Normally at Bulletproofbodies we would not promote drinking. However, if you have earned your Beer then that is different!
This is the story of Fan Dance Ale.
The following is taken
from, “A journal of SAS Selection” by Ken Jones:
Today started much as
any other on “Selection,” with reveille at 0400 hours; the dormitory awoke to
the pungent smell of urine leaked from twenty plastic two litre coca cola
bottles, filled by twenty men too physically destroyed to make the metre fifty
journey to the outside ablutions. Nothing smells worse than the urine of a
dehydrated man and the wood panel walls of the World War II billet only seemed
to absorb and hold the smell even more. Still caught in a the haze of a halfway
state between consciousness and sleep I felt my way into my combat fatigues, stepped
into my flip flops, grabbed my wash bag and walked outside into the coal black
and freezing January night. The blast of cold air on my naked torso had my
teeth chattering by the time I had reached the washrooms. Incredulous, I stared
into the mirror wondering what I was doing here and if any of what was
happening was real at all. I ran the hot water and coughed up into the sink,
spitting out a filthy mixture of brown dehydrated phlegm and blood. The man
shaving in the sink next to me stared into the bowl and remarked ‘’That doesn’t
look good.’’
Back in the billet I
dressed and double checked my Bergen still hit 55 pounds and then added two one
litre water bottles. I waited for my friend from “L Detachment” and we walked
together in silence to the cookhouse. Army food is starch heavy and very
greasy. Forcing oneself to eat at such a godforsaken hour with no appetite is a
battle, especially when you are dehydrated and the very smell of it makes you
want to be sick. I piled my plate in monstrous portions, took it to my table
and then returned to the back of the line for seconds. Consuming as many
calories as possible is essential, without them you will fail the day’s march,
you won’t even make it around. To not eat at all would leave you a frozen
corpse somewhere on the barren slopes of the Beacons. After the first few
mouthfuls the appetite usually returned and I was eventually able to wipe my
plate clean. I then used the contents of the second plate to make a
triple-decker sausage, bacon and egg sandwich, which I wrapped in cling film
and placed in my trouser map pocket. Forcing yourself to prepare food for later
in the day when you are already had your fill takes discipline. I’d only
noticed one or two others out of a cadre of 200 soldiers doing the same. These
backup sandwiches had already been my salvation on several vigorous test
marches; I wasn’t about to chance not going to the trouble as the days got
progressively harder.
After collecting
weapons from the armoury I stood in rank behind my Bergen on the camp parade
ground, shivering and staring into the night that still showed no sign of
emerging light. Then the ominous voice of the Chief Instructor sounded out,
whose first duty was to call out the names of those who had pulled a yellow
card on the previous day’s test march. There’s something unnerving about a
voice coming out of darkness, awaiting the sound of your own name without
seeing the face of the man who could end your dreams and lifetime’s ambition in
a single utterance. Two yellow cards and you would be returned to unit.
What followed was the
worst part of any day on the “Selection,” the journey to the mountains. Ten
four tonne lorries’ with canvas panels and an open rear end transported the
remaining 150 volunteers from Sennybridge camp to the Brecon Beacons. It was
still pitch black and freezing. The wind attacked the canvas walls and made a
horrendous sound, as cold air gushed in through the gaps and froze us to the
marrow. I, like many others, pulled out my roll mat and sleeping bag, but to
get too warm and comfortable was a dangerous game. On other days I had
preferred to stay cold and keep my senses sharp for the impending doom. The
journey typically lasted ninety minutes, depending on the march start point or
which range of mountains we were to be on. We never knew as the order was to
carry all four issued maps at all times. That was the worst thing about it all,
the uncertainty. On “Selection” the only thing you have for certain is breath
and spirit, and most would crack and lose the later before the four weeks came
to an end. Everything was as black as the night and we never knew anything;
which map we would need, the test march start or finish point, nor how many
check points were in between. Distance, time limits, what the Directing Staff
were writing about us in our ‘P’ files, all remained in the stratosphere of the
unknown. What pained and tormented most was our own personal limits; the menace
of self-doubt haunted each one of us like some magnificently evil spectre.
