Sas Quotes

Gentlemen,” he said. “I give you The Eagle’s Covenant.

Breggie de Kok had now brought herself to a high state of adrenalin powered tension and was ready to kill.

.'If things get on top of you', my mum always used to say, 'have a good cry.'.

Soon, Joanna’s strength waned, and she was reduced to loose slaps on his shoulders and cries of: “Tell me where my baby is.” She sobbed and broke down, literally collapsing on top of him. “Please tell me where my baby is.

Dad always warned that it was misleading when one imagined people, when one sas them in the Mind's Eye, because one never remembered them as they really were, with as many inconsistencies as there were hairs on a human head (100,000 to 200,000). Instead, the mind used a lazy shorthand, smoothed the person over into their most dominating characteristic--their pessimism or insecurity (something really being lazy, turning them into either Nice or Mean)--and one made the mistake of judging them from this basis alone and risked, on a subsequent encounter, being dangerously surprised.

Above all, I feel a quiet pride that for the rest of my days I can look at myself in the mirror and know that once upon a time I was good enough. Good enough to call myself a member of the SAS. Some things don’t have a price tag.

A friend once asked me what qualities were needed for SAS. I would say to be self-motivated and resilient; to be calm, yet have the ability to smile when it is grim; to be unflappable, be able to react fast and to have an ‘improvise, adapt and overcome’ mentality.

The more we know the easier it is to survive. Knowledge dispels fear.

Sas soon as we label something as "natural", we attach to it the powerful implication that any change from its current state would degrade and damage the way it is "supposed" to be

The Army and the SAS had been his dream--his chance to be somebody, save lives, show his parents he was worth something. Being a soldier had been his escape, his flight from the demons that bound him. War is a cold, selfish bitch. It changes you. It makes you hard, and it makes you hurt, yet somehow, we keep going back for more.

sa’s smell (the fragrance of a beautiful man) is what I miss the most. […] Like a virus his smell entered me and changed my cells, slowly, over years, until they craved only that smell, which was their oxygen.

Why is S-A-S pronounced S-A-W? It should be Ar-Kansas. Did Kansas object?

To overcome frailty is one definition of courage; to acknowledge it with honesty is another.

But, that guy who quit also missed the real point. Good things come through grit and hard work, and all things worthwhile have a cost. In the case of the SAS, the cost was somewhere around a thousand barrels of sweat.

Never run away,” Jock Lewes instructed them. “Because once you start running, you’ve stopped thinking.

!!!!!!!!!!NO TRESPASSING!!!!!!!!!! All trespassers will be shot on sight. All survivors will be shot again.

He shuffled up to the stake and examined the impaled, naked, dead man. The stake entered his anus and protruded through his gaping mouth, his death mask frozen in a look of horror.

Once upon a time there was a Scottish SAS soldier in Kabul. He met a Soviet Spetsnaz soldier. They were enemies first, then shagged for nine years, fell in love at some stage. Dragons, battles, and damsels in distress in between, until an evil wizard took the Spetsnaz away. The Scot and the damsel battled the vile foes, until the Russian returned, but the evil spell still hat him in its claws. More dragons, battles, knights in not-so shiny armour later, the spell got broken, the Princes got reunited, and our Russian and Scotsman kind of lived happily ever after." (Dan)

The Piper's playing again, and there's a full orchestra.' There was a long silence as Andrew deciphered the cryptic statement. 'A FULL orchestra?

The Seven Ps’: Prior Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance.

If you’re gonna be a bear, be a grizzly.

Throughout my career, I always had great respect for the British Special Air Service, the famed SAS. The SAS motto was “Who Dares Wins.” The motto was so widely admired that even moments before the bin Laden raid, my Command Sergeant Major, Chris Faris, quoted it to the SEALs preparing for the mission. To me the motto was more than about how the British special forces operated as a unit; it was about how each of us should approach our lives. Life is a struggle and the potential for failure is ever present, but those who live in fear of failure, or hardship, or embarrassment will never achieve their potential. Without pushing your limits, without occasionally sliding down the rope headfirst, without daring greatly, you will never know what is truly possible in your life.

Someone is sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago. —Warren Buffett

Sometimes it’s better to know who your enemy are and what they’re up to than to take them off the ground.

The coppery smell of blood filled his senses. It was so damn strong. He’d been surrounded by blood before, covered in it a few times when he’d been with the SAS, but this was different.

Strangulation. It was a fearful way to go, wrestling, kicking your way towards oblivion, panic, the fretful sucking for air, and the killer behind you most likely, so that you faced the fear of something totally anonymous, a death without knowledge of who or why. Rebus had been taught methods of killing in the SAS. He knew what it felt like to have the garotte tighten on your neck, trusting to the opponent’s prevailing sanity. A fearful way to go.

