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

center at the base of the Fan, and in theory we crossed over at the top.
The bergen weighed thirty-five pounds. We didn't know the cutoff time,
but the DS did."The only advice we were given was "If you keep with us,
you're all right.
If you don't you're fucking late."
The DS went; he really motored. Within five minutes the tightly packed
group was strung out along the track.
I noticed several very fit-looking faces that I hadn't seen before and
that were overtaking me. It was the first time I'd seen people from the
squadrons; apparently there was an open invite for anybody who happened to
be in camp to go and do the Fan Dance. All these characters turned up in
Range Rovers, with flasks of tea. They got the bergens on, and off they
went. I was feeling really fit and confident, but these blokes were just
steaming past, especially on the uphill sections. It really pissed me off;
they'd jog up alongside the DS, have a bit of a chat, then accelerate over
the horizon.
My chest heaved up and down until I got my second wind, and then I
started to sweat. It started to get in my eyes and sting the sores on my
back. Within twenty minutes I was soaking wet, but my breathing was
regulated, and I was feeling good. I knew where I was going, and though it
was wet underfoot, the weather was fine.
I arrived at Torpanto in good shape, huffing and puffing but confident.
It wasn't too hot a day, and I wasn't having to stop too often for a drink.
I gave my name to the DS, turned around, then did the whole route in
reverse. I sang the same song to myself in my head, over and over. It was a
rap song; the music was just coming to the UK, and I hated it. I still sang
it, though.
It was a matter of running downhill and on flat ground and of tabbin as
hard as we could uphill. That was all there was to it, arms swinging, legs
pumping. I passed Max on the way. He was going well, with the water pipe
flailing behind him in his slipstream.
Out of the 180 who had started the week, 100 of us had got as far as
the Fan Dance. By the end of the day, another 30 had been binned.
The Fan, we were told, was a benchmark. If we couldn't do the Fan,
there was no way we had the stamina or physical aptitude to carry on.
That night Peter, the chief instructor, walked around the room.
He was about five feet five inches tall and looked like everybody's
favorite uncle. He inspected all the weird and wonderful drinks that were
lying on the lockers and said, in a very slow Birmingham accent that never
got above 2,000 revs, "All this shit, you can take it if you like-it's up to
you. But the best thing is, two pints of Guinness and a bag of chips at the
end of each day."
Dutifully we went down to the town and sank two pints of Guinness and
bought a bag of chips each at the chippie.
Everybody was sorting out his feet with whatever magic potion and
strapping his toes up. I put orthopedic felt on my heels and sorted out my
blisters. The army was full of recipes for how to get rid of the things, but
I had always found that the best thing was to pierce them at the edge with a
needle sterilized in a flame, squeeze all the muck out, and just throw
plaster over. There wasn't a lot more that could be done.