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

soaking wet, cold, and hungry and totally knackered. We still had to carry
on work the next day; there were still stags to do, patrols to go out.
But it didn't worry me at all because I felt so excited; at last I had
done what I was there to do.
Two days later a character turned up at a hospital in the South with a
7.62 wound in his leg. We were sparked up. Gil and I were the local heroes
for the next day or two. In a rifle company we were just two dickheads, but
now we had our fifteen minutes of fame because we were the latest ones to
have had a contact.
Then all the banter started about who claimed the hit.
Both of us were crap shots; it was a surprise that anybody had been hit
at all.
The rest of our time in Ireland was just as busy. We had a bomb put
outside Baruki sangar one night. It was an old trick, and it always worked:
Two slappers came by, hollering and shouting at the boys inside, flashing
their arses and working parts. While the lads were checking out the special
of the day, a player walked behind the sangar and placed a bomb. When the
stag changed, as they opened the door, the bomb should have gone off.
The two blokes inside didn't have a clue what was going on.
Luckily the bomb was discovered just in time, and there was a
controlled explosion.
Our colonel, Corden-Lloyd, was very keen on individualism. As far as he
was concerned, we all had to wear the same outer clothing, purely so that
we'd be recognized in the field. But what we wore underneath was down to us.
In theory, we should have worn army-issue shirts, thick woolly things
that were a pain in the arse. The UN shirt was a much more comfortable
alternative, but it was expensive. Corden-Lloyd worked 'out a deal with the
manufacturers and took a vote. "If everybody buys two UN shirts, we'll wear
UN shirts when we get back to Tidworth," he said. They would work out at
sixteen pounds for two-quite a lot, but money well spent.
Very sadly, the purchase could not be completed. Colonel Corden-Lloyd
was aboard a Gazelle helicopter that came down. PIRA said that they shot it
down, MoD said it was mechanical failure. Whichever, the best officer I'd
ever met was dead.
When I joined the battalion in Gibraltar, there were one or two blokes
that were getting ready to go on selection, running around the Rock on a
route called the Med Steps, but being the rug, I'd no idea what it was all
about. Then I heard-they were going for the S.A.S, pronounced Sass. It was
only much later that I found out that to people in it or who work with it,
it's not the Sass or even the S.A.S.
It's just called the Regiment.
A fellow called Rob lived in a little room in the base at XMG that was
no bigger than a cupboard. Sometimes I'd go past and I'd hear the hish of
radios and catch a glimpse of plies of maps of South Armagh all over the
place. The room was like a rubbish tip; there were bergens, belt kit, and
bits and pieces everywhere. Then Rob would go missing, and nobody saw him
for weeks and weeks.
He turned up in the washrooms one day, so I was scrutinizing, seeing
what he looked like. He wasn't six feet six inches tall and four feet wide,
as I'd expected.