Uncle Paul´s Cain 05 Page

By Paul Cummings

Selection 29/12/99

Cain slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Janet Woodman sleeping beside him, her long blond hair fanned out over the pillow. He looked down at her exposed full breasted torso and briefly considered waking her, but after the night they had spent, she needed her sleep. Moving silently on the balls of his feet, Cain collected up his clothing and left the bedroom. In the bathroom, he shaved, showered and dressed before creeping downstairs.

In the unfamiliar kitchen, Cain had to search for everything. Eventually he found a packet of All Bran in one cupboard. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to have any oats for making porridge, so Cain settled for some wholemeal toast accompanied by a cup of English Breakfast tea. He had just poured his second cup of tea and sat down again when Janet appeared at the kitchen door. Wrapped in a red and orange silky kimono, she looked as desirable as ever. Cain stood up.

"Good morning. I hope you don’t mind me making some toast." She smiled slyly.

"After last night, I don’t mind you doing anything here. I thought oriental men were supposed to be small down there. I don’t think I’ll walk properly for a week."

"I’m only half Japanese," Cain smiled, his Japanese confidence with sexual matters overcoming his English inhibitions. "Can I prepare you some breakfast?"

When Cain left, more than an hour later, he was starting to feel the effect of the night, and the morning. He fired the Land Cruiser Colorado up and pulled away from Janet’s small house. He pulled into Park Street then Bridge Street and High Street that made up the main through road in the village of Colnbrook, although through road was a misnomer as through traffic was banned under a local by-law. Half a mile later, he picked up the M4 at junction five. Being in a hurry, Cain turned left and powered along the M4 at ninety miles per hour. At Swindon he came off the motorway and headed up to Gloucester, arriving back in Hereford just after four. After checking that there was nothing urgent for him, an unnecessary precaution as his pager and mobile phone had both been silent, he skipped his plan to call into Lines to catch up with paperwork and took a vigorous workout in his dojo at home instead.

After two hours training, Cain took a long hot shower before dressing in a black silk kimono. Feeling very hungry now, he quickly cooked up a stir-fry of noodles and mixed vegetables. Ready for bed, he forced himself to do an hour’s work at his desk before finally allowing himself the luxury of eight hours sleep.

Curtis Hudson had been born in Brixton in the late seventies, too young to understand the race riots of the early eighties, but old enough to be influenced by them. By the time he was thirteen he was a regular visitor to Brixton Police Station for burglary, car theft and robbery. He had no respect for anyone or anything except his grandfather. Eventually the old man had enough and, desperate to get his grandson out of the gang life he was living, got him enrolled as a Young Soldier at sixteen. Hudson had a hard time in his early years in the army. The discipline was hard for him. The endemic racism he was mainly able to ignore, but resorting to violence when really pushed, as he often was as a Young Soldier. During a tour of Northern Ireland, just after his eighteenth birthday, he finally became accepted as one of the platoon. This was the defining moment in Curtis Hudson’s life. As he and his platoon realised he was actually a very good soldier; Hudson found somewhere he belonged. His discipline improved and he began to study for the first time in his life. At twenty-one he was rewarded with promotion to Corporal then at twenty-four to Sergeant, the first black Sergeant in the Royal Green Jackets. With his life now dedicated to the army, he sought out the highest level and so applied for selection to the SAS Regiment.

In sharp contrast to the time Cain had been having, Candidate Curtis Hudson had been having a hard time on Selection. Despite the harshness of his upbringing and the early suffering he underwent in the army, nothing had prepared him for Selection. Being a fit infantry sergeant he had expected to pass the early tests with ease, but he had been in for a shock. Although he had been able to make the first lorry back from each test, he had pushed himself to the limit on each run. The problem was that the Directing Staff, DS as they were called, often weren’t specific about how long you had for each run.

Now at the start of the fourth week of Selection, the dreaded Test Week, he was the only RGJ left. Three of his fellow RGJs had been binned for poor times and another for torn ankle ligaments that prevented him from continuing. The other two black candidates from other regiments had also been binned, so Hudson now felt alone again. This did not really worry him as he really wanted, needed, to get the sand beret with the winged dagger, but the injuries were piling up. His feet were a mess; every night he used a flame cleaned needle to burst the blisters before covering them with a plaster. The burns and welts on his back and shoulders were harder to deal with. Like all the other candidates he’d tried all sorts of things to make the army boots, candidates were not allowed to use their own boots, and bergens more comfortable. But still the sores came and opened up. The days were gone of following a DS’s advice and getting a couple of pints of Guinness and a bag of chips each night. Now, all he did, all they all did, was eat then sleep at the end of the day’s, or night’s, exercise.

