That time I accidentally joined the SAS

OK, so I didn’t literally join the SAS, although I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s their loss. But here in Titsville, strange things happen. And this strange thing began in an office in Yorkshire. My job at the time was managing anti-social behaviour on housing estates, which if you don’t know what that is, imagine wandering into the world of Mad Max with a clipboard. So ASB is, in itself, is a strange profession. No one dreams of this as a career. It’s one of those things that you sort of slide into when you should be doing something useful. That, and it pays more, because it’s shit.

If you want to know how shit it is, as a little aside I will recount a post-smoking ban conversation outside a pub with two soldiers who were on leave, having just returned from Afghanistan. After half a cigarette’s worth of jovial conversation they asked what I did for a living. I told them. I have to say that their response, which was along the lines of, “oh my God, I couldn’t do your job,” stayed with me. In fact some years later was cited as one of my reason for leaving.

But I digress. So, this was my job, and as part of that job we were considering installing CCTV in some of the areas where we had a lot of problems with crime and general twatery. As you may or may not know there is a lot of legislation around the use of surveillance equipment, so I was not surprised when my manager sidled up to my desk and asked me if I wanted to go on a course.

“It’s a course about surveillance. Something to do with CCTV, that sort of thing,” he mumbled, because he was concentrating on something else.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I mumbled, because I was concentrating on something else.

Three months later I received the joining pack by email and promptly ignored it until about two days before I was due to attend. When I clicked on it, I was expecting it to be half a day in a hired training room, with a man called Barry who was ex police, telling us about RIPA legislation and frightening us to death with the consequences of not following it. A quick lunch of cheese baps and some soggy crisps, ten minutes of Q&A and home before teatime.

But that is not what was in front of me. Because this course, the course I had been booked onto by my boss, was two days in a wood in Hereford with and ex-SAS soldier called Lee, being taught covert surveillance, aka spying. As in…yeah, that’s it, spying. I printed it off and took it to my boss, a brusque, quintessential Yorkshire man who, although lovely in many ways, was not one to beat around the bush. He scanned the documents.

Boss – Bleedin’ hell, did I put you on that?

Me – You did.

Boss – …in a wood? With the SAS?

Me – Yes!

Boss – You’ll need your waterproofs.

Me – You don’t actually expect me to go on it?

He scanned to the bottom of the page to see how much he’d paid for it.

Boss - At that price, you fuckin’ well are going on it.

Me – But it’s your fault! You put me on it by mistake.

Boss – I did, you’re right. Don’t forget your wellies. Now fuck off, I’m busy.

I went home and told hubby, hoping for some sympathy. He said, “it’s like that time you joined MI5 in your lunch hour?”

He was referring to an online application for the first stage of recruitment which involved lots of scenario questions. I only did it because I was bored. The screen said I had passed and then the computer mysteriously shut down. I was half expecting an unregistered van and some men in black to come and bundle me into the back of it. “All that scenario stuff will come in handy” he said, “you know, in case you have to save something…like an embassy.”

And that is how I came to find myself in a wood in Hereford being taught how to be a spy.

The first morning was classroom based. I was introduced to my fellow students. They were all men. One of them, Jim, also worked in the same line as me. He was nearing retirement and nervous as a whippet in a lion’s den (because that’s what 20 years working in anti-social behaviour can do to a person). When he found out that we both worked in ASB he latched on to me like his life depended on it, which it probably did.

Two of the assembled students, Dave and Julian, were ‘private investigators’. I would have thought that covert surveillance was a pretty essential skill to have before you became a private investigator, a bit like knowing how to bake a loaf before opening a bakery, but hey, what do I know. Then there was Gerald, a bird watcher from Wales who just wanted to hang out, unseen, amongst his feathered friends, take photos and hopefully, not get arrested. Finally, there was Darren, cropped hair, tattooed head to foot, who wore full combat gear and looked like a serial killer. He said he was there “for the experience” which I interpreted as serial killer code for ‘I enjoying hiding in woods and murdering passing ramblers’. Jim looked terrified.

