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

He was about five feet six inches and quite normal-looking. He was
wearing a pair of skiddies, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. His washing and
shaving kit consisted of a bit of soap in a plastic teacup from a vending
machine, a toothbrush, and that was it. He had his wash and left, and that
was my introduction to the Regiment.
There was a warning one day that a chopper was due in ten minutes.
All the spare hands that were on cookhouse fatigues had to come running
out to pick up the load, so the helicopter would have the minimum amount of
time on the ground. it could be delivering anything from equipment to food.
Sometimes it would have a patrol on board.
As the rug I was simply told, "There's a helicopter due in in ten
minutes, and there's some plastic bags. I want you to pick up the plastic
bags and bring them into the camp."
The chopper came in, the corrugated iron gates were flung open, and
everybody ran like an idiot to pick up whatever was going to get dropped and
then run back into the camp. I picked up two black plastic bags. Both
contained what felt like Armalites. Then four or five blokes jumped from the
helicopter. They had long curly hair and sideburns that came down and nearly
met at the c ' bin like the lead singer of Slade, and they were wearing
duvet jackets, jeans, and dessies (desert boots).
Basically the donkeys, which was us, picked the kit up and legged it in
with them. We were told not to speak to these people, just to let them get
on with what they were doing. Not that any of us wanted to speak to them
anyway; we didn't know how they'd react. All we knew was that they were the
Special Air Service, big hard bastards, and they were going to fill us in.
Me, the eighteen-year-old, I wasn't going to say jack shit.
There was only one TV in the whole camp, and that was in a room full of
lockers and bits and pieces of shit all over the place. So everybody used to
get in really early and book a place, sitting on top of lockers and hanging
off chairs, getting on wall units and all this, to watch. Even if blokes
were asleep, you'd wake them up for Top of the Pops.
The cookhouse was no bigger than a room in an ordinary house, and
that^included the cooking facilities.
We'd get a tray, go in and get four slices of bread, make big
sandwiches and a mug of tea, and go and claim our places for the show.
Blokes would be there straight from the shower, squashed up next to
blokes in shit state straight from the field. Everybody would be getting
stuck into a fistful of egg banjo. The room stank of cigarettes, sweat, mud,
cowshit, and talcum powder.
At the time, just after Christmas 1978, Debbie Harry and Kate Bush were
on the same T.O.T.P. Debbie Harry was singing "Denis," and Kate Bush was
doing "Wuthering Heights." When Kate Bush came on, the whole rifle company
used to shout, "Burn the witch!"
'Then these blokes turned up as well, and I thought, They're only human
after all because they've come in to watch Debbie Harry and Kate Bush. They
didn't push in; they didn't get the prime spot; they just slotted in where
they could; then pushed off again. Their behavior amazed me; they came in
with respect.
I envied them their apparent freedom to come and go as they pleased. I
thought, it must be an amazing life, just flying in, doing the job, then