Mental Fitness

15 Rules to Strengthen Your Body and Mind

Ant Middleton

• Editorial: HarperCollins
• Año: 2021
• ISBN:
  9780008472306
• Categoría: Historia
• Categoría: Biografías históricas

CHAPTER 1

BE THE ULTIMATE SOLDIER

Unite your body and mind.

At first the village was just a beige smudge in the far distance. After a couple more minutes, as our Chinook hauled us closer, I was able to see more detail. The settlement was a huddle of dusty brick and mud surrounded by green rice fields. A brackish-looking river snaked along its southern edge. If I looked carefully, I could make out beaten-up trucks trundling around the village’s perimeter and tiny figures darting through its streets. Some of the figures were pushing barrows stacked with goods, others were leading donkeys. None of them knew what was coming.

Above all of this, the sun was climbing into a vivid blue sky that was broken up here and there by ragged shreds of cloud. I shaded my eyes with my hand for a second, tried to block out the insistent scream of the helicopter’s engines and thought about what had brought a group of Royal Marines to a seemingly unremarkable settlement in a remote part of Afghanistan.

For weeks our intelligence guys had been picking up rumours of strange activity. At first it was just a rumble or two, but gradually a fuller picture had emerged. We learned from village elders – who were speaking in confidence – that the inhabitants were petrified. This was enough to tell us that something shady was going on. There was talk of narcotics, a training school for the insurgents, IED facilitators. And we were told that the Taliban were storing all sorts of illicit equipment, using the village as a centre for dishing out improvised explosive device components and weapons. The whole circus in just one village.

That’s what these fuckers did. Whatever claims they might have made about their desire to protect ordinary Afghans from the foreign infidels who had come to their country in the aftermath of 9/11, they were parasites. They didn’t give two shits about the locals. They didn’t care how much danger they exposed these ordinary people to or how much disruption they inflicted on lives that were already precarious and tough.

We did care. We genuinely believed that we had a responsibility to do everything we could to keep them safe. Otherwise, what was the point of us being here at all? We also knew that we had to stamp out the Taliban wherever they appeared. This meant we had to walk a thin line. The insurgents took up residence in these sorts of settlements precisely because they knew that we were bound by our own rules of engagement. While we had a duty to preserve life, and acted accordingly, they would use the farmers and traders and wives and kids who lived there as both a disguise and a human shield. I found that despicable.

The simplest thing for us to have done would have been to blow the place to pieces and then search through the wreckage for clues. The Americans would have blitzed up the whole fucking village, and they’d have felt justified doing that. They’d point to all the weapons and explosives that were allegedly being cached, and that would be enough for them to ruin the livelihoods of all of the other poor sods who were just trying to get on with things. There would be carnage, and anyone or anything that got in the way would be collateral damage. Bad luck for them. But that wasn’t how we wanted to conduct our business. Instead, the powers that be had decided to send a detachment of Royal Marines to find out exactly what was going on. We were there to ask questions and find out what was going on. Using force would be a last resort.

The plan was that we’d be landing during the day on the outskirts of the village – where the compounds met the scrub and dust of the desert – then make our way into the village and have a dig around. We weren’t going in expecting a vicious firefight, but we didn’t know exactly what lay in store for us. Perhaps the Taliban had prepared a trap. Perhaps they wanted to draw us into the village’s narrow, winding streets then gun us down. Perhaps one of them was waiting, his finger hovering over the button of a detonator, ready to set off one of their murderous IEDs and blow us into bloody tatters the second we walked past. It didn’t pay to dwell too long on those thoughts.

And whatever the elders might have said to our intelligence officers, we couldn’t be sure whether we’d get a friendly reception from the villagers. Any given individual we approached would be aware that the Taliban were probably watching our interaction with them. The wrong move could see them and their family punished. So the stakes were high, and the demands on our concentration and application immense. We had to be firm, but not aggressive; friendly, but vigilant. Even assuming that what we’d been told about insurgent activity was true, it was unlikely that we’d catch anybody red-handed – the Taliban had an incredible ability to just melt away at the slightest sign of danger. But if we did everything properly, and located what we’d been told was there, then we’d be able to seize enough of their gear to seriously disrupt their operations.

As we began our descent, we all went through the routines that had become second nature to all of us over the course of the tour: checking weapons, making sure that all the straps on our Bergens were tight; exchanging glances with the guys sitting near us to make sure they were ok. I could feel that increasingly familiar prickle of adrenaline along my spine: my body telling me that it was prepared for whatever was about to unfold. I knew that we were ready for our encounter with the villagers. The question was, were they?

A Boeing CH-47 Chinook is 30 metres long, can weigh up to 15,000 kg and has two 4,733 hp engines. It’s so loud that when one approaches it can feel as if it’s personally attacking your eardrums and it kicks up so much dust as it comes down to land that you could be forgiven for feeling you’ve been caught in a sandstorm. Which is all an elaborate way of saying that if you’re an Afghan farmer, and a pair of Chinooks explode unannounced out of the sky when you’ve barely finished your breakfast, then it can really ruin your morning.

