Warrior Brothers (12 page)

When the planes slammed into the Twin Towers in New York and burst into flames on 11 September 2001 we were in no doubt that our skills would soon be in demand. The increased threat of terrorist attacks led to the Australian SAS doubling its counter-terrorism commitments. ‘Sabre squadrons' were positioned on both the west and east coasts. The troop office on 12 September was tense and alert, packed with elite soldiers all fully aware of the realities of this situation. A dozen sets of eyes were glued to the small television set, and the only noises that could be heard were the strained sounds of reporters' voices crackling out of the set's single speaker. It was the type of silence and sombre intensity that accompanies a funeral procession.

The men were, as usual, sitting on the multicoloured sofas – but things were different. No-one was leaning back, half-swallowed by chairs that had lost their springs at least a decade prior. Instead, all sat perched on the edge of their seats like they were watching a close football match. I squeezed through the crowd and onto the dusty brown lounge, joining my brothers as we observed the same images over and over again. Together we watched the surreal loss of life as if it were some kind of big-budget action film. With each replay I hoped that the plane would miraculously miss the tower. With each replay I hoped for something different.

The political fallout from these events left the Regiment abuzz with speculation. Would Australia commit troops? If so, how many? Osama bin Laden, the director of this film, quickly became a household name and it soon became clear that the Regiment would deploy troops to Afghanistan. But as the online counter-terrorist squadron, we would be staying put in Australia, at least for the time being.

It would be an understatement to say we were disappointed at missing out on the first deployment. Nursing our dented morale while watching another squadron prepare for war wasn't easy – but we all had mates who were heading out, so we wished them well. Although I attempted to be genuine with my support, I was gutted not to be amongst them. The only thing that provided some solace was the fact that I was not alone. Two complete SAS squadrons would share the dubious privilege of remaining in Australia on domestic counter-terrorism duties. We could all be frustrated and pissed off together.

Our squadron was to support the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM), therefore Brisbane became our base. Right from the outset we knew that the vigorous physical training in the sweltering Queensland heat was going to be gruelling. Enoggera Hill was the obvious location for our hideous team-building sessions. The primary objective was always the same – to reach the tower at the summit – but as the troop's fitness levels improved, it was not uncommon to drag metal bars along for a little extra fun.

As we pushed ourselves to the limits in and around Brisbane, we were aware that the next time we would be truly tested would be in the mountains of Afghanistan. The place-names in the newspaper reports and the mountains we glimpsed on TV would soon be very familiar to us all. I had spent the last seven years preparing myself for such an opportunity. It felt like the SAS selection process all over again.

My eagerness to join the SAS and the determination with which I launched myself into achieving that goal were almost not enough. The 20 days of selection would have been incredibly tough under any circumstances, but I was inexperienced and young and had no thought for self-preservation. I saw every march, run or physical training session as an opportunity to prove myself. I would push myself to the very limit in my desire to come first. I was usually up the front but never first. There were obviously some sick bastards who had trained harder than me!

Midway through the course, an SAS warrant officer gave me a pep talk before I set off on a night navigation activity. The directing staff were meant to be neutral, providing no negative or positive feedback. So when this man showed his human side, it gave me strength.

‘Okay, mate,' he said. ‘It's imperative that you complete at least one night checkpoint. This leg is just over five kilometres. My advice to you is to run as hard as you can until it begins to get dark. You should be able to get halfway there. Then I want you to rest. Just relax and let it get dark. Once you have calmed down, follow that compass of yours to the checkpoint. The vegetation will be pretty thick all the way along, but trust your compass and paces. Just before you get to the checkpoint gather your composure.' He paused, looking at me. ‘You are doing really well – keep it up. Any questions?'

I felt completely pumped that this man liked me enough to offer some friendly motivation. I wasn't going to let him or myself down.

Physically and mentally, we were being pushed to our limits, so this was fairly typical of the support offered by the guys running the show. Some were bastards, but we were soon to learn that these guys were generally the average Joes whom no-one respected. The best of them had nothing to prove and remained firm but fair. Two days later, the senior instructor in charge of the course bailed me up for a few questions. He pulled in beside me during the closing stages of the 20-kilometre pack march endurance test, a hardcore run that was taxing enough without pausing for conversation.

