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were involved. I wanted some of that-what was the point of being in the infantry if I didn't? Hereford sounded such a nice place to live as well, not being a garrison town. At that time, you were made to feel a second-class citizen if you lived in a place like Aldershot or Catterick; as an ordinary soldier you couldn't even buy a TV set on hire purchase unless an officer had signed the application form for you.
        Four of us from the Green Jackets put our names down for Selection in the summer of 1983, and all for the same reason-to get out of the battalion. A couple of our people had passed Selection in the previous couple of years. One of them was a captain, who wangled us onto a lot of exercises in Wales so we could travel back to the UK and train. He personally took us up to the Brecon Beacons and put us through a lot of hill work. More than that, he gave us advice and encouragement. I owe a lot to that man. We were lucky to know him: some regiments, especially the corps, aren't keen for their men to go because they have skills that are hard to replace. They won't give them time off, or they'll put the application in "File 13"-the wastepaper basket. Or they'll allow the man to go but make him work right up till the Friday before he goes.
        None of us passed. Just before the endurance phase, I failed the sketch-map march of 18 miles. I was pissed off with myself, but at least it was suggested to me that I try again.
        I went back to Germany and suffered all the slaggings about failing.
        These are normally dished out by the knobbers who wouldn't dare attempt it themselves. I didn't care. I was a young thruster, and the easy option would have been to stay in the battalion system and be the big fish in a small pond, but I'd lost all enthusiasm for it. I applied for the Winter 1984 Selection and trained in Wales all through Christmas.
        Debby didn't care too much for that.
        Winter Selection is fearsome. The majority of people drop out within the first week of the four-week endurance phase. These are the Walter Mitty types, or those who haven't trained enough or have picked up an injury. Some of the people who turn up are complete nuggets. They think that the SAS is all James Bond and storming embassies. They don't understand that you are still a soldier, and it comes as quite a shock to them to find out what Selection is all about.
        The one good thing about Winter Selection is the weather. The racing snakes who can move like men possessed across country in the summer are slowed by the snow and mist. It's a great leveler for every man to be up to his waist in snow.
        I passed.
        After this first phase you are put through a four month period of training which includes an arduous spell in the jungle in Asia. The last main test is the Combat Survival course. You are taught survival skills for two weeks, and then sent in to see the doctor. He puts a finger up your arse to check for Mars bars, and you're turned loose on the Black Mountains dressed in Second World War battle dress trousers and shirt, a greatcoat with no buttons, and boots with no laces. The hunter force was a company of Guardsmen in helicopters. Each man was given the incentive of two weeks' leave if he made a capture.
        I had been on the run for two days accompanied by three old grannies-two Navy pilots and an R.A.F, load master You had to stay together as a group, and I couldn't have been cursed with a worse trio of millstones. It didn't matter for them: the course was just a three-week embuggerance, and then they'd go home for tea and medals. But if SAS candidates didn't pass Combat Survival, they didn't get badged.
        We were waiting for one particular RV (rendezvous) when the two on stag fell asleep. In swooped a helicopter full of Guardsmen, and we were bumped. After a brief chase we were captured and taken to a holding area.
        Some hours later, as I was down on my knees, my