ONE

IT WAS JUNE of 1962. My wife, two daughters, and I arrived in Southampton, England. The instructions I had received in Fort Bragg requested that my family and I take a bus to London and, after checking into a hotel, to call the headquarters of the Special Air Service (SAS) and receive further information about where and when to report to the unit.

The dock was full of activity; but somehow, amongst the press of debarking passengers and the waiting crowd of homecoming well-wishers, I was found and greeted by an American major. He introduced himself as Bob Kingston and told me he had just completed a year attachment to the British Parachute Regiment. He’d come down to the pier to tell me how useful he thought I’d find my tour with the SAS. I tried to be polite and hear everything he had to say, but my mind was on collecting my luggage, clearing customs, and getting Katherine and the girls London-bound.

Settled into the bus, somewhere beyond the cathedral town of Winchester, I had a chance to think about what Major Kingston had told me. He’d been the second person to rave about the Special Air Service. The first had been Col. I. A. “Boppy” Edwards, the CO of the 7th Special Forces Group.

A few years earlier. Colonel Edwards had gotten together with an SAS officer, Lt. Col. John Woodhouse, and between them they had shaped an exchange program between the two elite units. The Brits would send the U.S. Army Special Forces an officer and a noncommissioned officer; and our Green Berets would reciprocate. A Sergeant Rozniak and I got into the program in 1962. We were selected to spend a year training with the 22 Special Air Service Regiment.

I knew a little about the SAS. I knew that it shared with the Brigade of Guards a deep respect for quality and battle discipline, but unlike the Guards it had little respect for drill and uniform, in part because it approached warfare in an entirely unorthodox manner. During World War II, in collaboration with the Long Range Desert Group, the First SAS Regiment had conducted raids behind Rommel’s lines in the Western Desert on Benghazi, Tobruk, and Jalo. Then after the war, throughout the fifties, the unit had fought with distinction in Malaya. Working in small unit formations, some as small as 4-man patrols, the SAS had penetrated deeply into the Malayan jungle and there had hunted down, fought, and helped defeat a large, well-armed Communist guerrilla force. From this long campaign the Special Air Service had emerged with a reputation as perhaps the free world’s finest counterterrorist unit.

This thumbnail historical sketch was all I knew. I had no idea how they assessed, selected, and trained their soldiers. Overflowing with the cockiness of youth, I was a hotshot Green Beret captain with Special Operations experience. I’d served a tour two years earlier in Laos. Our people in Fort Bragg had led me to believe I would lend to the Brits special skills and training methods we Yanks had learned. At the same time, I expected to pass along to our community information from the SAS. It didn’t always work out that way—certainly not in my case.

In London, the adjutant of headquarters SAS, Maj. C. E. “Dare” Newell, told me he would drive us Monday to the Herefordshire home of the 22 Special Air Service Regiment, Bradbury Lines. Early Monday morning, Major Newell came by and picked us up. It was a hot summer’s day, and the green English countryside, especially west of Oxford, looked lush. Toward midafternoon we drove into Bradbury Lines.

It was obvious the regiment had gone to a lot of trouble in making preparations to receive us. Several of the officers and their wives were waiting for us at our new quarters, which were situated directly across the street from the officers’ mess. Our rooms were completely furnished, and once we had unloaded our luggage from Major Newell’s auto, the wives took Katherine and the girls on a tour of the town that would be their home for the next year.

I felt very comfortable in these new surroundings, even if I was surrounded by men from Cornwall and Wales, Liverpool and Glasgow, whose various brogues, accents, and dialects I would have to learn. I expect they had as much trouble with my Georgia drawl.

After the second day, biting at the bit, I was called up to the regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson.

Once the pleasantries were concluded, I was informed I would be going to A Squadron. This was disappointing. I had hoped I would go to D Squadron. It was commanded by a big redheaded Scotsman named Harry Thompson, who had been to the States and understood Americans. In the short time I’d been in Bradbury Lines I’d learned that Thompson was part of the team that had so successfully dealt with the CTs (Communist Terrorists) in Malaya.

A Squadron was commanded by Maj. Peter Walter. A small man and a very sharp dresser, he perceived himself—and was in fact—quite a ladies’ man. He’d come up through the SAS ranks, beginning as a sergeant during the Emergency. Walter was a very hard man who had the reputation of being physically and mentally tough. He also wanted you to think he was without scruples. His nickname was “the Rat.” At first I wasn’t very comfortable with him.

