While jammed in the back of a 22-seater bus on our way to RAAF Base Pearce for jump training, I noticed that one of the guys was white-faced, his hands gripping the seat in front of him in the same way that children sink their fingers into their parents’ arms while on a rollercoaster for the first time. He looked like he was about to vomit. ‘Hey, mate,’ I said. ‘You feeling crook?’ ‘I hate this shit,’ he answered, relaxing his grip and pushing his head into the seat. ‘What, driving to Pearce?’ He laughed. ‘Nah, parachuting, smartarse. This shit freaks me out.’ I sat confused for a moment, trying to comprehend why someone who hated parachuting would put himself through the rigours of life as an SAS soldier. ‘What about abseiling, climbing, diving – do you get off on any of them?’ ‘Get off?’ he said. ‘Definitely not. I get off on sex.’ ‘Fair enough – but then why are you in the Regiment?’ ‘Because I wanted to test myself, to prove I could cut it.’ This guy – a quiet, unassuming man – was a solid performer.