One moment the villagers had been serenely going about their business, the next they erupted into a maelstrom of chaotic movement and panic. It was as if somebody had kicked over an ants’ nest. People and animals were swarming everywhere. We were only there for the tiny percentage of the village’s inhabitants who were up to no good, but they all responded as if their lives were in immediate danger. The chaos only intensified once we’d leapt out of the helicopter and started to approach the settlement’s outer limits. Vehicles veered around wildly as their drivers desperately tried to escape, and occasionally they’d crash into each other. They’d whizz past you, trying to get their clapped-out bangers to jump across rivers, but instead of soaring to the other side they dribbled to a stop in the mud of the river’s bank. Their occupants would then leap out and all start running in different directions. I’d never seen anything like it.

Amid that destruction derby, one thing was clear: somebody was up to something. And while everybody in the village almost certainly knew what was happening and who was responsible, they obviously didn’t have any intention of sticking around long enough for us to ask them about it. It wasn’t hard to tell that the hardened fighters had already been and gone. They’d left it to the hardened criminals operating in the village to sell all the weapons and drugs. These weren’t the fanatics willing to die for the cause. They just wanted to earn a living and were sufficiently desperate that they didn’t care too much about how they went about it.

Still, the villagers had been intimidated. They felt caught between the Taliban and us, who’d arrived tooled up and clanking around in 30 kg worth of kit. God knows what horror stories they’d already been told about the British armed forces – the circumstances didn’t exactly lend themselves to making a friendly first impression. It can be hard to relate to a guy carrying a fully loaded assault rifle, especially when he’s just jumped out of an intimidatingly large helicopter and is marching directly into the village of your birth.

We started to walk further into the settlement, following a horde of its panicked residents to the centre, where the market was located. Hundreds of people milled about the stalls, their eyes vivid with terror. There were so many of them moving so fast that I found it impossible to focus on any one individual. My ears were filled with screams, shouted instructions in Pashtun, and the constant crash and bang of what seemed like a thousand concussive collisions. Every second there was another disturbance, another demand on my attention. I’d catch an unusual movement out of the corner of my eye and whip my head round to get a better look. Who the fuck is that? At precisely the same time there’d be a sharp crack. What the fuck is that?

All the time I was making sure I remained alert for potential danger – scanning the buildings that surrounded the market. What was in them? Could I see any suspicious movement? Did any of them offer cover in case things turned nasty? When somebody moved into my field of vision I’d be asking myself: is there anything different about them? I was watching for that little glitch in the pattern telling me that something was up. The biggest threats are often the less obvious ones. You’re not looking for a gun. What you need to be aware of are the far more subtle things: the way somebody holds their body or even the way they move. If one guy is calm, standing by a doorway, while everybody else is in a mad rush, then he’s probably planning trouble.

My senses were completely overwhelmed. It felt as if every single neuron in my brain was firing. There was too much noise, too much chaos. The Afghans were behaving like they’d been told that the world was going to explode in the next few minutes, and I was just trying to work out what the fuck was going on.

I sucked in a few deep breaths, just to try to slow things down. Then I started another routine, just as familiar to me now as the methodical checks on my weapons I’d made in the final seconds before we touched down. I tried to break down my emotional state. What was I feeling? Why was I feeling that way? What had triggered it? I looked around me: children, women, elderly villagers. They were still staring at me with horror. They could see the way my assault rifle was cradled in my arms. There was a palpable sense of anxiety all around me.

Situations like this push you right to the edge. I’d been trained to respond to threats with overwhelming force. But if your mindset is one of constant red alert, of ‘kill every fucker if they even look like they’re a threat’, then you’re going to find it very difficult not to pull the trigger when you’re surprised by a bunch of kids bursting into your field of vision.

I knew I couldn’t let my physicality run away with itself. This wasn’t a time for ‘drills, drills, drills’. I had to think hard about what the Afghanis who surrounded me were thinking and feeling.

Suddenly I realised that my adrenaline had ebbed away. All that was left was the steady, calming sound of my own breathing. At that moment I felt a really deep connection with everyone around me. It was like I actually understood them, and because of that was responsible for them. I had this futile desire to fix all of their problems there and then.

I was disarmed: I had to respond to the environment as it actually was, not the one I’d expected. These people needed reassurance; they needed to know that I wasn’t going to do anything rash. They needed to know I wasn’t going to hurt them.

After a second or two, I glanced down and realised that my weapon was hanging limply by my side.

After twenty minutes or so the crowds had calmed down and we could get on with what we had been sent to do. We went systematically from door to door, back to doing our drills. It was midday now and the sun was high in the sky, having long since burned off the wispy clouds we’d seen earlier. We’d become used to brutal heat in the months we’d been out here, but this was something else. On top of that, the work was punishing. Hard, physical labour, together with the mental toll from having to remain vigilant. It felt as if every part of our bodies and minds was being stretched. I could see some of the other lads were faltering and was grateful once again for the extra training I’d been doing to get myself into shape for my first run at Special Forces Selection, which I was aiming to attempt at the end of the year. My limbs were aching, and yet I still felt sharp.