There were four troops in A Squadron, and I would command Three Troop. I was taken by Major Walter to A Squadron Headquarters where I was introduced to my temporary troop sergeant, “Gypsy” Smith. Sergeant Smith then escorted me to Three Troop’s billets.

Although the camp was World War II vintage, it showed none of its age. Bradbury Lines was, in fact, growing old graciously. The grounds and gardens were meticulously maintained by a crew of gardeners. The barracks had been recently painted on the outside a dazzling white with blue trim.

Straight lines, square corners, yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full. That’s what I’d been taught. That’s what I knew. I was a captain in the United States Army. Straight lines. Square corners. Yes, sir! No, sir! Three bags full!

I walked into Three Troop’s wooden barracks. The long room was a mess. It was worn and dirty. Rucksacks (called Bergens) were strewn everywhere. Beds were unkempt, uniforms scruffy. It reminded me more of a football locker room than an army barracks. Two of the troopers—I never learned if it was done for my benefit or not—were brewing tea on the floor in the middle of the room.

I commented on the state of the room and on the men. I added, “What we need to do is get this area mopped down, the equipment cleaned, straightened, and stored, and the tea brewed outside.” Two troopers, Scott and Larson, spoke up at once. “No, sir. That’s not what we want to do. Otherwise, we might as well go back to our regular regiments. One of the reasons we volunteered for the SAS was so we wouldn’t have to worry about the unimportant things.” I didn’t understand that. I thought I’d been given a group of roughnecks to command. Also, I suspected the troops were not comfortable with me. Who was this bloody Yank who didn’t understand at all about freebooting behavior in a special operations unit? But I felt I had to bring the troop into line. My job, as I saw it, was to get them dressed smartly and to make parade soldiers out of them. Yes, sir! That was my job. I went home that night and told Katherine I felt I might not be able to handle this.

Peter Walter, my squadron commander, would normally have an officers’ call at the end of each day. We’d go into his office and talk about the day. I found that whenever one of the officers addressed Major Walter he’d use his first name, and Major Walter, at his turn, would use the troop commander’s first name. When I asked a question, I would address my commanding officer as Major Walter. This went on for several days and finally Major Walter called me in. “Let me explain the form.” In a very precise and penetrating voice he told me that in the SAS system when an officer was in the midst of troopers or standing in a formation with what the Brits call ORs (Other Ranks), noncommissioned officers and enlisted men, they addressed each other using their ranks. “But, when we’re in a room like this and there are just officers present it’s always on a first-name basis. And that’s the way I want it to be. Do you understand?” And I said, “Yes, sir!” “There you go again,” he replied. That really made me uncomfortable.

I couldn’t make heads or tails of this situation. The officers were so professional, so well read, so articulate, so experienced. Why were they serving with this organization of nonregimented and apparently poorly disciplined troops? The troops resembled no military organization I had ever known. I’m sure if I had been put in with a unit of the Coldstream Guards or the Household Cavalry I would have known what to expect. But the 22 Special Air Service Regiment! Well, this was too different, and for me the impact was too soon. I was adrift in a world that I thought I knew. I couldn’t predict what would happen next in any given situation. Everything I’d been taught about soldiering, been trained to believe, was turned upside down.

I’d been in camp about ten days when I was told a sketch map exercise would be conducted. I was glad about this because I’d get an opportunity to observe the squadron in action.

Peter Walter told me I’d accompany Sergeant Major Ross, who would design and formulate the exercise. Life was full of surprises. In the American military system officers usually ran everything. But this was Britain. Major Walter jumped into his flashy maroon Jaguar and took off for London, leaving Sergeant Major Ross and two or three other sergeants and me to go down to Wales, into the barren and harsh Brecon Beacons.

This exercise would test the soldier on his ability to navigate over very difficult terrain using only a compass and a simple sketch map. Ross, a large man with blond hair, was not particularly liked by the officers and most of the ORs. He was a Scot, dour and introspective, and his nickname was “Gloom.” I found him very methodical and, not surprisingly, very professional. He and the other NCOs selected the proper area to run the exercise; it was quite difficult, and they discussed realistically how each trooper could solve the terrain problems they were setting up. Their aim was not to hand a soldier a complete, one-inch-to-the-mile military map, but rather a small sketch showing only major terrain features. A true magnetic north was also drawn in. To me this was realistic as a field exercise. We hadn’t done much of this at Fort Bragg.

