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

But he was really switched on this day. When we got there, the sergeant
in charge of the brick was sorting everything Out, and this fellow just ran
up and started stitching all along the hedgerows with an LMG (light machine
gun). If it had been detonated by a control wire, maybe the bomber was still
in range. This bloke was a renegade, always in trouble, but when he had to
do this stuff, he knew what he was doing.
The QRF (quick reaction force) had run out of the base and were going
to put roadblocks all around the town at preset points to stop anybody
coming in or going out.
The bomb had taken Nicky out severely, spreading him out over fifty to
sixty meters. All we wanted to do was to get the main bits of what was left
of him onto a poncho and get him back to the base.
I was picking up the remains of the person I'd been eating breakfast
with, who used to sit next to me honking about the state of the food. I was
extremely angry, extremely scared, and real life hit me in a big way.
The locals were coming out of the pubs and their houses, clapping and
cheering. They were chuffed; there was a Brit squaddy dead. I was flapping
like fuck. I started to get angry at these people.
Four of us carried the poncho, one at each corner. The others gave
protection as we went through. The poncho was soaking wet with blood. He was
literally a dead weight. I was soaked up to my elbows In blood.
We got him back, but then we had to return and clear the area.
Helicopters were arriving from Bessbrook to pick up the other
casualties. We were sweating and panting, drenched with red. We had to use
big, hard yard brooms to get all the bits and pieces off the wagon and throw
them into a bag. We burned the brooms afterward. Then came the indignity of
having to go out and look for one of Nickey's feet, because it wasn't
accounted for. It was found'half a street away.
The welts of our boots had his dried blood in them.
Our hands had ingrained blood around the nails. All our equipment was
full of his blood. Even the map in my pocket was red with blood.
Nicky Smith was twenty years old. He was a nice bloke, with a mother
and a girlfriend. I'd seen him write in a letter just the week before: "Only
forty-two more days and I'll be home."
My vision of the army at the beginning was getting money, traveling,
and all the other things I'd seen in the adverts: You're all on a beach,
windsurfing and having fun. Maybe they were Nicky's visions as well. Even
going to Northern Ireland was exciting because it was another experience.
Maybe, I now thought, they needed a few posters in the recruiting office of
dead boys in ponchos.
All too often British soldiers who died on active service in Northern
Ireland would get a brief mention on the news-"Last ni lit a British soldier
died then go unremembered. But I resolved to myself that I would never
forget Nicky Smith. I would always keep the newspaper cuttings. I would
always have his bloodstains on my map.
I was haunted by images of disembodied feet and the Saracen spattered
with blood like a child's painting. It made me fucking angry, and I
personally wanted to put the world to rights. I wanted to get the people
responsible. I suddenly felt that I had a cause, that I was doing something,
not just for political shit or because I was saving money to buy a car; I