Essentially, it was within ourselves to give it our all and to realise our
dreams and ambitions, and the back of the truck was the place where all our
deepest thoughts would come to us. Like a holy temple, it was still and quiet
save for the howl of the wind and the gentle moan of the diesel engine pulling
us along. I was never without noticing how nobody ever spoke; every journey was
filled with the same deathly silence and emptiness of words.
The first streaks of
light were diluting the sky a soft pink by the time the four tonners reached
the parking area adjacent to The Storey Arms. Bodies squirmed out of their
sleeping bags and repacked their Bergens at double time. The driver dropped the
tailgate and we took turns at jumping down and holding the next man’s rifle until
he was ready to do the same. Within minutes there were 150 uniformed men
assembled next to the old red phone box which marked the trail start at the
foot of Corn-Du. The Chief Instructor spoke; today was The Fan Dance, there
would be no lone starts and no standard checkpoint procedure. The cadre would
split into two groups of equal size and we would start en masse, led by one of
the SBS (Special Boat Service) Directing Staff. The format was unique among
four weeks of back to back test marches, although the shortest march by far,
the tempo was dictated by the DS, it would be a matter of hanging on in there
or oblivion.
I was a part of the
first wave. I stood in the middle of the pack, leaning forward slightly to
relieve my shoulders of the ache and strain of Bergen straps digging into my
bony shoulders. I was shattered before I had taken a single step, a week of
relentless marching and thrashings had ravaged my body and energy levels. Some
days had been longer than others, Black Thursday would last fourty eight hours
and would serve to crack the spirits and remove many men from the course.
Looking up the slopes to where I’d be heading, a sinister mist came down off
the mountain and worked its way towards us. Within minutes we were in a
complete white out and I couldn’t see further than the orange Bergen marker
panel of the man in front of me. “God help me,’’ I thought.
Still shrouded in mist
the voice of the Chief Instructor gave the orders: “Standby… Go!”
We were off and
straight into it. The opening slope is shockingly steep and within a matter of
minutes my heart rate was sky high and my lungs were on fire. Early on there is
no established rhythm, you can’t see around the man in front of you and you often
end up kicking his heels or bumping your face into the back of his pack when he
slows unexpectedly. The source of the suffering is caused by the concertina
effect, where changes in terrain and the
pace set by the Directing Staff have a domino effect on the peleton of
soldiers, much like it does in a cycle race. Subtle variations in grade and
speed are amplified by the time they work their way to the rear, whereas at the
front you can respond quickly and easily. At the back you are unaware of the
gaps that have formed and are the last to react when all those in front break
into a run to close the gap. Already at an extreme limit, finding the extra gas
to manoeuvre is torturous. Do it enough times and your heart rate will go into
the red and you will drop off the back. Then you are stranded in no man’s land
and fending for yourself, the relative safety and sanctuary of the pack is gone
and you are going to have a long, painful and lonely day.
Soon feeling the
effects of multiple gap bridging I decided to infiltrate my way closer to the
front. There is a risk in doing so and timing and determination to follow
through are paramount. I sat out and waited my chance. The Directing Staff at
the front was marching so fast that our efforts to keep with him looked comical,
like how Laurel and Hardy walked in the cartoons, as we manically swung our
self-loading rifles from left to right. When the next gap opened up I stepped
out to the side and assessed my chances: too small and it would close before I
got round the body of men and reached it, then nobody would let me back in and
I would be forced to retreat to the very back before the DS noticed the
disturbance to his otherwise uniform formation.
Seeing the clear space get wider I pulled out wide and charged my way
alongside the mass of men holding on for dear life. I gritted my teeth and
pushed on, sapped by the rough scrub strewn terrain to the side of the path. I
just sneaked my way in in good time and tried to adjust my step to accord with
the man now in front of me. “That fucker must have a pillow in his Bergen,” the
man next to me spat out furiously.