We found weapons: a murderous tangle of AK-47s, RPGs and Dushkas, the Soviet-era heavy machine guns that the Taliban favoured. There were explosives and detonators. And there was shitloads of money, including wads and wads of cash in the cars that had been trying to get away. It was obvious that they’d been drug smugglers. One vehicle was in an irrigation ditch. Another had smashed into the little bridge that went over the river. How anybody got out of it I don’t know.

We hauled the lot into a little outhouse, rigged it up to fuck and blew it to smithereens. That felt good. Every piece of ammo we destroyed was one less bullet that could be fired at our comrades, one less explosive to blow them up. My view even then was that we didn’t go to war to kill, we were there to stop bad guys from taking life. By that measure, today had been a huge success.

We could still see the piles of enemy gear and weapons we’d exploded burning fiercely as our Chinook climbed ever higher above the village. I surrendered to a wave of relief. Finally the unrelenting tension of the last few hours slackened and I could try to process what we’d experienced. The operation had required such an unusual set of skills, demanding so much from both body and mind.

I couldn’t help thinking, Wow, this is different.

Your body gets you to the battlefield but it’s your mind that wins the fight.

The frantic events of that day made me realise for the first time that so much of my strength came from the ways in which my mind and body were connected.

My high level of fitness meant that I had the energy I needed to stay alert. My sense of connection with my environment meant that although the rational, logical part of my brain was telling me, ‘Remember that your target is in that building over there,’ there was another part of me that knew that the guy I’d clocked out of the corner of my eye needed my attention first. The control I had over my emotions meant that I didn’t just surrender to my body and let my training take over; when I needed to I could override the physical impulses that had been drilled into me so many times that they had almost become automatic, like breathing.

I was able to keep my head during those tense moments in the village square because I was in sync with myself. And when you’re in sync with yourself, your actions will follow. When things go wrong in war it’s often because there’s too big a gap between the way people think and the way they act. The same is true of your everyday existence. It’s when your mental and physical sides are out of whack that you feel lost, have that sense that you’re failing to reach your potential or just end up making the same bad decision over and over again.

In the months and years that followed I’ve thought about this subject more and more. I believe that most people are far too quick to disconnect body and mind. We’ve been brought up to think that they’re somehow separate. This belief is present even in the way we talk and think. We say, ‘I have a body.’ No, we are a body. The mind is the body. It just happens to be its sharpest tool.

Every aspect of our bodies and minds was designed to work in harmony with all the other parts. On the most basic level they’re reliant on each other. Without my brain, my heart wouldn’t carry on beating. Without my lungs, my brain wouldn’t have the oxygen it needs to function.

If you’re physically fit and psychologically strong, and the two elements are in sync, you’re in a great place. But if one suffers it will bring the other down. The body is like a kickstarter for the brain. Its condition has a massive impact on the state of your mind. If you’re obese and are struggling with your physical health, there’s no way your mental health won’t suffer too. That’s why I look after myself. That’s why I eat well, get enough sleep and make sure I take exercise.

But if you’ve got a body like a Greek god and haven’t spent any time building your mental fitness, you’ll find that that your ability to explore the outer limits of your physical potential will be severely limited. The mind is always going to be the thing that tips the scale. It’s the driving force of the whole organism. If you give up mentally, I guarantee the rest of your body will follow very fucking quickly. But if your muscles give up and your mind remains strong, you’ll probably find that you can tap into reserves of energy you didn’t realise you had. It’s having the right mentality that’s going to get you through those last few miles of a marathon or that brutal shift at work.

The Special Forces understand this implicitly. They need soldiers who can combine extreme physical and mental strength. Almost every challenge that’s thrown at you on Selection is designed to test both your body and your mind to their absolute limit – whether that’s the punishing yomps of the mountain stage or the sadistic games that ...

Índice

• Title Page
• Copyright
• Note to Readers
• Dedication
• Contents
• CHAPTER 1: BE THE ULTIMATE SOLDIER
• CHAPTER 2: BUILD A SOLID FOUNDATION OF INNER CONFIDENCE
• CHAPTER 3: BE AUTHENTIC
• CHAPTER 4: LIVE YOUR LIFE RIGHT
• CHAPTER 5: CENTRE YOUR LIFE AROUND YOUR FAMILY
• CHAPTER 6: EMBRACE FAILURE
• CHAPTER 7: DON’T TELL LIES
• CHAPTER 8: STOP WORRYING ABOUT THE FUTURE
• CHAPTER 9: LEARN TO LOVE YOUR BODY
• CHAPTER 10: MAKE STRONG CONNECTIONS
• CHAPTER 11: CONTROL YOUR EMOTIONS, DON’T LET THEM CONTROL YOU
• CHAPTER 12: HARD TIMES DON’T LAST, HARD MEN DO
• CHAPTER 13: YOU CAN BREAK THROUGH THE PAIN BARRIER
• CHAPTER 14: LEARN TO SAY NO
• CHAPTER 15: LOOK AFTER YOUR BEARD
• Acknowledgements
• By the Same Author
• About the Publisher