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

patrol started to get incoming, but he couldn't fire back because he knew we
were in the middle. The people in the truck didn't know that we were there;
if they had, they would have been able to put some heavy fire down onto us.
They got outside Keady and went to a house that was run by an ex-prison
officer. They tried to hijack his car, but he came out with a shotgun and
gave them the good news, so they then moved off again in the cattle truck
and got to Monaghan to drop off the boys who were dead and injured.
It was the first time I'd ever killed somebody. I was nineteen years
old, and I couldn't have cared less. They were firing at me, and I was doing
my job by firing back.
I did what I was taught. No matter what a person does in the
infantry-he can be a signaler, driver, whateverwhat he's basically doing is
getting himself or someone else into a position where he can put the butt of
a weapon into the shoulder, aim, and kill somebody.
I'd spent months and months training for this sort of situation.
I'd learned the drills; I was proficient. But when the shit hit the
fan, all I could think about was that the other character was trying to kill
me. I just knew there were a lot of people firing, and I knew I had to get
fire back, and that was about it. I considered myself very fortunate to have
survived. It wasn't skill that had got me through; it was loads of rounds
down the range and loads of luck.
We came back to the UK, and I went away on a course called an NCO's
Cadre. I got an A and was promoted the same day, making me the youngest
corporal in the infantry at that time.
Next came Junior Brecon, an eight-week section commander's course at
Sennybridge training area. There was no bullshit about it, just tactics and
training, training and more training. It was a really intense two months,
lots of physical stuff, running around with a helmet and bayonet on all the
time, giving orders. I found it really hard, but I got a distinction.
By now I was totally army barmy and was letting my married life come a
very poor second. I was immature, and I was a dickhead. I came back from the
course on a Saturday morning, said hello, and went out for a run.
Then I got up early on Sunday morning and went for another run, trying
to keep fit for whatever course I was going to go on next-and I was putting
my name down for every course that would have me.
For young wives in a garrison town like Tidworth, life could be very
boring. It was difficult to get decent work because employers knew they were
not there for long, and that made it almost impossible for married women to
have a career. The battalions liked to promote a ramily atmosphere, but for
the wives it didn't really work out like that. There was a hierarchy, and
there were more wives who wore their rank than blokes: "I'm Georgina Smith,
wife of Sergeant Smith."
The marriage started going to ratshit in about 1980.
Christine was in Tidworth, in quarters, ready to go to Germany, sitting
there and thinking: Sod this. The ultimatum was delivered one morning during
the cornflakes. "Are you going to come back with me or are you going to stay
here in Tidworth in the army?"
No contest.
"I'm staying here," I said. "Away you go."
That was it. Over and done with, sorted out over bits of paper, and I