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

There were many separate hives of activity, each with its own
noise--radios tuned in to the BBC World Service, Walkmans with plug-in
speakers that thundered out folk, rap, and heavy metal. There was a
strong smell of diesel, petrol, and exhaust fumes. Vehicles were
driving in and out all the time as blokes went off to explore other
parts of the camp and see what they could pinch. And of course while
they were away, their kit in turn was being explored by other blokes.
"You snooze, you lose," is the way it goes. Possession is ten tenths of
the law. Leave your space unguarded for too long and you'd come back to
find a chair missing--and sometimes even your bed.

Brews were on the go all over the hangar. Stan had brought a packet of
orange tea with him, and Dinger and I wandered over and sat on his bed
with empty mugs.

"Tea, boy," Dinger demanded, holding his out.

"Yes, bwana," Stan replied.

Born in South Africa to a Swedish mother and Scottish father, Stan had
moved to Rhodesia shortly before the UDI (Unilateral Declaration of
Independence). He was involved at first hand in the terrorist war that
followed, and when his family subsequently moved to Australia he joined
the TA (Territorial Army). He passed his medical exams but hankered too
much for the active, outdoor life and quit in his first year as a junior
doctor. He wanted to come to the UK and join the Regiment, and spent a
year in Wales training hard for Selection. By all accounts he cruised
it.

Anything physical was a breeze for Stan, including pulling women. Six
foot three, big-framed and good looking, he got them all sweating. Jilly
told me that his nickname around Hereford was Doctor Sex, and the name
cropped up quite frequently on the walls of local ladies' toilets. On
his own admission, Stan's ideal woman was somebody who didn't eat much
and was therefore cheap to entertain, and who had her own car and house
and was therefore independent and unlikely to cling. No matter where he
was in the world women looked at Stan and drooled. In female company he
was as charming and suave as Roger Moore playing James Bond.

Apart from his success with women, the most noticeable and surprising
thing about Stan was his dress sense: he didn't have any. Until the
squadron got hold of him, he used to go everywhere in Crimplene safari
jackets and trousers that stopped just short of his ankles. He once
turned up to a smart party in a badly fitting check suit with drainpipe
trousers. He had traveled a lot and had obviously made a lot of female
friends. They wrote marriage proposals to him from all over the world,
but the letters went unanswered. Stan never emptied his mailbox. All
in all a very approachable, friendly character in his thirties, there
was nothing that Stan couldn't take smoothly in his stride. If he