His fevered thoughts burrowed through the fog clouding his brain, taking him back to another time and another place, where, as a member of an elite SAS unit and despite a nasty combat wound, he had been forced into a gruelling retreat through

Purple emperor-watching with Matthew and Neil is not your average butterfly entertainment, ethereal and somewhat effete. Theirs is a raucous, adrenaline-fuelled spectator sport. The emperors themselves seem to play to the crowd. Pugnacious males dart around the crowns of oaks, staking out their territory, jetting about with muscular flicks of their wings, twirling on their own axes, elevating a hundred feet into the air. They are the SAS of butterflies, fit, fearless and chemically armed.

The great thing about the British SAS was that they viewed war the same way the American Special Operations community did. You didn’t win by thinking inside the box and following someone else’s rules. You turned the box upside down and made your own rules, no matter what the enemy threw at you.

Didn’t they know that the only unhackable computer is one that’s running a secure operating system, welded inside a steel safe, buried under a ton of concrete at the bottom of a coal mine guarded by the SAS and a couple of armoured divisions, and switched off? What did they think they were doing?

Once the screws left, most of the six or seven boys who had been overpowered by the SAS were not in any fit state to move, never mind talk. In May 1988 Malkie and Sammo and one other boy, whose name escapes me right now, got a total of twenty-seven years between them for mobbing and rioting and assault.

The SAS motto was “Who Dares Wins.” The motto was so widely admired that even moments before the bin Laden raid, my Command Sergeant Major, Chris Faris, quoted it to the SEALs preparing for the mission. To me the motto was more than about how the British special forces operated as a unit; it was about how each of us should approach our lives.

1999,

Above all, the stalker should never take a shot unless certain of a kill, for anything else was unsporting.

I’m not going to be pushed around by some Oswald Mosley wannabe with delusions of grandeur.

Paratroopers are human Alsatians.

My mind was on a silent hillside, in a land far away, and gods who should be left to sleep. *

Who dares, wins

Supply chain leaders manage complex systems with complex processes with increasing complexity. Leaders

Time is money. If we could take one day of transit time out of the supply chain, we could free up $1 billion in cash. Unfortunately, we cannot.

supply chain was and still is the silent enabler behind great companies, world economies, and successful communities. It

Today, it is focused on not just building chains but also on the design of agile networks.

About as welcome as Adolf Hitler at a Goldman Sachs board meeting. Bru,

There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.

good

AK-47 – Kalashnikov gas-operated, 7.62 × 39mm assault rifle.

Nor can I tell him—lest the SA’s command override cause my arterial blood vessels to burst and my eyeballs to catch fire—about Long-Term Continuity Operations and the Resistance.

As bleak as it sounds, it’s entirely possible that more things will go wrong in your life than go right. But if you dwell on the negatives, you’ll end up in a state of mental paralysis.

5But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. 6He is not here, for he has risen,  s as he said. Come, see the place where he [1] lay.

The term supply chain is not new. It is fundamental to military strategy. It was the difference between winning and losing in the Napoleonic wars and the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. The

Back in Cairo for dinner at the Embassy with the two SAS heroes David Stirling and Fitzroy Maclean, he challenged Smuts to see who could recite the most Shakespeare. After a quarter of an hour Smuts lost, as Churchill churned on. A few minutes later, Smuts realized that his opponent was once again producing cod-Shakespeare verses that owed nothing to the Bard and everything to the Prime Minister’s imagination.

Lirismul absolut As vrea sa izbucnesc intr-o explozie radicala cu tot ce am in mine cu toata energia si cu toate continuturile sa curg sa ma descompun si intr-o expresie nemijlocita distrugerea mea sa fie opera mea creatia inspiratia mea. Sa ma realizez in distrugere sa cresc in cea mai nebuna avantare pana dincolo de margini si moartea mea sa fie triumful meu. As vrea sas ma topesc in lume si lumea in mine sa nastem in nebunia noastra un vis apocaliptic straniu ca toate viziunile de sfarsit si magnific asemenea marilor crepuscule. Din tesatura visului nostru sa creasca splendori enigmatice si umbre cuceritoare forme ciudate si adancimi halucinante. Un joc de lumina si de intuneric sa imbrace sfarsitul intr-un decor fantastic si o transfigurare cosmica sa ridice totul pana dincolo de orice rezistenta cand avantul duce la nimic iar formele plesnesc intr-o exaltare de agonie si incantare. Un foc total sa inghita luea aceasta si flacarile lui mai insinuante decat zambetul de femeie si mai imateriale decat melancolia sa provoace voluptati crepusculare complicate ca moartea si fascinante ca neantul in clipele de tristete. Sunt necesare trairi nebune pentru ca lirismul sa atinga ultima lui expresie pentru ca incordarile lui sa treaca marginile subiectivismului normal.