After summiting the
first section of slope we were awarded with the brief respite of a descent and
a stream crossing. The instant the grade went up again the DS (Directing Staff)
set a furious tempo and within minutes over fifty men were strung out over two
hundred metres behind us, which I could see as the track snaked sideways into
the mountain after a sharp horseshoe turn. The pace was relentless and as soon
as the grade dropped slightly the DS broke into a run. Another five minutes and
the remaining men were reduced to half. The numbers stayed for a further ten
minutes before we were down to twenty. Three quarters of the way up the
mountain we were down to twenty and I had reached my physical limit and knew I
couldn’t hang on much longer. The DS now had us down to eleven men; I gave
myself five more minutes and lasted another ten. Then I dropped, at first it
was a few paces which quickly stretched to twenty metres, then fifty and ended
up at about a hundred and fifty. I’d given it my all and had failed to make the
summit with the elite, but I had never been one to enjoy having my pace
dictated by anyone other than myself. Looking behind me I didn’t feel so
disheartened at seeing the scattering of orange marker panels almost a
kilometre long spread across the mountainside.
By the time I’d gone
around the base of Corn Du’s peak, the front runners had already reached the
summit of Pen y Fan and had soon disappeared from site as they descended
Jacob’s ladder.
After reaching the
Fan’s summit I gave my name and number to the Directing Staff who was sat in
the comfort of his sleeping bag drinking tea from a flask. “Doing your own
thing today are you Jones?” he remarked at my solitary arrival. “You know where
you’re heading?” he asked before I had chance to answer him. I gave a nod and I
was off. As I stepped away from the tent
I was presented with a spectacular vista I had never before had the chance to
fully appreciate on any of the many training exercises I had been part of.
Lines of light were working their way across the darkened shadows of the U
shaped valley, the end of which was dotted with forestry blocks and reservoirs.
From my position the path leading up Cribyn looked perilous as it closely
worked its way up the mountains almost vertical North face. I was elated and
felt alive, and for few brief seconds I was actually happy to be there. Only
the tug of the wind and the sweat freezing on my back reminded me I had to get
going again.
The upper section of
Jacob’s ladder is a serious hazard for anyone descending with a load on their
back, there are many step-like drops that require careful foot placements and
it was not uncommon to see soldiers using their rifle butt as a walking aid,
especially on the way up. That was one of two marching advantages of the
self-load rifle over the much shorter SA8O. Before long I had worked my way
down from the troublesome section and was able to break into a run. I had thick
ankles and calves and was a crack descender, which allowed me to bridge the now
considerable gap to the Directing Staff before reaching the Roman road.
The next 4km were
excruciating, the track runs across more or less level ground and allows for a
frightening pace that can massacre the legs. By the time the last man had shut
the gate we were running at seven miles per hour and kept it up for two
kilometres before the pace dropped slightly. Then came the return to a similar
state I had known as a young Paratrooper, where the stretches of fast walking,
or tabbing as the army referred to it, where actually more painful than the
stretches in which we would run. I flitted desperately between the two of my
own accord, unable to match the official changes of the Directing Staff. By the
third flat kilometre I was off the back again and marching solo. Within minutes
they had disappeared into the forestry block to my front, which the track ran
alongside and eventually merged into. Being isolated and out of sight was
strangely reassuring, I caught my breath and reassured myself that there were
still 140 men behind me. I entered the tree line and ran at my own steady pace.
I reached the turn
around point a couple of minutes after the front group. I gave my name to the
DS manning the RV and joined the back of the pack. Everyone followed the lead
of the DS and dropped their Bergens to the ground. What happened next was
astonishing and unique among “Selection” tests. One of the DS brought over a
Norwegian tea urn and told everyone to pull out their metal mugs. The final
boundary was broken when a tray of biscuits and squares of flapjack were handed
out. We looked at each other bemused, wondering if this uncharacteristic
generosity was some sort of trick or a test. Boldly, I snatched a square of
flapjack off the tray and everyone else followed suit.