The next few days passed with yet more candidates being given directions to Platform Four, a Regiment term for failing candidates as platform four is the platform at Hereford station for trains to London. Hudson somehow survived and started daring to believe he might survive the course and pass on to Continuation Training. That thought made him nervous; he’d put so much into this course and had never wanted anything so bad in his life. Deep in thought he made his way back to his bunk to prepare for the endurance test. Things were fine until he walked into the back of someone.

"Sorry," said Hudson. He looked at the man as he turned around. "Sir," he added quickly. Hudson knew an officer when he saw one. What a plonker he thought; to come so far then risk losing it all by walking into an SAS officer like a prick.

"That’s all right," replied the officer with a smile. "You’re on Selection?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, it’s nearly over now. Good luck with Endurance."

"Thank you sir" answered Hudson quickly as the officer turned and walked away. He had worked hard being the grey man on Selection, which everyone agreed was the best policy. Then he went and walked straight into an officer, on the day before the final endurance tab. Fuck!

At ten in the evening the candidates loaded into the truck for the drive to their final tab. Hudson was only vaguely comforted by not seeing the officer as they filed onto the truck. Swiftly, like the rest, he got into his sleeping bag and got his head down for some more, much needed, sleep.

The final tab was always the same, 60km in under 20 hours with 25kg bergen and 4kg training rifle, which had no handles or straps and had to be carried in the hands at all times. The route would take them over Pen-y-Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacons, and several other peaks.

The DS got everyone sorted out and started sending them off. For the first twenty minutes Hudson was suffering badly. He was cold, cramped and sore. He had just a tee shirt and trousers below his wind / water proof layer, so standing still or just starting was always unpleasant. Then he started to sweat and felt sticky and uncomfortable. Eventually he got his second wind and settled into a quick pace, aiming for around 4km an hour. The mind switched off and he just put one foot in front of the other.

With hardly a pause to read the map, he found the first checkpoint.

"Right, where are we on the map?" asked the DS. Hudson showed him. "You are going to 381520. Where is that?" Hudson pointed at the spot on the map. "And which direction are you heading off in?" Hudson got out his compass and took a reading. He pointed the way. "Then you’d better get going."

The sun coming up in the Brecons is a beautiful time, except for those on Selection, who have no time to think of such things. Hudson’s back was playing up again; the skin had obviously opened up again. No way was he going to give up for that. Not now. He trudged up yet another hill. Suddenly, out of nowhere, three men came steaming past. Hudson stumbled and fell with the shock.

Hudson looked up into the face of the officer he had walked into the afternoon before. Hudson felt drained. He was at the limit of his endurance and now he’d made a fool of himself twice in front of the same officer.

"Sorry about that," said Cain. "We should have given you some warning we were coming up behind you. Let me help you up." Cain stretched out a hand. As Hudson grasped it, he began to feel his strength return and he hauled himself up. He noticed that the others were all carrying large bergens and rifles too. "Well, we can’t stop and chat, we’ve all got some ground to cover. Gentlemen." With that he turned and carried on.

"Sir," replied the two men with him and stepped sharply off after him.

Hudson felt better than he had for hours. He checked his route and headed off to his next checkpoint.

Cain watched him go from the corner of his eye. It was not really cheating. After all, in Western eyes, energy transfer was not possible. Hudson would make a good trooper; Cain had felt that the night before when they met. Plus, it had been Cain’s fault that he was surprised and fell, so a little energy boost for him was fair recompense. Somehow, Cain now had to finish the tab. It was very hard to give energy, much easier to drain it from someone. Cain looked around at Corporal Sharpe and Bernie Hogg following. He smiled.

After four weeks, the leading group of candidates had started to establish an order for finishing the exercises. Hudson was surprised when he got in to find that he was ahead of a number of people he expected to beat him back. Almost instantly, he noticed a change in the DS. They seemed to be a little less detached. They told him to throw his bergen in the truck and get a tea from the Norwegian they had. Hudson was well pleased with his time of nineteen hours eleven minutes; he’d been hoping for around nineteen and a half hours. Although not in yet, he was suddenly aware that he had probably passed Selection and would be starting Continuation next week.

When the truck eventually arrived back at Stirling Lines, Hudson’s excitement and tension had worn off and he was ready to collapse into his bunk. Casually, Cain walked by. He’d been back a few hours, had time to shower and change.

"Good evening sergeant, I hear you had a good time today. Congratulations."

"Thank you sir," mumbled Hudson as Cain walked on. One of the DS was next to him, so Hudson asked who the officer was.

"That’s Major Cain. You leave him be."

"Ben Cain? The guy that won the VC?" The DS nodded. Hudson was surprised, he had read everything about the Regiment before he came, talked to everyone who had been for Selection or been in the Regiment. He had heard a few first hand stories of Cain. Somehow Hudson never expected to what he saw: an average sized man, around four inches shorter than his own six two. He had expected some sort of six four superman. He thought about the stupidity of making assumptions based on legend and became a better soldier for it.

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