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caught him up. We were at a similar physical standard; we’d consistently finished near each other on the previous physical tests.
    â€˜Hey, mate, how’re your legs?’ he asked.
    â€˜Pretty fatigued,’ I replied.
    â€˜Let’s smash it to the top of this hill,’ he said.
    â€˜Yeah, let’s do it.’
    Halfway up, he said: ‘Keep going, mate; I’m gonna walk for a bit.’
    I felt okay so I continued on. I finished in fourth place in a time of 97 minutes and six seconds. My legs were shattered. We’d been allowed 100 minutes to complete the run, and more than half the course had failed.
    As soon as I had finished, I felt my legs begin to tighten. I pulled out a water bottle, took small sips and stretched. I saw Rog come in. His legs were also starting to cramp, so we helped each other stretch, offering words of encouragement. I stood up, spun around and noticed the SI standing directly behind me. Wearing a dark set ofsunglasses and a blank face, he’d been listening to our conversation. It was slightly unnerving – this time he gave away nothing.
    We were then ordered to line up and were told we would be running the 15 kilometres back to Bindoon training camp. Holy shit , I thought. My legs were hammered.
    A couple of guys remained seated. They’d had enough and voluntarily removed themselves from the course. The rest of us began the march. Five hundred metres down the road there were several trucks. We were told to get on and were driven back to camp.

    The first week of the course was designed to wear us down, to remove our protective shells and expose the quality of the flesh beneath, to weed out the majority of those who were unsuitable. After just those seven days, there were 80 or 90 empty stretchers at base camp. Seeing this enhanced my self-belief. The intense physical testing ensures that applicants are at the minimum physical standard required, but it also deliberately wears them out, so that their performance in the more challenging phases of the course will reveal their true persona – what lies beneath the surface.
    After breakfast, it was time for more mind games. The SI assembled the course and told everyone that he had lost his compass and that we had to help him find it. We were also told to bring our packs and webbing. The SI’s pack did not cut into his shoulders the same way that ours did. Nor was he hunched over, which suggested to me that his pack wasfilled with perhaps just a bulky sleeping bag and a pillow. Holding a map upside down, he began walking down the road. He was a tall man with long legs – this guy could stomp hard.
    The pace was frantic, and within 20 minutes soldiers were strung out over hundreds of metres. The SI told our lead group of eight or nine soldiers to keep going, and to stop in the shade some 200 metres up the track. For the first time on the course, he also offered some words of encouragement. ‘Well done, men. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
    As soon as the SI left us, one soldier – a guy who was struggling to keep pace – vented: ‘Fucking slow it down, guys …’ His whining antics continued all the way to the shade.
    The SI returned a few minutes later and it was on again. I was up the front and on his left side. I struggled to match his stride and so had to continuously break into a shuffle to keep pace. It was a hot day and the dry air stripped our mouths and throats of moisture. Fifteen minutes later the SI once again stopped our lead group. To say I was relieved was an understatement.
    He stormed off and when he came back, his voice was terse. ‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘I have split the course into three groups: those who are serious, those who are undecided, and those who are wasting our time. Group one, you will march with me. We’ve cut away the crap, now keep up.’
    Never have I tried to walk so fast. We had been marching for about six