A break point is a moment you decide nothing will stand between you and your goal; a moment you decide to step out of your comfort zone in order to move forward and grow as a person; a moment you refuse to accept your self-imposed limits and go beyond what you thought you were capable of. As such, break points are more mental than physical. It might seem strange to describe coming under attack in Fallujah as being in one’s comfort zone.

Above all, [Jock Lewes] sought to instill supreme physical stamina and self-confidence, to make the men so inured to hardship that the reality, when it came, would feel almost easy. “The confident man will win,” Lewes insisted.

I tried to comfort him. I tried to tell him it might be chance, not destiny, that has put him here. Do you know what he said?” “That there is no chance, only destiny.” Her hands paused. “How did you know?” “It is one of the cornerstones of Sa’s teachings. That destiny is not reserved for a few chosen ones. Each man has a destiny. Recognizing it and fulfilling it are the purpose of a man’s life.” “It seems a burdensome teaching to me.” Kennit shook his head against the pillow. “If a man can believe it, then he can know he is as important as any other man. He can also know that he is no more important than any other is. It creates a vast equality of purpose.” p. 530: Etta to Kennit

Often in war, you don’t know why you’ve not been fired upon. War’s like that. It’s long stretches of confusion and boredom, interspersed with insane, adrenalin-pumping bursts of action. It’s unpredictable, and there are no set rules. That’s just how it is.

But what do I remember and value most? For me, it is the camaraderie, and the friendships--and of course Trucker, who is still one of my best friends on the planet. Some bonds are unbreakable. I will never forget the long yomps, the specialist training, and of course a particular mountain in the Brecon Beacons. But above all, I feel a quiet pride that for the rest of my days I can look myself in the mirror and know that once upon a time I was good enough. Good enough to call myself a member of the SAS. Some things don’t have a price tag.

I was soon discharged from the rehab center and sent back to the SAS. But the doctor’s professional opinion was that I shouldn’t military parachute again. It was too risky. One dodgy landing, at night, in full kit, and my patched-up spine could crumple. He didn’t even mention the long route marches carrying huge weights on our backs. Every SF soldier knows that a weak back is not a good opener for life in an SAS squadron. It is also a cliché just how many SAS soldiers’ backs and knees are plated and pinned together, after years of marches and jumps.

If travelling through a malarial region take an adequate supply of anti-malaria tablets. You must start taking these two weeks before your journey, so that resistance is in the system before you arrive in the risk area, and should keep taking them for a month after your return.

One night, around the campfire after a dinner of bully-beef stew, someone opened an extra bottle of rum. ‘As it grew darker, the men began to sing, at first slightly self-conscious and shy, but picking up confidence as the song spread.’ Their songs were not the martial chants of warriors, but the schmaltzy romantic popular tunes of the time: ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’, ‘My Melancholy Baby’, ‘I’m Dancing with Tears in My Eyes’. The bigger and burlier the singer, Pleydell noted, the more passionate and heartfelt the singing. Now the French contingent struck up, with a warbling rendition of ‘Madeleine’, the bittersweet song of a man whose lilacs for his lover have been left to wilt in the rain. Then it was the turn of the German prisoners who, after some debate, belted out ‘Lili Marleen’, the unofficial anthem of the Afrika Korps, complete with harmonies: ‘Vor der Kaserne / Vor dem grossen Tor / Stand eine Laterne / Und steht sie noch davor …’ (Usually rendered in English as: Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate, darling I remember, how you used to wait.) As the last verse died away, the audience broke into loud whistles and applause. To his own astonishment, Pleydell was profoundly moved. ‘There was something special about that night,’ he wrote years later. ‘We had formed a small solitary island of voices; voices which faded and were caught up in the wilderness. A little cluster of men singing in the desert. An expression of feeling that defied the vastness of its surroundings … a strange body of men thrown together for a few days by the fortunes of war.’ The doctor from Lewisham had come in search of authenticity, and he had found it deep in the desert, among hard soldiers singing sentimental songs to imaginary sweethearts in three languages.

Te caches-tu de tes enfants et d’Estelle pour me lire, aux toilettes, la nuit très tard, dès qu’ils ont le dos tourné ? Ou bien tiens-tu Monsieur comme on tient un SAS, négligemment, les doigts enduits d’huile solaire ? Suis-je déjà cornée, craquelante du sable que tes bambins m’ont envoyé entre les pages en jouant au beach-ball ? Ai-je enfin réussi, à ma manière, à pénétrer un peu de vos vacances en famille ? Est-ce que tu as peur ? Quelle est la part de haine dans toutes les émotions, contradictoires sans doute, que je t’inspire de manière – disons – posthume ? Est-ce que tu te souviens de tout ? Y compris de ce jour ?

