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

The weather was a mixture of rain, low cloud, and mist and always
overcast. If the sun was out, it was cold; if it wasn't, it was raining. We
were tabbing hard anyway, so we didn't need much clothing on. We were
getting really fit and confident. I felt I had stamina now with the bergen,
and I knew the ground. When I looked at the map, I had every feature
imprinted in my mind: where all the little pathways were, what I could see
from the high ground. I felt I wouldn't have to worry about the map reading.
I could just concentrate on making the distance in the time allowed.
Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted. We were sure that
getting up on the Beacons had been a must. It gave us the time to tune in
and know the ground, to feel more confident if the weather started to clag
in. Before I went to Wales, I had looked on the map at Pen-y-Fan and
Fan-Fawn the major features over the Beacons, and thought: Hmm, that's
pretty steep. But until I got there and saw it for myself, I wouldn't have
believed how vertical a hill could be.
Being there for three weeks got us over that initial shock, and we soon
built up confidence. And despite the weather, we had a really good laugh. I
knew the pubs in Brecon anyway from the course that I'd done down there. We
met people that were on the junior and senior Brecon courses, and it was
wonderful to be out of the battalion. I loved it.
Back in Germany, we spent every spare minute training. Passing
Selection had become my complete and utter focus. I'd go to sleep at night
thinking about Pen-yFan and all the other places that we'd gone to. When I
woke up, my first thought was, What am I going to do if I fail? The more I
thought about my life in the battalion, the more desperate I was to escape.
There was a massive ridge that ran all the way from Minden to
Osnabriick. It was a really steep feature, and we used to get our arses up
there nearly every day. As well as that, if another company were doing a BFT
(basic fitness test), we'd turn up and do it with them. Then we'd go circuit
training. Fitness was all; we knew that the first month of Selection was the
killer, with 80 percent of candidates gone by the end of it.
I knew I was kidding myself when I told Debbie that it would be better
for us in the long term if I could get into the Regiment. She was enjoying
the existence in Germany. She had a good job, friends, and she was
establishing herself. If I passed Selection, I would be away from her for at
least seven months of the year.
And so it was that on a hot sunny day in July 1983
the four of us boarded the old camper van for what we hoped was the
last time and set off for Hereford.
They didn't give us directions to Stirling Lines, for obvious reasons.
If you can't even find your way to the camp, it's going to be a waste of
time trying to join Special Forces. We had made sure we knew where we were
going, which was just as well. One or two blokes were late, having got off
the train at Hereford station and asked the locals for directions. Nobody
told them. Apparently the town was very security-conscious, and the police
were always alerted if anyone was seen as suspicious.
We chugged up to the main gate on a Sunday. Apart from the high wire
fence surrounding it and the military policemen at the gates, the camp
looked like a deserted college campus. I'd expected to find a hive of
activity but instead saw only one or two characters mooching around in