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

tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts. They took no interest in us whatsoever.
We signed in and did a pile of documentation, all the usual stuff-name,
date of birth, qualifications, rank.
We were then directed down to the stores to draw a bergen, sleeping
bag, water bottles, twenty-four-hour rations, cookers, and a survival kit.
"When you're up in the hills," the quartermaster told us, "all the
weight that's in your bergen must be weight that's usable-food, water, biwi
bag, spare clothes. The days of carrying bricks for the sake of it are well
gone.
"You are only allowed to wear an army-issue boot.
The argument is, you can wear a pair of Gucci walking boots now, but
what happens if you've been in the jungle for three months and your boots
start to rot and fall off? When you get a resupply parachuted into the
jungle, they're sure as hell not going to be size eight and one-half in your
favorite 'Go-faster Guccis." Our names were on a board in alphabetical
order, and we were allocated to eight-man rooms.
The Green Jackets were split up, and we wandered off with a casual "See
you later."
Another couple of guys had already arrived in my room; we nodded a
greeting to one another but not much more. As I unpacked the kit I'd brought
with me, I cast a quick eye over what gear of theirs I could see. I wasn't
the only one with boxes of electrolyte drinks, bottles of neat's-foot oil
just in case, strapping for my legs, and a party pack of Brufen.
I wandered off to find the others. Everybody was doing his own thing,
sorting himself out, then perhaps, like me, going to see a mate who was in
another room.
There were one or two radios on.
It seemed everybody was among strangers, from different units.
People were saying hello but not really chatting to one another.
There wasn't that friendly room thing that there usually was when
soldiers got together on a course. There were little mumblings going on of
"All right, mate, how you going?" but the atmosphere felt rather tense.
Naturally it would take awhile to know each other, as in any group, but
I sensed there was more to it than that. The slightly furtive unpacking and
guarded responses reminded me of boxers in a shared changing room before a
bout. Polite but wary. I thought it was rather odd. As far as I was
concerned, the only person I was competing against was myself.
First thing Monday morning, all 180 of us assembled in the gym.
Before the course even started, we had to do the army's BFT, a
three-mile run in boots and clothing.
"You've got fifteen minutes to do the first mile and a half," the DS
(directing staff) said. "The rest is up to you. Don't be last man home."
We set off at a fastish pace. However, without kit it was a piece of
cake. A reasonable jogger wouldn't have broken out in a sweat. I couldn't
believe it when I saw people falling by the wayside, holding their sides and
fighting for breath. I'd seen old ladies who were fitter.
Yet the basic fitness test was a basic requirement throughout the army;
in theory, even the plumpest pastry cook should have passed. As the cripples
limped in, the DS took their names and told them to go and get changed. They
had been binned on the spot, even before the start of Selection proper.