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

hit at an angle, not aim off and then move along it. We couldn't use tracks
or pathways either; everything had to be cross-country. We'd get to the
checkpoint, where sometimes they had water. If there were other people
coming in, they might hold us for five minutes, and that was the time to
fill up from the jerry cans if there were any. If they weren't going to hold
us, I wouldn't waste time filling up.
If I met other people on the route, there was never time to say more
than "All right?" before shooting off again.
All I wanted to hear them say was that they were late, and I'd think,
That's good. If it was so bad that they said, "Fuck!" I was even more
pleased. It didn't make me go faster, but it made me feel better.
I was just bumping along, my head full of jingles, thinking about the
route ahead, trying to remember what was on the map so I didn't have to
stop. "If you stop every five minutes for thirty seconds," Max had said,
"that's minutes taken up every hour." I did my map checks on the move.
I had an extra pouch on my belt that was full of aniseed twists and
Yorkie bars, which I had stocked up on just for Endurance. I didn't use them
on other tabs, but for some reason I just went downtown and bought them for
this one. Now I was digging in and eating and wondering why I'd never done
it before.
I tabbed through the second night. On the last five or six kilometers
the batteries went in my torch. I knew because of the lie of the ground that
I had to go downhill, hit the reservoir, chuck a right, and then head for
the bridge, which was the final checkpoint.
Unable to use my map, I was cursing the gods at the top of my voice. On
the side of the reservoir was a big forestry block. I searched for a
firebreak to get through, honking to myself and remembering why I failed
last time.
I found a firebreak, a good wide one. No problem. I was moving along,
but then I hit, fallen trees. Extra sweat, extra cuts. Every few meters I'd
have to get the bergen off, throw it over a horizontal trunk, roll over it
myself, find the bergen in the pitch-blackness, put it back on. I was
flapping; I couldn't believe my future was in danger through making the same
mistake twice.
I.was relieved to see the first rays of moonlight and made my way down
to the bottom of the reservoir. I knew I had to turn right, and off I
trogged, dragging along.
I reached the last checkpoint after a tab of twenty-one and a half
hours. I was pretty chuffed with myself, but George had got in before me. So
what was new?
I noticed a distinct change in the attitude of the DS. It was as if
we'd turned a corner, as if a phase was over and done with. There was no
praise or anything, but they said, "All right, are you? Right, dump. your
kit down, and there's some brew by the wagons."
The medic was there for any problems, but everybody was too elated to
notice if he had any.
The QMS on training wing turned up with big slabs of bread pudding and
tea, which he laced with rum. I discovered there was a big tradition with
the Regiment that when on arduous duties they got this G10 rum, called
gunfire. They saved up the rum ration and served it up on big occasions. I