Free Warrior Training by Keith Fennell Page A

it in.
    â€˜Say again, trainee 67?’
    â€˜This is trainee 67. I have just found two bins filled with marijuana at grid reference –’
    â€˜Wait, wait out,’ was the reply.
    I then heard an older voice, a voice with greater authority. I confirmed my previous message and was ordered to remain where I was; they would send a vehicle to collect it. Ninety minutes later a six-wheel long-range patrol vehicle came into view. I showed them the pot, they put it in their vehicle and I continued on. I lost an hour and a half; it would probably have been quicker to sit down and smoke the lot.
    On the way to checkpoint two, 16.8 kilometres away, I miscalculated how much water I would need to carry. Essentially, I was being a little softcock and tried to carry eight litres, rather than the 10 I should have. I then lost two litres when one of my bladders burst. As a consequence, I spent a very thirsty couple of hours crossing the sand dunes. The heat was extreme. While walking across the dunes, I thought: If I screw up my navigation and can’t locate the checkpoint, I could be in a bit of trouble here . I was dizzy but still coherent. My tongue felt swollen, and the rear of my throat was as dry as the sand beneath my boots. I would never make this mistake again.
    I’ve seen senior soldiers in the Regiment do this whiledeployed on operations. When men are carrying up to 65 kilograms, the thought of leaving a water bottle or two empty can be tempting. Once it affected the operational security of our patrol. Anyone who has experienced extreme thirst – that painful sensation that dominates your every thought and makes you scared because you realise your body is starting to shut down – is reluctant to ever go there again. Fortunately, I had learnt my lesson early. The first thing I did when I reached the checkpoint was fill up my water bottles – all of them, all eight litres.
    Negotiating the prickly saltbush and dealing with the flies tested my mental toughness. I wrote the following in my diary:
    Had at least 200 flies on pack, body and face. Sun was intense; sweating, flies were attracted to fluid: nose, lips, corners of eyes and bleeding hands – disgusting bastards were relentless in their quest to feed. I reached the green terrain [most extreme vegetation] and movement was once again slow. Backs of hands were bleeding, shins and thighs red-raw from tearing through saltbush. Nearly went mental from flies. Wanted to scream but instead decided to sit down and kill flies for 20 minutes. Kept going, pushing through saltbush was extremely painful. Mental state severely tested.

    If there was one guy who was jetting our course, from what I observed and heard from others, it was a particular soldier from the 1st Battalion. He was aged in his late twenties and had blitzed the previous navigational exercises.My good mate Evo later told me that while he was having a break on our first nav exercise, he saw the guy charging through the bush.
    â€˜It was almost intimidating,’ Evo told me. ‘This guy was a machine. When I saw how hard he was going, I realised I had better lift my game so I packed up my things and got going. Seeing him motivated me to go harder.’
    This guy’s peers spoke of him as though he were a legend; he probably already was in the Battalion, where he’d been deployed to Somalia. He seemed like a good bloke – intelligent, personable and tough.
    On our second day alone in the bush in Lancelin, I stopped to have something to eat and checked my radio to hear what was going on. I heard a deep, familiar voice – it belonged to the jet from the 1st Battalion. He was asking to be removed from the course. I couldn’t believe it and turned up the volume.
    Unlike others who had withdrawn, this man was asked numerous times whether he had thought about his decision. He was also asked if he was aware of the consequences, to which he replied: ‘Yes,