"Энди Макнаб. Немедленная операция (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

jumped into the water to cross to the other side. The river was only about
twenty feet wide, but it was in flood, and there were deep pools. When he
got over, he couldn't find his companion. He'd drowned further downstream.
The troop was a close-knit group, and Al Slater's death put all of us
on a downer. It's never easy losing somebody you know, but there's not a lot
you can do about it, you've got to get on with it. Within about two days the
jokes were being cracked.
We were going to have a Christmas piss-up. The troop invited all the
different personalities from the police force and other organizations that
we had dealings with.
One of the policemen there, a fellow called Freddie, had lost his left
hand in an accident and had a Gucci replacement strapped onto his stump. It
worked on electrodes, and gave him the capability to flex his fingers to
grasp things, but unfortunately the arm occasionally developed a mind of its
own. It would be all right when he put it on, but then all of a sudden the
electrodes would short-circuit and the fingers would be flexing all over the
place like something out of an old B movie. We all used to think it was
great.
We were thinking about getting him a present, and there was much
humming and hawing about what it should be. The best we could come up with
was a regimental plaque, but Ken said, "That's crap. Don't worry, I'll sort
it out."
Freddie turned up at the do, and there must have been 150 or so people
present.
Ken got up with a small parcel in his hand, wrapped in fancy paper and
ribbons.
"Well, Fred," he said, "this is just a little something to say thanks
very much for all the help and support this past year. We hope this will
come in handy, and rather than give you something really bone like a plaque
to hang on a wall, we thought we'd give you something much more practical."
"Thanks very much," said Fred. He started to undo the ribbons and
paper, which took him ages because Ken had used four layers of wrapping just
to fuck him up. At last, after Fred had got a decent sweat on wrestling with
ribbons and sellotape, our gift was finally revealed in all its glory-a can
of WD40.
Freddie took it really well, rolled up his sleeve, and had a little
squirt.
I bought Al's Barbour jacket at the auction; it would have been cheaper
to have bought a brand-new one, but that's how it goes.
Nobody was worse affected by Al's death than Frank Collins.
"I've seen a lot of mates die during my seven years in the Regiment,"
he said, "but this has hit me the hardest."
Maybe Al's death was the first big test of his Christian faith.
Frank left the Regiment soon afterward and decided to train to be the
ayatollah. However, he wanted to pay off his mortgage before he enrolled at
Bible college, and his first freelance job took him to Sri Lanka.
Frank lasted two weeks. When I saw him much later in Hereford, he said,
"They had no understanding of right or wrong and thought nothing of wiping
out Tamils. Some of the people we trained committed atrocities. It was well
paid, but I came straight home."