“That’s the thing with
bravery Jones, it only takes one person to act courageous and everyone around
straightens their spines,” the DS remarked.
“Cheers Staff.” I
replied with a mouth full of cake as I raised my mug to him.
Sat on my Bergen with
my rifle across my lap, I felt a strange sense of peace come over me, like I
was revisiting my earlier sentiments on the summit of Pen y Fan. As I sipped my
tea I felt a connection with the Directing Staff (that I daredn’t express) and
camaraderie with my fellow volunteers. This was what it was all about, being in
the present moment, and suddenly the experience transcended the challenge and
the bigger picture of why I was here in the first place. We rested ten minutes
event though the clock was stilk ticking, then we were under orders and off
again.
By the time we had left
the forestry block I had been dropped again by a blistering pace, but this time I made no effort to close the gap. I
turned my rifle upside down and positioned the web of my hand neatly into the
slot between the trigger guard and the magazine housing, creating a perfect
weight balance between the barrel end and the stock. This was the other
advantage of the SLR, held as such, it assisted momentum and allowed for
prolonged bounds of running or fast marching without discomfort or the need to
adjust the position,unlike the SA8O,
By the time I reached
the end of the Roman Road I was drained and had fallen a little further behind.
There simply wasn’t time for my triple-decker sandwich so to save myself from bonking further I
quickly pulled a can of Red Bull from my webbing and necked the contents. The
energy drink revived me instantly and I was soon powering my way up from windy
gap to the lower slopes of Pen y Fan. I reached the foot of Jacob ’s ladder
approximately four hundred metres behind the DS, but steep climbs were my
strength and I was soon slogging my way up in powerful bounds, closing the
space between us with each burst. On the uppermost section I was leaning
forward and rasping for breath as the wind blew into me sideways and nearly
snatched my weapon away from my hand, twisting my wrist horribly as I strained
to keep hold of it. I looked down at my feet and fought with dogged
determination to resists my burning lungs, jellied legs and overworked heart. I
climbed with everything I had and suffered terribly, “Pain is merely weakness
leaving the body” I reminded myself of what the bastard Para instructors had
told us at the training depot. My body was screaming at me to stop but I pushed
on with some maniacal drive that was hell bent on survival and success. Jacob ’s ladder can be a truly terrible
experience when there’s a ticking clock.
I crested Pen y Fan
less than a hundred metres behind the Directing Staff, reported to the DS and
bombed my way along the track that passed by Corn Du’s mound shaped summit. By
the time the way turned downward I had bridged the gap and was safely with the pack
again. The DS began descending with what seemed like suicidal tendencies. I
thought about the earlier pillow remark and smiled to myself. I leaned back
into my Bergen and executed my favoured descending technique to which I was now
so well accomplished. By the time we reached the drop down into the gulley,
four from the pack had fallen a hundred metres back. Rising back up the other
side another one dropped off the back and we were down to six. I assessed the
ground to my front, trying to figure out the remaining suffering I would have
to endure. It wasn’t much further, one final mad blast in a virtually straight
line and it would all be over… at least for another day. I braced myself for
the charge and hung on with everything I was worth. I reached the red phone box
with the DS and the front pack. Fighting for breath and taking extreme pleasure
in the subsiding agony I muttered an expletive to myself.
“Good work Jonesy,” I
heard someone say.
I turned to my left and
shook the outstretched hand of an officer from my former unit 1 Para. I hadn’t
noticed he was in the front pack with me for the entire duration of the march
and still wouldn’t have if he hadn’t removed his black woolen hat.
“How long did that take
us?” I asked.
“Three hours thirty
bang on,” he replied.
Nothing was official
yet but we knew we’d just passed the Fan Dance and would be allowed onto week
two.
That evening I
celebrated in Cardiff with a group of Marines from my Pre-Selection course. We
were drinking local ale and discussing its finer points and iron levels when
someone suggested that we should brew our own “Fan Dance ale.” There an idea
was born…
Video: https://www.youtube.com/user/RichOReganTV
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