to take turns packing away our sleeping gear. We did this slowly and silently.
    There is a real art to being silent, and it comes with practice and discipline. Even opening or closing a zip on a sleeping bag is a painstaking task when absolute silence is necessary. You have to cradle the zipper in between your thumb and forefinger to muffle the sound, so it may take 30 seconds or more to complete. The same principle applies to the Fastex clips on the enormous packs we carried. Allowing your clip to click would have been showing a lack of respect for the patrol’s security. Being a good bush soldier is all about having this sort of self-discipline and patience. I definitely needed all my self-discipline as I was never known for my patience.
    By the steep banks of the river, as the pre-dawn light began to filter through the skies, our time had arrived. We were a small, isolated group of men moving into a hostile area. SAS soldiers thrive on such opportunities. All the tedious and unglamorous training had led to this very moment. We had proved ourselves in training – now it was time to see how we fared when the stakes were considerably higher.

 
    I had learned a valuable lesson about stealth on my patrol course. Being assessed while you are trying to silently have a meal is nerve-racking. All you want to do is throw the meagre rations into your grumbling stomach but no, it all has to be painfully slow.
    Slowly angle the spoon into the ration bag. Meanwhile, diligently scan the foliage to your front. Conceal the spoon deep inside your hand. Scan the foliage to the sides. Slowly deliver the food to your mouth. Return the spoon to the green bag containing the breakfast mush. Chew, pause, listen, scan, chew, pause, listen, scan.
    God, the army makes