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

holidays that went on too long.
For a month we were taught a lot of drills that we later found out were
crap, but they had to teach hundreds of people a year, so everybody was
pushed in together and around went the handle. Brize Norton was a sausage
factory.
The upside was that the R.A.F always tended to have superior
recreational facilities. Here the N disco was called the Starlight Club.
Every night the baby paras on our course turned up, all crew cuts and Brutus
jeans, desert boots and maroon sweatshirts, as hard as nails.
Two of them were pissed and dancing together one night. The next
morning they were all out on parade, helmets on and ready to go. Their
corporals came out and said, "Oi, Smith and Brown, come here. Smith, were
you dancing last night?"
"Yes, Corporal."
"Who with?"
"Him, Corporal."
"And Brown, you was dancing last night. Who with?"
"Him, Corporal."
The full screw went inside and came back out with an ironing board
under his arm. With the two baby paras standing at attention, he banged them
rhythmically on the head: "We..... don't . . . dance . .
. together . . . in . . . the..... airborne."
"Yes, Corporal."
And off they went. All the other recruits were rolling up. It was a fun
thing; they obviously had the same relationship with their recruits as my
team had had at Winchester.
We got our parachute wings and went back to Hereford to be badged.
We turned up with our normal regimental kit on and hung around in the
"Kremlin" (head shed building). I had a fantastic feeling of achievement.
Everybody seemed pleased for us; probably there wasn't a single person in
the Regiment who couldn't remember how he felt when he got badged.
The RSM came out, shook our hands, and said, "Well done,
congratulations. What you're going to do in a minute is go in and see the
colonel. He's going to badge you, and then you start moving off to your
squadrons.
I'll give you one piece of advice. When you get to your squadron, look
at somebody you think is 'the' regimental soldier, and copy him.
Take example from him, learn from him. Don't start going off thinking
that you rule the world because you don't. Just keep your gab shut, look and
listen."
The CO had a pile of sand-colored berets on the table in front of him
and flipped one at each of us. No formalities, no handshakes.
Then he said, "Just remember, it's harder to keep than it was to get.
Right, good luck to you."
The army doled out a horrible beret called a Kangoule. Within the army
there was a definite fashion about such things; you could always tell a
person by his headgear. We'd all sent away for the much smarter Victor
beret.
And that was it. George and I trooped off to B Squadron office, almost
six months to the day since we'd done the Fan Dance. The first fellow we met