Our trainer, SAS Lee, introduced himself. He was a very lean and fit man in his early 40s who spoke with a surprisingly gentle voice, which was giving me vicar vibes rather than the ‘trained assassin’ experience that I was expecting. I was hoping, as he briefly ran through his qualifications and experience, to hear some fabulously gruesome SAS stories but, as one of the PI’s pointed out in a hushed whisper, “they’re not allowed to talk about it.” Lee was a good teacher. He was very precise with his instructions, but I got the feeling that he had expected his ‘recruits’ to have some rudimentary knowledge of what surveillance might entail, or be vaguely intelligent, or even just not be birdwatchers and serial killers. Sadly for Lee, he was stuck with us.

Our first job was to hide some small cameras in everyday household items like lamps and plant pots. Then we moved on to hiding them in woodland foliage, which was a bit like a Christmas wreath making class, only I would imagine, in real life situations it would probably involve a bowie knife rather than craft scissors and bows. Due to having small hands I grasped this quite quickly, but the men were struggling. It was like watching someone trying to sew a skirt hem with their feet. Poor twitterer, Gerald, couldn’t get the bunch of twigs to stick to the camera while Darren said, “this is all very well but where are we supposed to get Sellotape from when we are out on operations in the middle of nowhere?”

Lee gently explained that it was unlikely that Darren would find himself in a ‘Rambo’ situation so could probably just, y’know, take some from home. Darren pondered on this for a second then nodded, decisively, as if he had been given the gold code to initiate a nuclear launch. Thankfully, he refrained from saluting.

Once we had made our hidden camera bushes we were herded into a mini-bus and taken to a nearby wood. The next couple of hours saw us dangling from various trees as we learned what to check for before fixing them in place. “make sure the lens is clear of obstruction,” instructed Lee. This sent Jim into a panic and back up a ladder while moaning about his knees. “I’m having a word with management about this” he whispered to me when he came back down, “I only wanted to know if it was legal to film a cat shitting in a complainant’s garden.”

Luckily, we didn’t have to sleep in the wood and were transported back to a hotel where we bonded over a considerable amount of beer and a basket meal. It was necessary, even when part of your gang is a potential serial killer, simply because we had no idea where this thing was heading. The next day we found out.

We started bright and early, with mild hangovers. Lee led us on a trek through the woods, pointing out ‘good angles’ and potential hiding places. I wanted to ask how this would all work on a Council estate in Leeds, but I didn’t want to piss on his bonfire and most of the guys, apart from Jim and his poorly knees, were enjoying themselves. It was Autumn. The ground was soggy and covered in a thick carpet of wet leaves. The rain was relentless. Darren, who I think had wanted to immerse himself in the whole ‘Rambo’ experience, had come out without a waterproof, but eventually caved in and borrowed a pac-a-mac from Gerald.

We eventually reached our destination although it wasn’t obvious at first sight. We were at the edge of the wood and a few meters in front of us was a metal fence circling an industrial estate.

“Here we are.” Lee wasn’t a smiler, but he did have a chuckle at our blank faces. “Anyone see it?”

“Is it that fence?” said a PI.

“Nope.”

“Is it something covert?” asked Darren.

“I’d have thought that was obvious,” said Jim, who was getting more impatient the wetter he got.

Lee pointed at a mound of earth under a tree. At first sight it looked like a part of the forest, a natural pile of shrubbery. He moved us all closer and pulled back some branches and bushes to reveal an entrance. The mound was a hidey hole of some sort with an entrance so small you had to crawl into in on your stomach.

“Come on then, one at a time,” beamed Lee, “who wants to be first?”

I looked at the guy’s faces. The PI’s were rubbing their chins and looking at it like it was a used car they were not sure about buying. Gerald and Jim shuffled uncomfortably.

“If I get down there, I’ll never get back up,” said Gerald

“Me too, not with my knees,” said Jim.

“I might rip my pac-a-mac,” said Darren.

“That’s right, they’re only very thin,” said Jim and they nodded at each other in agreement.

The PI’s were still contemplating the sale. The silence was becoming uncomfortable.

