Ladies, have you got what it takes to join the Army?
As the Forces struggle to find female recruits, Antonia Hoyle takes its fitness test to see if she can muscle in on the men
Panting around an athletics track, wind billowing my red bib, heart pounding, I’m reminded of running the 1,500 metres as a teenager. But instead of three and three-quarter laps, I must complete five, and instead of school sports equipment I’m surrounded by barracks. I am taking the Army’s women-only entry level fitness test, to see if I’ve got the muscle to make it.
Last week, Cath Possamai, chief executive of the British Army Recruiting Group, said the Forces were struggling to recruit women because they underestimated their fitness. Only 20 per cent of the 80,000 applicants the Army receives a year are female – and of those, 10 per cent drop out at training stage.
“Women tend to be almost too honest,” said Possamai. “They are much more likely to perceive they are physically not fit enough and that’s a big barrier to joining.”
Over two days, the 40 women I’m with at the Army Training Centre in Pirbright, Surrey, complete three physical challenges – a 2km run to test aerobic capacity, a mid-thigh pull to test lower-limb strength, and a 4kg medicine ball throw to assess explosive upper-body strength.
Granted, it’s not quite as intense as five-day selection test required by the Parachute Regiment (20-mile march included), which 28-year-old Captain Rosie Wild this week became the first woman to pass.
While it may sound simple, and Army staff are at pains to show it’s
“achievable” for most, just getting here has taken months of planning. Pre-screening has already weeded out around 40 per cent of applicants, and only 60 per cent here are expected to make it. Candidates, today aged from 16 to 33, are submerged in a still inherently “masculine” environment. Little wonder they look anxious.
“The Army will be seen as boys, bombs and bangs, and a female joining the Army is saying ‘I’m going to smash that’,” says David Hill, the Recruiting Group’s head of selection, who believes “the Army should represent the society it protects” and that women who join “are more determined in many respects” than their male counterparts.
All candidates have an Army medical, which my clinician believes is the most nerve-racking part of the whole process, because “the candidate is in the least control”. At least, he reassures me, “there are no pointy bits and needles”.
Instead, I’m quizzed on whether I have a variety of ailments, from epilepsy to anxiety. Certain conditions are more problematic than others – applicants with kidney stones are a no-go, as the risk of them returning is too great – while eczema is a “concern” in case of painful flare-ups in the field.
The chronic insomnia I admit to would require a “careful look at”, I am told, because “sleep disturbance is par for the course” in the Army.
A top-to-toe examination in my bra and leggings (the Army insists on a female chaperone being present) follows for evidence of injury, illness or muscular-skeletal issues. My fingers are checked for dexterity, my legs measured to ensure they are no more than 1.5cm different in length.
I do a “duck walk”, crossing the room on my haunches as my ligaments are assessed – apparently an “absolute favourite” exercise among candidates for its tension-busting silliness – and finish strapped to a machine with wires for an electrocardiogram (ECG) to test my heart activity.
Next, I’m ferried into an assessment room for the ball throw and thigh pull with around half of my fellow cohorts. Outside, a swarm of camouflaged male trainees – this centre is where successful applicants will complete their 14-week training – march past, heads held high. Inside, the women – wearing gym kit and called by their bib number – look less confident, twiddling fingers and smiling self-consciously. While male applicants can apparently be competitive and stand-offish, these women offer each other friendly encouragement.
A stereotype, perhaps, but one the Army is keen to capitalise on – during the Afghanistan war, it was female soldiers from coalition forces who were sent to gather intelligence from local women deemed unlikely to speak to men.
None the less, Major Charlie Starkey, a staff officer in the recruiting branch, agrees many lack confidence: “Maybe females are worried about perception and a fear of failure slightly more than males,” he says.
Rachel Ranford, 24, a quietly spoken student nurse, seems a case in point. Despite wanting to join the Army since she was 16, she “kept applying and not going any further” – dissuaded, she tells me, not only by the fitness required but its reputation. “I thought it would be harsh, and everyone would be shouting. But it’s not like that at all.”
Certainly, nobody’s barking orders or insults today, the attitude of Army staff to the women instead proving quietly protective while we wait in turn for a mid-thigh lift. Holding a metal bar attached to a machine, positioned at leg height perpendicular to the floor, we pull on it as hard as possible to monitor an equivalent in weight pulled. The best of two attempts is recorded via an electronic display.
Blood rushes to my face when it’s my turn. My best score is 75kg, which surpasses the 46kg required to pass the test, but falls short of the 76kg I’d need were I to join the infantry – the physically demanding, foot soldier section of the Army, in which women have been allowed since 2016 (although there are so far only two trained female soldiers).
For some candidates, the gruelling fitness requirements are part of the appeal. Harriet Marsh, 31, a hockey player who works in business development, is hoping to join the reserves for the “physical challenge” and is confident today’s test is “totally achievable”.
Gym enthusiast Sasha Incledon, 33, a former cabin crew member, is similarly optimistic: “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think I was fit enough, but I want to be fitter.”
Among most, however, there seems a subconscious desire not to usurp or let ambition show. There are no grunts of effort as the medicine balls are thrown; no jokes about who’s done best. But even though the women smile encouragingly at me as I sit on a mat, back bolt upright against the wall to throw the medicine ball, I’m worried about looking an idiot.
Perhaps that’s why, despite two practice goes and two attempts, I hurl the ball a not very explosive 2.7m – short of the 2.9m minimum required. “That would be a physical deferral” – meaning I’d have to come back and do the entire thing over at a later date – the assessor says apologetically. I consider myself reasonably strong, and am disappointed. But I’m not alone – six out of the 22 women I’m with also fail this test. Breaking the news tomorrow will not be “pleasant”, Hill admits, although applicants are usually encouraged to try again later: “I’d tell you to do some push-ups and come back in 28 days.”
My timed 2km takes place that afternoon. I finish with a time of eight minutes 51 seconds – two minutes clear of the 11 minutes 15 seconds required for entry, and below the 10 minutes 15 seconds needed to join the infantry.
Ecstatic and inspired, I decide, as I drive home, that joining the Army definitely has its merits. I just need to learn to throw – and fall asleep.
‘Candidates must pass an Army medical and complete three physical challenges’