"Andy McNab - Bravo-Two-Zero" - читать интересную книгу автора (McNab Andy)

the return of bits of kit, and from every bedroom in the unmarried
quarters a different kind of music--on maximum watts. This time it was
all so much louder because so many of us were being sent out
together.

I met up with Dinger, Mark the Kiwi, and Stan, the other three members
of my gang. A few of the unfortunates who weren't going to the Gulf
still came in anyway and joined in the slagging and blaggarding.

We loaded our kit into cars and drove up to the top end of the camp
where transports were waiting to take us to Brize Norton. As usual, I
took my sleeping bag onto the aircraft with me, together with my
Walkman, washing and shaving kit, and brew kit. Dinger took 200 Benson
& Hedges. If we found ourselves dumped in the middle of nowhere or
hanging around a deserted airfield for days on end, it wouldn't be the
first time.

We flew out by R.A.F VC10. I passively smoked the twenty or so
cigarettes that Dinger got through in the course of the seven-hour
flight, honking at him all the while. As usual my complaints had no
effect whatsoever. He was excellent company, however, despite his
filthy habit. Originally with Para Reg, Dinger was a veteran of the
Falklands. He looked the part as well-rough and tough, with a voice
that was scary and eyes that were scarier still. But behind the
football hooligan face lay a sharp, analytical brain. Dinger could
polish off the Daily Telegraph crossword in no time, much to my
annoyance. Out of uniform, he was also an excellent cricket and rugby
player, and an absolutely lousy dancer. Dinger danced the way Virgil
Tracy walked. When it came to the crunch, though, he was solid and
unflappable.

We landed at Riyadh to find the weather typically pleasant for the time
of year in the Middle East, but there was no time to soak up the rays.
Covered transports were waiting on the tarmac, and we were whisked away
to a camp in isolation from other Coalition troops.

The advance party had got things squared away sufficiently to answer the
first three questions you always ask when you arrive at a new location:
Where do I sleep, where do I eat, and where's the bog?

Home for our half squadron, we discovered, was a hangar about 300 feet
long and 150 feet wide. Into it were crammed forty blokes and all
manner of stores and equipment, including vehicles, weapons, and am
munition. There were piles of gear everywhere--everything from insect
repellent and rations to laser target markers and boxes of high
explosive. It was a matter of just getting in amongst it and trying to
make your own little world as best you could. Mine was made out of
several large crates containing outboard engines, arranged to give me a
sectioned-off space that I covered with a tarpaulin to shelter me from
the powerful arc lights overhead.