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

stress position when he felt his blindfold slipping down.
He knew that he stood a chance of getting fucked off, purely because
they would think he was actively pulling the blindfold down himself, so he
ut his p hand up. Nothing happened. He stood up and sort of semitumed, and
by now the mask was down. They binned him on the spot.
The argument was that he'd pulled his mask and broken the rules.
They fucked up, and it was unfair. But then, no one said it would be
easy.
In the pub the following night the Selection blokes compared notes.
Everybody had been of the same opinion about the others in their team and
had wanted to spread out and get away.
Dave, one of the paras, said, "I got to a farmhouse, put an OP
[observation post] on it, had a look around.
Everything seemed okay, so I went up under the window and I thought I'd
just listen. The tv was on, and it sounded all rather nice; then I could
hear loads of people talking. I got up and had a look through the curtains
and it was the whole training team sitting there. I said to myself, 'I think
we'll give this one a miss."' There was a long weekend off; on Monday
morning we would carry on with our continuation training. By now the
training team had more or less got what they needed. We were starting to get
a relationship, we were starting to talk about squadrons and things in
general.
They opened up a bit more, but we still had to call everybody Staff
apart from the squadron sergeant major, whom we called Sir. We weren't in
yet.
There was a pub that used to put trays of sausages and French bread out
on the bar on Sundays, so George and I went and had a few pints of Guinness
and filled our faces out. We were walking down the road afterward, bored out
of our heads, and decided to go around to see an ex-Green jacket who was in
D Squadron. His wife used to work for Bulmer's, distributors of Red Stripe
lager, and the four of us sat there all afternoon, chatting away, slowly
getting pissed.
After a few hours I announced that I was going to the toilet. I got to
the top of the stairs and felt an ominous urge in the pit of my stomach. I
ran into the toilet, and projectile vomited all over the floor and walls.
Panic. I cleaned up as best I could, then fell down the stairs and into
the front room.
"Well"-I beamed-"must be going."
In the morning I was in shit state. I went around to D Squadron lines
to see what had happened.
"Bloody hell!" he said. "She's gone ballistic!"
I thought I was severely in the shit. I ran off and bought her a bunch
of flowers and a box of chocolates. I went around to the house, hoping
against hope that she wouldn't be in. I knocked on the door.
There was nobody at home.
I propped the gifts on the doorstep and pulled out a card from my
pocket.
"So sorry about my terrible behaviour and all the ' inconvenience I
must have caused you," I wrote. "I hope that one day you will forgive me and
certainly promise that it will never happen again." Then I signed it,