Uma interpretação que contém um significado que pode ser facilmente compreendido não será uma interpretação psicanalí­ tica, precisamente falando. É, isso sim, equivalente à sugestão. A particularidade da interpretação psicanalítica, como as diver­sas outras técnicas psicanalíticas que já mencionei em capítulos anteriores, não serve para dar ao paciente algum significado em que ele se apegue, e sim para fazê-lo trabalhar. Questionamentos, pontuações, escansões são destinados a descobrir, revelar e, em alguns momentos, destruir os significados implícitos na fala do paciente, levando-o a se esforçar para colocar em palavras o que nunca disse antes.

In the end I concluded, nothing ventured, nothing gained. (A vital ethos to follow if life is to have flavor, I have since learned.) I knew I should at least attempt Selection. If I failed, well at least I would fail while trying. Facedown in the dirt. Knowing that I had given it my all. (Oh, and what’s more, I knew that the SAS required secrecy from anyone attempting Selection, which was perfect. If I failed, I concluded, at least no one would know!) So that was the plan; but in truth, if I could have had any idea of the pain and battering that my body would go through on Selection, I would have realized it was insane to continue with this mad dream. But luckily, we never really know what the future holds.

the trio prepared to retreat, Stirling spotted a small guardhouse set apart from the hangars, with a faint light gleaming under the door. Perhaps it was the memory of Mayne’s actions at Tamet, or perhaps it was simply a rush of battle blood, but Stirling now did something that, he later admitted, was “out of character.” Turning to the other two, he suggested they give the Germans “something to remember us by.

Break points are about going the extra mile, clambering over obstacles – even while travelling in what seems like the wrong direction – and facing down negatives to achieve your ambitions. A break point is a moment you decide nothing will stand between you and your goal; a moment you decide to step out of your comfort zone in order to move forward and grow as a person; a moment you refuse to accept your self-imposed limits and go beyond what you thought you were capable of.

So that is how we came to be standing in a sparse room, in a nondescript building in the barracks at SAS HQ--just a handful out of all those who had started out so many months earlier. We shuffled around impatiently. We were ready. Ready, finally, to get badged as SAS soldiers. The colonel of the regiment walked in, dressed casually in lightweight camo trousers, shirt, beret, and blue SAS belt. He smiled at us. “Well done, lads. Hard work, isn’t it?” We smiled back. “You should be proud today. But remember: this is only the beginning. The real hard work starts now, when you return to your squadron. Many are called, few are chosen. Live up to that.” He paused. “And from now on for the rest of your life remember this: you are part of the SAS family. You’ve earned that. And it is the finest family in the world. But what makes our work here extraordinary is that everyone here goes that little bit extra. When everyone else gives up, we give more. That is what sets us apart.” It is a speech I have never forgotten.

I was soon discharged from the rehab center and sent back to the SAS. But the doctor’s professional opinion was that I shouldn’t military parachute again. It was too risky. One dodgy landing, at night, in full kit, and my patched-up spine could crumple. He didn’t even mention the long route marches carrying huge weights on our backs. Every SF soldier knows that a weak back is not a good opener for life in an SAS squadron. It is also a cliché just how many SAS soldiers’ backs and knees are plated and pinned together, after years of marches and jumps. Deep down I knew the odds weren’t looking great for me in the squadron, and that was a very hard pill to swallow. But it was a decision that, sooner or later, I would have to face up to. The doctors could give me their strong recommendations, but ultimately I had to make the call. A familiar story. Life is all about our decisions. And big decisions can often be hard to make. So I thought I would buy myself some time before I made it. In the meantime, at the squadron, I took on the role of teaching survival to other units. I also helped the intelligence guys while my old team were out on the ground training. But it was agony for me. Not physically, but mentally: watching the guys go out, fired up, tight, together, doing the job and getting back excited and exhausted. That was what I should have been doing. I hated sitting in an ops room making tea for intelligence officers. I tried to embrace it, but deep down I knew this was not what I had signed up for. I had spent an amazing few years with the SAS, I had trained with the best, and been trained by the best, but if I couldn’t do the job fully, I didn’t want to do it at all. The regiment is like that. To keep its edge, it has to keep focused on where it is strongest. Unable to parachute and carry the huge weights for long distances, I was dead weight. That hurt. That is not how I had vowed to live my life, after my accident. I had vowed to be bold and follow my dreams, wherever that road should lead. So I went to see the colonel of the regiment and told him my decision. He understood, and true to his word, he assured me that the SAS family would always be there when I needed it. My squadron gave me a great piss-up, and a little bronze statue of service. (It sits on my mantelpiece, and my boys play soldiers with it nowadays.) And I packed my kit and left 21 SAS forever. I fully admit to getting very drunk that night.

