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

When I was in the stress positions, I heard people shouting, "Fuck
this! I've had enough of this shit!" Realistically we were having a rather
nice capture, but physically doing it still wasn't nice at all.
I clung to the fact that this was an exercise and it would end.
I was taken for yet another interrogation. I was sat in a chair, and
the blindfold came off. There in front of . me was a cup of soup and the
training wing sergeant major.
He said, "Do you recognize me?"
I didn't say anything.
"Do you recognize me?"
I said jack shit. I wasn't too sure if this was a ploy.
"Right, I'm telling you that now's the end of the exercise. Do you
recognize me? If you say yes, that's fine, if you say no, we can just stay
here until you do."
He was wearing a white armband; I remembered that we'd been briefed
that that would signify the end.
"Yes, I recognize you."
"Drink the soup."
We had a debrief with the interrogators.
When it came to my turn, they said that I'd stuck to the big four,
which was good. It had been a bad move, however, to make a grab for the
coffee and the cheese sandwich.
"If it hadn't been an exercise, I wouldn't have done it," I said.
"I know that in real life there would have been repercussions.
But this was an exercise and I was hungry, so why not?"
"How were you feeling physically? Were you as exhausted as you gave the
impression of being?"
"No, I was playing on the physical side."
"How many interrogations did you have?"
"Six."
Wrong. This was interesting. I was one interrogation out. And I had
been held for thirty hours, not the forty that I'd thought.
"What about the interrogators? Was it obvious what they were trying to
do? Were there any stages when you were worried about it?"
I gave it to them straight. Some of these people had been right
fuckers. They'd done their job very well.
They were aggressive, there was aggressive handling, but we'd had to
expect that. We were cold, but so what?
It was very demanding, physically and mentally, but at least we knew
there was an ending. I'd have hated for it to have been real or to have gone
on for very much longer.
The last big hurdle was over. We looked a state. We'd been out in the
field for a week, and we had a week's growth. Everybody's hair was sticking
up and tangled with twigs and straw. We had those really big, wide,
bloodshot eyes; we were stinking. Nobody in the camp gave us as much as a
second look.
I had a shower and headed for the cookhouse and a great big plate of
steak and chips. A couple of blokes were already back, and the others
trickled in over the next twenty-four hours. All the stories were coming
out, including one or two with unhappy endings. One bloke had been in a