As for me, I was terrified of spiders and bugs and from what I could guess, under those leaves and inside that…thing, that we were supposed to crawl into, would be thousands of them. I could see Lee’s smile starting to fade. But more than that, as the only woman I felt I had something to prove. I wasn’t sure what exactly, but I had to do this. For womankind. I would be SAS woman. Who dares wins and all that.

“I’ll have a go,” I said, like an idiot.

“Excellent,” said Lee. “Right, down you go, onto your stomach and pull yourself in. I’ll be right behind.”

“You won’t get paid a bonus for this you know,” said Jim as I heaved myself down into the forest mulch.

I closed my eyes in case I saw any bugs. This was not the time to let womankind down and start screaming. As instructed, I started elbowing myself into the hole. I had an awful moment where I wondered if my arse would get stuck. So much for girl power, imagine getting halfway in and having to be unplugged, two blokes on each leg. Good God, the indignity. Luckily, it was wide enough.

I had no idea what I was entering as it was pitch black. It smelled of fusty foliage, mouldy and damp, but surprisingly dry. It was like being face down in a smelly coffin. I could feel Lee clambering in behind me. A few seconds later a torch popped on and I got the first look at my surroundings. It was just big enough for the two of us to sit up, hunched and crossed legged, definitely not for the claustrophobic. Lee moved some branches slightly and revealed a hole where there was a clear view of the fence and industrial estate. He opened a box that I’d not noticed and handed me some binoculars. I looked at the fence. Nothing was happening, but then I don’t suppose it would, given that we were looking at an industrial estate and not a secret Government compound. I didn’t want to disappoint Lee, so I reported that the post van had just turned up at Drabble’s Printers. He didn’t seem that interested.

“You can live in here for up to two weeks with the right supplies,” said Lee enthusiastically.

“How do you eat?”

“Special ready meals. Not very appetising but manageable.”

“And how do you have a wee?”

“It’s easier for men” was all he said and I wasn’t going to ask about the other thing.

He explained how many times he had done covert surveillance and had to live in a thing like this. I was impressed and even started to forget about the spiders and bugs that were probably entering any gaps in my waterproofs. Despite it being very interesting, I wasn’t sure when I’d realistically need to build a SAS hidey hole to spy on my anti-social tenants. You don’t get a lot of social housing estates in woods. I was also pretty sure it would be illegal and that if the police were ever called I’d be the one getting arrested. Finally, my stint as an SAS soldier was over and I was allowed to scramble out.

“Anyone else?” asked Lee.

“Err… we’ve got to get on a train,” said a PI, as he gawped at my soil streaked face and matted hair.

Lee looked disappointed which made me feel better about climbing in the hidey hole, even though I was drenched and covered in mud. The others started shuffling around and looking at their watches. Lee gave up and we set off back. I don’t remember the trek or much of the rest of the day, which suggests we all survived, reasonably unscathed. Eventually we said goodbye in the car park and went our separate ways.

Back at the office my boss asked me how it had gone.

“It was great,” I said, “I learned fuck all about RIPA legislation, but I’m a master of disguise and a fully-qualified spy. I can turn myself into a tree, watch.” I made a tree shape with my arms, closed my eyes and sucked in my cheeks. “Bet you can’t even see me now, can you?”

He shook his head, said “for fuck’s sake…” and walked away. I didn’t leave it there though. For the next few years, every time he walked towards my desk, I’d make a tree shape and say, “I am not here. You cannot see me.” It never got old. Not for me, anyway. It was also useful when I was late or missing from a meeting or on holiday, as I’d just tell him I had been there all along, disguised as a tree. If he tried to argue with me I’d lean in, whisper, “prove it,” wink, and walk away. So, in the end it worked in my favour. It may have been pointless and it was not pleasant driving the five hours home, covered in bits of forest, but I got a couple of days out of the office, I got to see lovely Hereford and I got to torture my boss for the next 5 years.

So, Titvillians, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, OK, I know that’s not likely, but if you do, remember, every situation has an upside. Don’t be intimidated by the unknown, get your SAS knickers on and get out there. Who dares wins!

Until next time Titsvillians…

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Author’s note - My tales are based on true events. They are lifted from years of journals and written from my POV for the entertainment of the reader. Where consent is absent, names, places and details have been changed to protect anonymity.