The meeting was set for between 0300 and 0500 hours. Matt and I reached the RV early and sat and waited. Deep in a thorny thicket, the wind and rain having returned now, I pulled my hood over my head to try and keep warm. We waited in alternate shifts to keep awake. But Matt, like me, was dead tired, and soon, unable to stay awake any longer, we both fell asleep on watch. Bad skills. I woke just as I heard the rustling of the other patrols approaching. One of the 23 DS was in the first patrol, and I quickly crawled forward, tapped him on the shoulder, and began to guide him back to where we had been waiting. The DS gave me a thumbs-up, as if to say “well done,” and by the time I had returned to where Matt was, he had shaken himself awake and looked like a coiled spring who had been covering all his fields of fire vigilantly all night long. Little did the DS know that five minutes earlier, Matt and I had both been fast asleep, hats pulled over our eyes, snoozing like babies in a pram. If we had been caught we would have been binned instantly. (I challenge you, though, to find any SAS soldier who didn’t have at least one such narrow escape at some point during his journey through Selection.) No one is perfect.

My time at Eton did develop in me a character trait that is essentially, I guess, very English: the notion that it is best to be the sort of person who messes about and plays the fool but who, when it really matters, is tough to the core. I think it goes back to the English Scarlet Pimpernel mentality: the nobility of aspiring to be the hidden hero. (In fact, I am sure it is no coincidence that over the years, so many senior SAS officers have also been Old Etonians. Now explain that one, when the SAS really is the ultimate meritocracy? No school tie can earn you a place there. That comes only with sweat and hard work. But the SAS also attracts a certain personality and attitude. It favors the individual, the maverick, and the quietly talented. That was Eton for you, too.) This is essentially a very English ethos: work hard, play hard; be modest; do your job to your utmost, laugh at yourself; and sometimes, if you have to, cuff it. I found that these qualities were ones that I loved in others, and they were qualities that subconsciously I was aspiring to in myself--whether I knew it or not. One truth never changed for me at Eton: however much I threw myself into life there, the bare fact was that I still really lived for the holidays--to be back at home with my mum and dad, and Lara, in the Isle of Wight. It was always where my heart really was.

Back in the barracks, those of us still left were white-faced and very shaky, but we were so relieved that the ordeal was finally over. Trucker looked particularly bad, but had this huge grin. I sat on his bed and chatted as he pottered around sorting his kit out. He kept shaking his head and chuckling to himself. It was his way of processing everything. It made me smile. Special man, I thought to myself. We all changed into some of the spare kit we had left over from the final exercise and sat on our beds, waiting nervously. We might have all finished--but--had we all passed? “Parade in five minutes, lads, for the good and the bad news. Good news is that some of you have passed. Bad news…you can guess.” With that the DS left. I had this utter dread that I would be one of the ones to fail at this final hurdle. I tried to fight the feeling. Not at this stage. Not this close. The DS reappeared--he rapidly called out a short list of names and told them to follow him. I wasn’t in that group. The few of us remaining, including Trucker, looked at one another nervously and waited. The minutes went by agonizingly slowly. No one spoke a word. Then the door opened and the other guys reappeared, heads down, stern-faced, and walked past us to their kit. They started packing. I knew that look and I knew that feeling. Matt was among them. The guy who had helped me so much on that final Endurance march. He had been failed for cracking under duress. Switch off for a minute, and it is all too easy to fall for one of the DS’s many tricks and tactics. Rule 1: SAS soldiers have to be able to remain sharp and focused under duress. Matt turned, looked at me, smiled, and walked out. I never saw him again.

You can’t go back,” she told him bluntly. Her voice was neither kind nor unkind. “That part of your life is over. Set it aside as something you have finished. Complete or no, it is done with you. No being gets to decide what his life is ‘supposed to be.’” She lifted her eyes and her gaze stabbed him. “Be a man. Discover who you are now, and go on from there, making the best of things. Accept your life, and you might survive it. If you hold back from it, insisting that this is not your life, not where you are meant to be, life will pass you by. You may not die from such foolishness, but you might as well be dead for all the good your life will do you or anyone else.” Wintrow was stunned. Heartless as her words were, they brimmed with wisdom. Almost reflexively, he sank into meditation breathing, as if this were a teaching direct from Sa’s scrolls. He explored her idea, following it to its logical conclusions. Yes, these thoughts were of Sa, and worthy. Accept. Begin anew. Find humility again. Pre-judging his life, that was what he had been doing. Always his greatest flaw, Berandol had warned him. There was opportunity for good here, if he just reached out toward it. … He suddenly grasped how the slaves must have felt when the shackles were loosed from their ankles and wrists. Her words had freed him. He could let go of his self-imposed goals. He would lift up his eyes and look around him and see where Sa’s way beckoned him most clearly. … “accepting life and making the best of it . . .” Spoken aloud, it seemed such a simple concept. Moments ago, those words had rung for him like great bells of truth. It was right what they said: enlightenment was merely the truth at the correct time." p. 114 Etta to Wintrow