‘Are you leading the group, trainee Fennell?'

What I wanted to say was, ‘How in the hell do you know my name?' but I held my tongue. ‘No sir, I was in the ninth group to leave,' I said. ‘I think there are at least four guys in front of me.'

Nine teams had departed the start line at 60-second intervals, and I was feeling pretty proud of my effort at getting up to this position. But I knew there was no point pumping myself up. I kept things matter-of-fact with him.

‘How old are you, son?'

‘Old enough to join the SAS, sir. I'm 21,' I replied confidently.

‘The average age of soldiers who pass selection is several years older than that, but I think you're old enough. How are you finding the course so far?'

‘Extremely challenging, sir.'

He laughed. ‘You can expect plenty more of that. We're only just getting started.'

I smiled back. ‘Thank you, sir, I'm sure you're right, but please excuse me – I'm going to double-time.' My impatience to pick up the pace amused him further.

‘Don't let me hold you back,' he said with a smirk on his face.

Exactly as he said, the course only became increasingly arduous. We were regularly woken in the middle of the night
and tested while still disoriented. At 02:00 in the morning we were instructed on Morse code. The following evening we were woken at 23:00 and tested. The night after that, we were woken at 02:00 again, this time made to write an essay about our life.

There was obviously a plan to this madness. They were attempting to weed out those soldiers who had the physical ability but lacked the aptitude required to be an SAS soldier. Those who passed selection needed to be mentally astute as well as physically robust. They had to be capable of absorbing an enormous amount of information in a relatively short period of time. It was an intense training schedule with a lot to learn: from demolitions to foreign languages, medical and communication skills, driving and diving, boating, parachuting, survival, patrolling, close protection and room combat. It was a lot to take in, especially when you were worn down by physical demands at the same time.

On the evening of day 10 we were crammed into the rear of a blacked-out truck and dropped off in Lancelin, a military training area 120 kilometres north of Perth. This was the beginning of an individual four-day navigational exercise. A look at my diary from the time reminds me that my hands, shins and knees had been scratched raw by the thick, bristly vegetation. I vaguely remember the sand dunes, but one thing that I can recall as clearly as if it were yesterday was the constant annoyance of the flies. Dozens of the little bastards swarmed to my bleeding hands. What felt like hundreds more incessantly danced and clung to my perspiration-drenched face. I would swipe viciously at them and be left with nothing more than a stinging face. I always seemed to miss. So persistent were they at driving me insane that during one scorching afternoon I dedicated the best part of 20 minutes to killing as many of them as possible.

I was aware of my navigational limitations so didn't try anything fancy. More experience might have shown me how to skirt around the thickest vegetation by utilising map-to-ground techniques, which involved assessing the terrain by examining its
appearance in relation to a map. I kept it simple, relying on my bearings and keeping track of paces only. This didn't make for easy progress and forced me to drive headlong through the spiky saltbush, but by day 14 I'd covered just under 70 kilometres.

Day 15 was a roping day. Apart from the opportunity it offered us to squeeze the dozens of thorns from our shins, I'm sure that those guys who were afraid of heights would have preferred the slog of the previous days. We abseiled and climbed, even traversed a rope suspended between two 10-storey towers. It was exhilarating and, predictably, I loved it, but it required every ounce of our strength and focus. With that completed, we progressed to the final and most challenging phase of the course – lucky dip.

During lucky dip things were made as difficult for us as possible. We were given just one meal – fish-heads and rice – over four and a half days. This was combined with very little sleep, as well as enormously taxing physical activity. I had wanted to be challenged. But this exceeded all my expectations. I was pushed beyond the realms of my physical capabilities and then pushed some more.

By the end of the course, fatigue was beginning to break my body down. I began selection at a very lean 79 kilograms. Twenty days later I weighed in at no more than 66, a drop of 13 kilograms in less than three weeks. My body was a mess. It would be several months before I would regain total feeling in my shoulders and the soles of my feet.

