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

night we went nontactical, waiting to get picked up the following day by the
lbans in their dugout canoes with little outboard engines on the back.
They took us downstream to a village, where we were going to get picked
up because there were no landing sites in the area.
It was like a scene out of a film. There was all the jungle, and then
there was a clearing, with grass, chickens running around, little pigs and
goats and all sorts, in the middle of nowhere. There were no roads, just a
river. They had a schoolhouse, with a generator chugging away. There were TV
aerials sticking up out of these Than huts made out I of wood, atap, and
mud. All the kids were going to school in just shorts, and the teacher was
dressed as any other schoolteacher would be.
The DS said, "When you come into these places, you've got to introduce
yourself to the head boy. Show him respect; then the next time you come in
he won't fuck you off."
For the first time in days people were allowed to smoke. Blokes were
sitting on the riverbank, sharing their fags with the DS. The training major
got his out and offered one to Mal. There was a mutual understanding between
them; it made me envious not to be a smoker, joining in the camaraderie.
I just sat there, drinking in the scene. As far as I was concerned, it
was done now. I'd passed or I'd failed; I was just pleased that it was over.
The rest of the day was spent cleaning weapons, cleaning kit, eating
scoff. In the evening there was a barbecue for everybody who had anything to
do with the jungle school. The DS produced crates of two-pint bottles of
Heineken, and the cooks sorted out the steaks and sausages.
"Might be the last time you ever come here, lads," the DS said.
"Get on the piss!"
We did. I was drunk on three bottles of the Heineken, threw up at about
midnight, and went to bed with the jungle spinning.
There was a day off in the capital, but it was a Muslim country so
there was only drinking in one hotel. Everybody felt so sick anyway they
didn't bother. I went shopping with Mal, Tom, and Raymond, buying armfuls of
bootleg tapes, Walkmans, cameras, and watches. All the traders seemed to be
wearing David Cassidy T-shirts.
I had lost a stone. One of the blokes, the Canadian jock who had been
our snowplow during Selection, came out looking like a Biafran.
Like a dickhead, he hadn't even been cooking scoff for himself at night
because he wanted to go hard routine all the time.
We'd been under the canopy and not seen daylight for a month. I came
out looking like an uncooked chip. I was all pasty, full of zits and big
lumps. No matter how many showers I had, I still had grime under my nails
and big blackheads on my skin. Some of the mozzie bites had scarred up a bit
from where I'd scratched them, and they'd welted up. Basically I looked
stinking.
We had a few hours in Hong Kong and then flew back on a British
Caledonian charter. Four long-haired blokes who were sitting near us looked
the typical "Here we go, here we go" lads, wearing hideous orange and purple
flowery Hawaiian shirts, jeans and flip-flops. I sat there wondering if
they'd had a slightly more enjoyable time in the Far East than we had,
frolicking-on a sex holiday in Thailand or smuggling drugs.
I felt quite subdued and started to get my head down.