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

about using the weapons we had to their maximum ability, operating at night,
it moving tactically during the day. The idea behind the squadron trip was
that if there ever was a conflict again in that theater, at least new
members like me would have a foundation and not be stumbling into a new
environment.
Initially it turned out to be a major anticlimax. We were in a tented
camp in the middle of the desert, protected by fences and all kinds of
elaborate security devices. We weren't allowed out. For the first three days
the most interesting thing that happened was Tiny sitting up in his sleeping
bag every morning and shouting, "I'm bored!"
We'd saunter over to the cook tent where some of the locals were making
pita bread and chapatis. Then we'd go around nicking chairs and putting up
washing lines made of paracord, until we got fed up. By day three hints were
being dropped to the hierarchy. A few blokes put a sign up saying 8 TRoop's
ESCAPE -FUNNEL, with a pair of upside-down boots poking out of the top. Some
others put in a requisition chit for a gym horse and specified that it must
be wooden and have room inside for at least three men. Mountain Troop put up
a sign on the gate that said STALAG 13 and spent hours standing looking
wistfully toward the west.
It was warm, but one fellow called Gibbo, who'd fought in the Oman war
and had spent so much time in the Middle East he might as well have had an
Arab passport, would be walking around with a duvet jacket on in the
morning, honking about the cold weather. We were on a beautiful desert plain
with sheer mountains in the distance. Sitting on the thunderbox one night, I
looked up at the stars. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the inky
blackness was chock-full of twinkling lights.
It was absolutely stunning.
Eventually things livened up. John organized a Huey, and we spent three
or four days doing free fall in perfect blue skies. It was the first time I
had jumped out of a helicopter; instead of the deafening, buffeting wind
rush of a jump from an aircraft, there was only a weird feeling of
acceleration and silence, apart from the whistle of the wind in my ears.
We started roaring around in the new 110s (long wheel-base Land Rover)
with 50 MM machine guns dangling off the back that were replacing the old
"pinkies."
I was in a mortar team. Nosh was number one, who laid all the aiming
devices, Steve was number two, who put it down the tube, and I was number
threebasically the boy who sorted out the ammunition and stuck his fingers
in his ears. Colin was the MFC (mortar fire controller).
We went to a training area a couple of kilometers away, armed with more
ammunition than a battalion got through in about ten years-hundreds and
hundreds of rounds.
My vision of the Regiment and the squadron was still nice and fluffy,
but now I started to hear various honkings. The main one was about the
squadron sergeant major and something to do with "cabbage."
It took me a little while to find out that this meant money, and that
what they were moaning about was squadron funds.
The SSM was awarding VCs (voluntary contributions.e fines) all over the
place to boost the fund. There was a . fridge full of soft drinks running on
a generator; every time you took one you signed your NAAFI number and got a