He had worked damn hard and prospered. Now it was time to live. He even thought he might get it up tonight and surprise his gorgeous Maggie; then it was Israel and the Pharaohs. Stopping at his front door he took a deep intake of the free English air and smiled contentedly; England was home and so was he, this time for good. He went in the front door and called out for her as he had done so many times before, 'Maggie . . . I'm home sweetheart!' He closed the door and hesitated for a moment, she was usually in his arms by now, planting a sweet little kiss on his expectant, eager lips. She had not been her best lately, complaining of headaches and spending a lot of time down at the library; but today was different, it was retirement day. Aha! This could be a surprise, he thought hanging up his coat. Calling out again, he rubbed his hands together and started to climb the stairs to wash up before tea. This is definitely a surprise . . . no smell of any grub! His whistling stopped abruptly half way up when he saw a darkened figure appear on the landing, pointing a gun at him. A finger tightened and the weapon jolted, sending screeching Belarusian memories echoing across his subconscious. The blast lifted him off his feet sending him to the floor below. The last image of Cedric Boban's life on earth was the flash of a sawn-off shotgun; which fired from a few feet, took his life and most of his upper torso away. The slate was clean, the screeching culled. His assailant moved halfway down before jumping over the banister to avoid the bloody mess on the stairs. Maggie walked steadily into the hall from the living room. She gave a little smile and took the small sawn-off shotgun from the gloved hands of the assassin,

The journey up to battle camp started badly. “If you can’t even load a bloody truck with all your kit properly, then you’ve got no bloody chance of passing what’s ahead of you, I can assure you of that!” Taff, our squadron DS, barked at us in the barracks before leaving. I, for one, was more on edge than I had ever felt so far on Selection. I was carsick on the journey north, and I hadn’t felt that since I’d been a kid heading back to school. It was nerves. We also quizzed Taff for advice on what to expect and how to survive the “capture-initiation” phase. His advice to Trucker and me was simple: “You two toffs just keep your mouths shut--23 DS tend to hate recruits who’ve been to private school.” The 23 SAS were running the battle camp (it generally alternated between 21 and 23 SAS), and 23 were always regarded as tough, straight-talking, hard-drinking, fit-as-hell soldiers. We had last been with them at Test Week all those months earlier, and rumor was that “the 23 DS are going to make sure that any 21 recruits get it the worst.” Trucker and I hoped simply to try and stay “gray men” and not be noticed. To put our heads down and get on and quietly do the work. This didn’t exactly go according to plan. “Where are the lads who speak like Prince Charles?” The 23 DS shouted on the first parade when we arrived. “Would you both like newspapers with your morning tea, gents?” the DS sarcastically enquired. Part of me was tempted to answer how nice that would be, but I resisted. The DS continued: “I’ve got my eye on you two. Do I want to have to put my life one day in your posh, soft hands? Like fuck I do. If you are going to pass this course you are going to have to earn it and prove yourself the hard way. You both better be damned good.” Oh, great, I thought. I could tell the next fortnight was going to be a ball-buster.

So that is how we came to be standing in a sparse room, in a nondescript building in the barracks at SAS HQ--just a handful out of all those who had started out so many months earlier. We shuffled around impatiently. We were ready. Ready, finally, to get badged as SAS soldiers. The colonel of the regiment walked in, dressed casually in lightweight camo trousers, shirt, beret, and blue SAS belt. He smiled at us. “Well done, lads. Hard work, isn’t it?” We smiled back. “You should be proud today. But remember: this is only the beginning. The real hard work starts now, when you return to your squadron. Many are called, few are chosen. Live up to that.” He paused. “And from now on for the rest of your life remember this: you are part of the SAS family. You’ve earned that. And it is the finest family in the world. But what makes our work here extraordinary is that everyone here goes that little bit extra. When everyone else gives up, we give more. That is what sets us apart.” It is a speech I have never forgotten. I stood there, my boots worn, cracked, and muddy, my trousers ripped, and wearing a sweaty black T-shirt. I felt prouder than I had ever felt in my life. We all came to attention--no pomp and ceremony. We each shook the colonel’s hand and were handed the coveted SAS sandy beret. Along the way, I had come to learn that it was never about the beret--it was about what it stood for: camaraderie, sweat, skill, humility, endurance, and character. I molded the beret carefully onto my head as he finished down the line. Then he turned and said: “Welcome to the SAS. My door is always open if you need anything--that’s how things work around here. Now go and have a beer or two on me.” Trucker and I had done it, together, against all the odds. So that was SAS Selection. And as the colonel had said, really it was just the beginning.