After we’d spent two days laying out this exercise, the squadron drove up in several 3-ton trucks. Major Walter and the other officers appeared and, as the sun went down, Peter told Sergeant Major Ross to get on with it.

After last light, as each trooper was dropped off, he was handed a sketch and told to get from where he was to somewhere else in a certain amount of time. I went on each of these briefings, holding Sergeant Major Ross’s torch and clipboard. The instructions were very clear but very short. I remembered that if I were back in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, I’d be an hour answering questions. Sergeant Major Ross did not tolerate any questions. “This is your task. You are here and this is where your rendezvous point will be tomorrow morning and you bloody well better get hopping.” That was it. The soldier disappeared into the night.

What I hadn’t realized until the briefings was that each man had only a certain amount of time to get from one point to another. The men, if they were to make their rendezvous points, would have to run most of the night—while carrying heavy Bergens and individual weapons.

The next morning, when we began to gather up the men, we found them coming in pretty well shattered. Most were wringing wet. I looked again at the routes, remeasured the distances. Holy smokes, I thought, they’ve really covered some ground! If a trooper was late in arriving at his RV (rendezvous), he was not picked up that day and had to wait until the next morning, which meant there would be no rations for him that day. If a man not only missed his rendezvous but also got totally lost, he was severely punished. Peter Walter had him taken down to the nearest river, a rope was tied to his waist and he was thrown in with all of his gear, including sleeping bag. For the rest of the exercise, another day or two, this poor bloke stayed wet, day and night. That was the cost for not keeping up. I thought, “God, this is what we ought to do at home.”

Little by little, I began to see the picture. The squadron was not playing games. They were deadly serious. They’d had a lot of experience, going back to World War II, whereas our own Army Special Forces hadn’t actually been established until 1954. The Brits had made lots of mistakes, but they’d learned from them. We Americans had a ways to go.

A week later my free ride ended. I learned that the CO, Peter Walter, was up in Lincolnshire setting up an exercise similar to the one Sergeant Major Ross had run in Wales. This time, in Sherwood Forest, we would, along with an extended timed march, reconnoiter an objective and bring back information.

The first night we made a long forced march in groups of twos and threes. I selected two chaps, the very two who had been brewing tea on the barracks floor a few weeks before, Lance Corporals Scott and Larson. Larson was a proud Scotsman. He was never afraid to speak his mind and usually he had something worthwhile to say. Scott spoke with a thick Irish brogue and had a wonderful sense of humor. I’d learned to respect them and they now appeared to be comfortable with me. We made the march and we made the time. But my feet were a mess. My soles were covered with large blisters. In Sherwood Forest I got my nickname—Blisters.

The next afternoon we were given a forced point-to-point march, with the option of going in teams or going alone. Everyone chose to go alone. I studied the map all afternoon, memorizing my route. I said to myself, I’ve been to Ranger School and I’m a big boy. I’ll be able to handle this if my feet’ll hang in there. My feet were in terrible shape.

I started after last light. It was a tough go; the forest was dense and the tracks poorly marked. About 2:00 in the morning, wringing wet, hurt and tired, moving through a particularly thick area, I stepped off into a hole about six feet deep. I fell to the bottom in a heap. I sat for a while smoking a cigarette. I was running against time, and I didn’t want to be embarrassed. Jesus Christ, I thought, you’re all alone. What in the hell are you doing sitting here, boy? I got my Bergen off and by leaning it against the side of the pit I was able to climb out. I pressed on. My feet were bleeding by now and it was very painful for me to move. By first light I’d reached the rendezvous point. I wasn’t the first man in. I wasn’t the last man in. I was in what you’d call the lower third of the class.

That evening we went down to one of the pubs and drank a lot of warm beer. Although it hurt to walk, I walked anyway. I was too proud not to. Even the beer that night tasted good.

After we got back to Hereford, a day passed uneventfully. Then the regimental CO, Colonel Wilson, called me in. “You’ve been wearing that odd-looking American-made green beret around the area. We’d like you to wear a proper beret, the one with the SAS regimental symbol on it.”