The Sniper Mind by David Amerland

Author:David Amerland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press

I developed a mechanism so that whatever mistakes I made, I would bounce straight back. Whatever was happening off the pitch, I could put it to one side and maintain my form. Call it mental resilience or a strong mind, but that is what we mean when we talk about experience in a football team.

—GARY NEVILLE, DAILY MAIL INTERVIEW

7

Fortitude: Build Bulwarks Against Mental Fatigue, Uncertainty, and Fear with the Navy SEALs Method

It was cold. There was snow and ice everywhere and I’d spent the last eight hours going through the forest, trying to be as quiet as possible which was not easy as I was wearing specially issued snowshoes. I knew there was enemy all around, looking for me, but their position was unspecified. I was trying to stay low, hoping to get eyes on them first. My first night in the forest was a disaster. I was trying to use what I know, keep myself warm by burrowing deep into the snow, carving a small igloo for myself. But I had obviously done a poor job of hiding my tracks or hiding my sleeping place. I woke up to yelling voices and the sound of guns being cocked. I tried to come out with my hands up, my brain trying to get a sense of what was happening, when someone slapped me hard on the back, sent me sprawling to the ground. My hands were quickly zip-tied behind my back and a hood was forced over my head. For good measure I also got a punch to the solar plexus.

I knew I was caught.

I was pushed onto the back of a truck and driven for a long time. Mentally, I was trying to count the left turns we took so I could have a bearing on the place they were taking me, but one of my captors must have sensed what I was doing. He used the butt of his gun against my ribs. It was not a serious blow but it hurt like hell and for a while my head was just full of pain. My sense of direction completely lost.

When the truck stopped, they unloaded me by kicking me off the back of the truck. Someone took the hood off and that’s when I saw the other members of my squad. We’d all been captured. They too were squinting against the sudden light and they all looked roughed up.

We were all led to individual cells, blindfolded. I was made to sit on a box about a foot or so high. My hands were placed along my legs, palms up. “Move and you will get shot.” A few hours into this uncomfortable position and the pain was beginning to make itself felt. My captor came back in, removed my blindfold, and he pointed to a tin can lined with a plastic bag in the corner and explained that it was for my toilet needs, but I had to ask permission. I noticed he had a thick accent, which I could only half-guess as Syrian.

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