Since I did Selection all those years ago, not much has really changed. The MOD (Ministry of Defence) website still states that 21 SAS soldiers need the following character traits: “Physically and mentally robust. Self-confident. Self-disciplined. Able to work alone. Able to assimilate information and new skills.” It makes me smile now to read those words. As Selection had progressed, those traits had been stamped into my being, and then during the three years I served with my squadron they became molded into my psyche. They are the same qualities I still value today. The details of the jobs I did once I passed Selection aren’t for sharing publicly, but they included some of the most extraordinary training that any man can be lucky enough to receive. I went on to be trained in demolitions, air and maritime insertions, foreign weapons, jungle survival, trauma medicine, Arabic, signals, high-speed and evasive driving, winter warfare, as well as “escape and evasion” survival for behind enemy lines. I went through an even more in-depth capture initiation program as part of becoming a combat-survival instructor, which was much longer and more intense than the hell we endured on Selection. We became proficient in covert night parachuting and unarmed combat, among many other skills--and along the way we had a whole host of misadventures. But what do I remember and value most? For me, it is the camaraderie, and the friendships--and of course Trucker, who is still one of my best friends on the planet. Some bonds are unbreakable. I will never forget the long yomps, the specialist training, and of course a particular mountain in the Brecon Beacons. But above all, I feel a quiet pride that for the rest of my days I can look myself in the mirror and know that once upon a time I was good enough. Good enough to call myself a member of the SAS. Some things don’t have a price tag.

MATTHEW 28  m Now after the Sabbath, toward the dawn of the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and  n the other Mary went to see the tomb. 2And behold, there was a great earthquake, for  o an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. 3 p His appearance was like lightning, and  q his clothing white as snow. 4And for fear of him the guards trembled and  r became like dead men. 5But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. 6He is not here, for he has risen,  s as he said. Come, see the place where he [1] lay. 7Then go quickly and tell his disciples that he has risen from the dead, and behold,  t he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him. See, I have told you.” 8So they departed quickly from the tomb  u with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. 9And behold, Jesus  v met them and said, “Greetings!” And they came up and  w took hold of his feet and

The Resurrection MATTHEW 28  m Now after the Sabbath, toward the dawn of the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and  n the other Mary went to see the tomb. 2And behold, there was a great earthquake, for  o an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. 3 p His appearance was like lightning, and  q his clothing white as snow. 4And for fear of him the guards trembled and  r became like dead men. 5But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. 6He is not here, for he has risen,  s as he said. Come, see the place where he [1] lay. 7Then go quickly and tell his disciples that he has risen from the dead, and behold,  t he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him. See, I have told you.” 8So they departed quickly from the tomb  u with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. 9And behold, Jesus  v met them and said, “Greetings!” And they came up and  w took hold of his feet and  x worshiped him. 10Then Jesus said to them, “Do not be afraid;  y go and tell  z my brothers to go to Galilee, and there they will see me.

I woke in bed, sweating and breathing heavily. It was the third time I’d had this nightmare: reliving that horrible feeling of falling, out of control, toward the ground. I was now on month two of just lying there prone, supposedly recovering. But I wasn’t getting any better. In fact, if anything, my back felt worse. I couldn’t move and was getting angrier and angrier inside. Angry at myself; angry at everything. I was angry because I was shit-scared. My plans, my dreams for the future hung in shreds. Nothing was certain any more. I didn’t know if I’d be able to stay with the SAS. I didn’t even know if I’d recover at all. Lying unable to move, sweating with frustration, my way of escaping was in my mind. I still had so much that I dreamt of doing. I looked around my bedroom, and the old picture I had of Mount Everest seemed to peer down. Dad’s and my crazy dream. It had become what so many dreams become--just that--nothing more, nothing less. Covered in dust. Never a reality. And Everest felt further beyond the realms of possibility than ever. Weeks later, and still in my brace, I struggled over to the picture and took it down. People often say to me that I must have been so positive to recover from a broken back, but that would be a lie. It was the darkest, most horrible time I can remember. I had lost my sparkle and spirit, and that is so much of who I am. And once you lost that spirit, it is hard to recover. And once you lose that spirit, it is hard to recover. I didn’t even know whether I would be strong enough to walk again--let alone climb or soldier again. And as to the big question of the rest of my life? That was looking messy from where I was. Instead, all my bottomless, young confidence was gone. I had no idea how much I was going to be able to do physically--and that was so hard. So much of my identity was in the physical. Now I just felt exposed and vulnerable. Not being able to bend down to tie your shoelaces or twist to clean your backside without acute and severe pain leaves you feeling hopeless. In the SAS I had both purpose and comrades. Alone in my room at home, I felt like I had neither. That can be the hardest battle we ever fight. It is more commonly called despair. That recovery was going to be just as big a mountain to climb as the physical one. What I didn’t realize was that it would be a mountain, the mountain, that would be at the heart of my recovery. Everest: the biggest, baddest mountain in the world.