The last two days of the course were murder. It should not have come as a surprise when I collapsed from hypoglycaemia (low blood-sugar levels). I was young, inexperienced and physically spent. Several men who were in their mid-twenties or older handled the latter stages of the course much better than I did. By pacing themselves, they'd kept their reserves of energy for the final push. But despite my levels of exhaustion, I was still there at the end.

Before the course, I had said to myself that I would attempt selection as many times as it would take. Thank God I was
accepted on my first attempt. I had reached my goal. I was now in the best job in the world. But the price it would take to hold it, and to be the best I could possibly be, would be considerable.

Standing there reflecting at the end of selection, I realised that my endurance levels were barely adequate. I never wanted to feel that weak again. As soon as my body recovered, I began to rectify the shortfall. The next time I would be severely tested would be on operations – and I was determined to be physically and mentally robust for them. A brutal training regime would help me achieve this. If my determination had been obsessive before, now it was all-consuming. Selfishly, I began to put it ahead of everything else in my life. Including my family.

As East Timor had taught me, there was a huge difference between training and operations. During our domestic counter-terrorism duties, the patrols had been re-arranged, leaving each team with a sense of edginess and uncertainty. There were unspoken questions. Who could be relied upon if the situation became dire? How do you teach a man to be brave? A soldier may be highly skilled, but that is only half of what's required. The other element is courage. Shooting a practice target is easy. The real test is if you can still perform when your heart is pounding inside your chest, when numbness and nausea envelop your body and your senses are completely overloaded. On operations, the decisions whether to fire or not, to break contact or hold ground, must be made in a split second.

Our patrol had a mixed history. Some of the guys had been tested under fire previously. Others had not. Due to the nature of training in the Regiment, you have a fairly good indication as to how a soldier will perform in battle, but until judgement day arrives nothing is guaranteed. I've seen soldiers who were expected to do well stumble, and others who were unlikely candidates for bravery awards display extraordinary courage. Our patrol looked good on paper, but would it be able to live up to these high expectations?

I felt confident about the team, thanks to the inclusion of
one of my closest friends in the service. Kane, our patrol scout, was a highly skilled and respected operator with the strength and fitness of an Olympic athlete. At 28, he was exactly a year younger than me – we shared a birthday, 8 April – and since I'd met him, in the lead-up to the Timor operation, he'd become like a brother to me. He was also the toughest training partner I'd ever known. Alongside my family and Al, my best mate from school, I respect Kane more than any other person. He has stood beside me and covered my arse in situations where we both were severely vulnerable.

He was actually diagnosed with an abnormally large heart from the years of pushing himself. Our own Phar Lap was not one to shy away from a fight, and his passion for pushing the limits was often the subject of widespread awe. With his muscular and athletic frame and perpetually straight back, he was a walking advertisement for perfect posture.

Kane was the SAS pinnacle. He could outrun, outlift and outshoot nearly everyone he encountered. To the frustration of many, mainly me, he would effortlessly win the majority of troop pistol-shooting competitions and offer nothing more than a grin. No gobbing off, no self-glorifying praise. He knew he was good and that was all that mattered. Sometimes those who barely knew him mistook his quietness and single-mindedness for arrogance. Despite my competitive instincts, with Kane there was no jealousy, just deep admiration for his ability. If he beat me to the top of a sandhill or managed one more chin-up or an extra rep on the bench press, there was no angst. We had some epic battles over the years, but I didn't mind having my arse kicked by this guy. The prospect of fighting alongside him was inspiring.

Our patrol commander, whom we called ‘the Boss', was also the troop commander. He was a natural leader and, like Hector in the Trojan War, had an air of nobility and an instinct for command. Like most of the troop, the Boss was
incredibly fit. He had completed the Australian Ironman Triathlon at Forster–Tuncurry. A 3.8-kilometre swim, 180-kilometre ride and 42-kilometre run was his idea of a bit of escapism.

Although aged in his mid-twenties, the Boss carried himself with the maturity of a much older man. He was highly intelligent and possessed a rare trait for an officer: common sense! Officers may be outstanding at delivering a set of orders and planning complicated tasks, but if there was a member of a troop who would lose his facemask or a fin, or carry a pack that appeared to be organised by a five-year-old, it was usually the troop commander. Thank God, this guy was different. He came from quite the family of service over-achievers. His father was a former helicopter pilot and commanding officer of 5 Aviation Squadron, and his brother was an army medical doctor. The Boss was a caring man and would later prove himself under fire. An eloquent, dedicated man who could also fight: what a great combo!

