Nobody ever said it was going to be easy. Wolf’s second attempt, the following winter, came perilously close to repeating the failure of his first when, during a forced march in full kit with a sixty-pound Bergen on his back and torrential rain making it all but impossible to see, he lost his footing in the rocks and tumbled a hundred feet down a gorge. In the fall, his rifle butt smacked him in the face, broke his nose and knocked out half his teeth. But this time the young Marine was not to be deterred, and would sooner die than fail again. By sheer force of will, he managed to drag himself out of the gorge and rejoin the march at double speed. He finished the endurance phase covered in blood and barely able to stand – one of just nineteen men out of over two hundred who’d shown enough grit to make it to the end.

Several months later, having battered his way through the rigours of Jungle Training, Escape and Evasion Training and the euphemistically termed ‘Tactical Questioning’ (military-speak for torture resistance), Wolf was able to stand proud as one of the fully-fledged new regimental members who received the exalted beige beret and winged dagger insignia. The fancy new titanium and gold denture he now sported in place of his missing teeth quickly earned him the nickname ‘Jaws’ among his SAS comrades. Along with the rest of the newcomers he was still on probation, his every move closely watched by the Directing Staff in case he slipped up or showed the slightest weakness. But it seemed that no amount of mental stress or physical hardship could wipe the gleaming golden smile off his face.

The several times Ben had got to work with him, Wolf had proven himself to be a tough and reliable trooper. He was unambitious for his own advancement and yet showed the capacity of a born leader of men, as efficient at fighting the enemy as he was thoughtful and selfless in regard to his peers. Ben had heard the whisperings among the top brass that Wolf might have the makings of a fine commanding officer.