Stewards of God’s Grace 1 PETER 4 Since therefore  z Christ suffered in the flesh, [1]  a arm yourselves with the same way of thinking, for  b whoever has suffered in the flesh  c has ceased from sin, 2 d so as to live for  e the rest of the time in the flesh  f no longer for human passions but  g for the will of God. 3For the time that is past  h suffices  i for doing what the Gentiles want to do, living in sensuality, passions, drunkenness, orgies, drinking parties, and lawless idolatry. 4With respect to this they are surprised when you do not join them in the same flood of  j debauchery, and  k they malign you; 5but they will give account to him who is ready  l to judge the living and the dead. 6For this is why  m the gospel was preached even to those who are dead, that though judged in the flesh the way people are, they might live in the spirit the way God does. 7 n The end of all things is at hand; therefore  o be self-controlled and sober-minded  p for the sake of your prayers. 8Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since  q love covers a multitude of sins. 9 r Show hospitality to one another without grumbling. 10 s As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another,  t as good stewards of God’s varied grace: 11whoever speaks, as one who speaks  u oracles of God; whoever serves, as one who serves  v by the strength that God supplies—in order that in everything  w God may be glorified through Jesus Christ.  x To him belong glory and  y dominion forever and ever. Amen.

How had the GDP growth cuckoo so successfully hijacked the economic nest? The answer can be traced back to the mid 1930s—as economists were just settling upon a goalless definition of their discipline—when the US Congress first commissioned economist Simon Kuznets to devise a measure of America’s national income. The calculation he made came to be known as Gross National Product and was based on the income generated worldwide by the nation’s residents. For the first time, thanks to Kuznets, it became possible to put a dollar value on America’s annual output and hence its income—and to compare it to the year before.

One private from the Parachute Regiment had passed Nobby every morning on his way from the married quarters. ‘Morning, sir!’ he would say. One day Nobby stopped him. ‘No need to keep calling me “sir” when we see each other every day,’ he told him. ‘My name’s Nobby.’ The following day the soldier passed the RSM as usual. ‘Morning, Nobby,’ he said. ‘You’re under arrest for insubordination!’ said Mr Arnold.

Tuose puslapiuose tvinksi toks gyvas laikmečio pul­sas, kad mūsų širdyse kyla tikrumo alkis, gyvenimo ir tegu netobulo jo realizavimo geismas. Tačiau gyvenimas lieka ta­rytum už stiklo – nutolęs – viskas lyg jau ne mūsų, lyg žvelg­tum pro traukinio langą.

paperback novel of the escapist kind, SAS action stuff where men were men and women mattresses.

Mayne never told anyone else about his secret attempt to find the remains of his beloved friend, for that would have revealed the other, gentler side to Paddy Mayne, and a hidden broken heart.

SAs must find a balance between giving users full access and restricting them. This balance affects the rate at which the OS will decay. A wise person once said, “To err is human; to really screw up requires the root password.

Money is a ghost haunting the world." "Ontological terrorism" "Sounds like somebody's had a good old rattle at the bars of your cage. What's up?" "They're all the same, these macho men. Show them a cock in a frock and they're in there like the SAS.

goloubtchika...

[Excerpt from Brereton Report] We embarked on this Inquiry with the hope that we would be able to report that the rumours of war crimes were without substance. None of us desired the outcome to which we have come. We are all diminished by it.

And harder economic times strained civic trust. As the U.S. growth rate started to slow in the 1970s—as incomes then stagnated and good jobs declined for those without a college degree, as parents started worrying about their kids doing at least as well as they had done—the scope of people’s concerns narrowed. We became more sensitive to the possibility that someone else was getting something we weren’t and more receptive to the notion that the government couldn’t be trusted to be fair. Promoting that story—a story that fed not trust but resentment—had come to define the modern Republican Party.

come

Working as the last man on the ground was like shepherding cats through a sandstorm.

Is this my time? Not here. I want to go home. I should be so lucky. And we’re back there now, the place where it all started.

Breggie de Kok had now brought herself to a high state of adrenalin powered tension and was ready to kill.

and the regimental piper’s earlier composition was renamed Colonel

the regimental piper’s earlier composition was renamed Colonel Pedder.

diesel fumes

A famous Russian Field Marshal and opponent of Napoleon, Count Alexander V. Suvorov (1729–1800), once said, ‘Train hard and fight easy.’ It has become a famous Army quotation, often repeated. He got it spot on, especially where the SAS is concerned.

The American Airborne Forces had truly lived up to their motto, which was emblazoned in big letters over their camp gates: STRAC, meaning ‘Skilled, Tough and Ready Around the Clock.’ To some wags in the SAS this was interpreted as ‘Shit, The Russians Are Coming!’ However, for many years afterwards in the SAS to be ‘strac’ meant you were ready. [Concerning SAS training at Fort Bragg in 1962.]

And when [Sergeant Lawrie] Fraser prepared his patrol report, under the heading ‘Condition of Patrol’, he wrote: ‘A little older’.

Born of the Desert.