Our patrol signaller, Grant – the oldest member of the team in his mid-thirties – had a background as a navy clearance diver. Grant was a relatively new addition to the troop, and his wry sense of humour and tireless work ethic were warmly welcomed. He'd also spent time as a member of the sniper troop and was well-trained in the technical tools of the trade. Put the man in front of patrol radios, observation devices or image capture and transfer equipment and he was in his element.

Known as ‘a bit of a computer geek', Grant didn't possess the same demented drive for pushing himself as other patrol members. Despite this, his fitness was acceptable and he more than held his own when required. He also had the ability to offer a satirical comment at the most opportune moments. Grant was not overly concerned with personal looks, a fact made eminently clear when, during a brief sojourn on a vehicle-mounted patrol, he decided to trim his
ginger-matted fringe with a pair of trauma scissors. He was amazingly proud of his repugnant new look and this self-inflicted barbarism lightened the mood.

Grant's closest mate in the group was arguably the most experienced amongst us. K-man held the rank of sergeant and had performed well on previous operations. There were only so many command positions, so on operations it was not unusual for senior members to be attached to a patrol to make up numbers. They generally took a back seat and left all administration to the team 2iC – in this case, me – but they would be available to offer advice during challenging operations. K-man was physically strong, aggressive and vociferous but also had a humorous side that could turn a lacklustre office meeting into a raging inferno of laughter. Grant and K-man became known as ‘the Lion Brothers'. Even their scruffy beards grew in unison.

The final man in our patrol was Ry, who was posted to the troop only weeks before we commenced combat operations. Ry was a ‘beret-qualified' corps signaller, indicating that he had passed the SAS selection course. He was a highly skilled communications specialist. On top of that, Ry was an intelligent man, like most from the signal corps, and an able soldier. The regular sabre squadron operators were generally a cut above when it came to soldiering skills, but Ry was well-suited to perform and support a range of roles.

Ry also had great taste in music. He often supplied the guys – mainly me – with quality tunes when we weren't on patrol. The others were particularly appreciative of this, because if I was listening to music then it meant that I wasn't trying to play it. Every chance I got, I borrowed the Boss's guitar. I had become obsessed with learning the Metallica classic ‘Nothing Else Matters'.

Even Kane had a go at me: ‘Look, dude, it's starting to sound pretty good, but for fuck's sake, can you
please
play something else?'

I wasn't one to acknowledge criticism and neglected to absorb the real meaning of his comment. I practised even harder. Always in denial, I still wonder why my stretcher was sometimes placed outside our sleeping quarters.

Many historians describe Afghanistan as the Soviet equivalent of the US foreign policy debacle in Vietnam. The Soviets established infrastructure – hospitals, schools, government buildings and roads – but this was brought undone by countless acts of barbarism. Soviet weapons, ammunition and equipment were left in abundance when their final troops withdrew on 2 February 1989. The greatest tragedy of the era was the estimated 5 to 7 million landmines that would lie dormant, sometimes for years, before breaking their silence with a limb-shredding roar.

When the news came that the first squadron deployed to Afghanistan had performed well, our patrol was ready and waiting to join them. Operation Anaconda had begun in March 2002. A US-led coalition battled against over 1000 well-entrenched al-Qaeda and Taliban forces in the Shahi-Kot Valley and Arma Mountains. For us in Brisbane, the frequent intelligence and country briefs had definitely lost their novelty.

Before we deployed, the commanding officer of the Regiment briefed our squadron. Although I can't recall exactly what he said, he did manage to grab everyone's attention: ‘Men, I must be honest – operations in Afghanistan are dangerous. We expect casualties and there is a chance that some of you will be killed …'

His speech was strong and honest. He didn't hype things up or play them down. But we were confident in our ability and wanted nothing more than to deploy to Afghanistan and get out on patrol. At last our squadron got the call. It was our turn to join the action.