Читать книгу Operation Lavivrus - John Wiseman - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

Tony left the cosy cottage and headed for camp. At seven in the morning there was a chill in the air which cost him a good fifty metres to get into his stride. He was still stiff from the rugby, and yesterday’s travelling had done nothing to help his aches and pains. He welcomed the cold air on his ears, but the muscles of his legs were protesting and needed to be warmed up gently.

As he ran he noticed that flowers were appearing and the trees showed the first sign of buds. This was his favourite time of year. The morning gave promise of a fine day; it was clear and still, encouraging the birds to sing.

His cottage was perched on the side of a hill, so at least he started with an advantage. The view from the hill was stunning, and today he could see for miles. Rolling fields stitched with hedgerows dropped away to the river. Behind him the ground rose, with the fields giving way to forested hills. The city of Hereford sprawled in the hollow below him, an assortment of buildings and structures dominated by the cathedral and surrounding churches, standing out like giant chess pieces. One church had a misshapen spire that leant to the left, looking like a discarded ice cream cone dropped by an inattentive child. Away to his left he could see the outline of Offa’s Dyke, which appeared like a continuous blue line. The city was three miles away but looked a lot closer in the bright morning light.

Tony had left his wife Angie in bed, dressing in the dark so as not to disturb her. She usually ran with him, but since the early-morning sickness and backache started she had cut down on physical activities. She would walk the dog later at a more leisurely pace.

They had been married for two years, and Angie was a sobering influence on Tony. She was the one who kept him on the straight and narrow, and this helped his career no end. It had blossomed since the union, as the regiment looked for stability before promotion. Loose cannons were dangerous.

The small pack sat squarely on Tony’s back, high on the shoulders so it wouldn’t bounce. The damp grass helped cushion the impact of his powerful stride, but soaked the legs of his tracksuit. He chose to run across the fields rather than the roads, wearing boots instead of the customary trainers, as this gave him a better workout. Once in his stride his aches and pains fell away and it felt good to be alive.

Muster parade this morning was in the gym, and he had a ninety-minute session to look forward to, courtesy of Jim the Sadist. He reached the stile where Angie usually turned around, and once clear he lengthened his stride for the last half mile to camp.

Peter hammered the alarm clock into submission, seeking vengeance for disturbing him from a deep, much-needed sleep. He didn’t get to bed till after three, as the Colonel asked him to stay behind after the briefing to run through the details of the new device.

Tony had opened the Ops Room briefing, and was giving an outline plan of their proposed attack. It was sketchy at present, being based on old intelligence. They needed an update, and the big problem of insertion was still the weakest part of the plan. Things had been non-stop for the past three weeks. Everyone was hard at it, but as troop officer Peter had extra responsibilities, having to attend all briefings, presentations and intelligence updates.

‘I’ll get Tony to stand in for me at lunchtime,’ he thought, and started to think of a plan.

He savoured the luxuriant warmth under the covers, snuggling down for an extra five minutes. He fought the nagging impulse to get up and face endless problems; instead he tried focusing on less demanding matters.

‘I must get an early night,’ he thought, but there was little hope of this. On top of everything else going on, he had finally met a girl whom he really liked. She had a great sense of humour, and shared a lot of his interests. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He envied his Staff Sergeant, who had an uncomplicated life. He went home every night to the same woman, who cooked his food and provided all the necessary comforts.

‘Here I am,’ he reflected, ‘nearly thirty, still living in the mess, and still ironing my own shirts.’

The depression lifted as he thought about the new girl in his life, whom he had just met. She was something special. ‘Wait till the troop find out about Mo,’ he thought. “Will I get some stick!’

Peter was a big hit with the ladies, and his choice of women was somewhat unusual. His last flame was, literally, a fire-eater. He met her at a holiday camp where the troop stayed during an exercise on the coast. His new love, Mo, was a trumpet player, currently playing in the orchestra at the Three Counties Festival. They had met at a reception hosted by the mayor in the Town Hall, and straight away the chemistry flowed between them. She was different from all the other women he had known, and satisfied a deep-seated desire.

‘I will try and see her at lunchtime, even if it only for a few minutes,’ he told himself, staring at the ceiling and trying to keep his eyes from closing. Surprisingly the alarm was still in a fit state to repeat its call, bringing him down to earth. ‘This is dangerous stuff,’ he thought. ‘I’d better pull myself together and get down to the gym.’ With a sudden surge of energy he leapt out of bed, his nude figure transformed into a tracksuit and trainers in seconds.

Still thinking in the same vein, he jogged dreamily on autopilot for the short distance to the gym, where the troop were all waiting. He didn’t see the flowers or hear the birds, and barely noticed the cold. He was looking forward to the coming gym session in a sadistic sort of way. At least for the next ninety minutes pain would replace the turmoil he was presently feeling.

Tony was changing into his trainers while other members of the troop engaged in light-hearted banter. Some sat on the scrubbed wooden benches, others stood by the row of grey painted lockers. As they changed into gym kit they exchanged in vivid detail stories and exploits of the previous night out. This was the first free time that they had been given in weeks, and they made sure they enjoyed it. Tony caught snippets of their conversations:

‘I swear they were as big as this . . .’ ‘She was insatiable . . .’ Every now and then the storyteller would be challenged: ‘How many times, you lying bastard?’ And so it went on.

Peter sat down next to Tony and asked him how his ears were. They updated each other on their brief time apart, ignoring the background laughter, exaggerations and obscenities. An outsider listening to the troop would have thought a fight was taking place, but it was all good-natured.

Suddenly everyone all went quiet. The silence coincided with the appearance of a short, squat figure, dressed in a white vest with black tracksuit bottoms. The vest had red piping around the edges and crossed sabres on the chest. Massive arms hung from broad, sloping shoulders, emphasising a bulging chest tapering down to a narrow waist. Powerful legs were encased in the tight black bottoms, bulging like a speed skater’s, but most impressive was his head, which was covered finely with short ginger hair, so fine that it failed to conceal the many scars beneath. These were pure white, in contrast to a slight tan elsewhere. Almond-shaped eyes glared out from heavily hooded brows consisting mostly of scar tissue. A small pug nose was stuck on as an afterthought, underlined by thin lips that emphasised a cruel mouth which hardly moved when he spoke.

‘Good morning, pilgrims. Nice to see you all so happy.’

A thick Glaswegian accent rounded off his aura. This was Jim the Sadist, long part of regimental legend.

‘Right, gentlemen, you know the rules. Follow me.’ He span around and disappeared through the door that led to the spacious hall. One rule was that once you entered the gym you never stopped running, and the other was that no jewellery was to be worn or anything carried in the pockets.

The gym was large and well lit, big enough to contain two full-size basketball courts. These were marked out on a spotless wooden floor that was swept regularly with sawdust impregnated with linseed oil. The walls were adorned with an endless run of wall bars; the only break in them contained beams that could be pulled out to support pull-up bars and climbing ropes. On one side was a recess that contained half a dozen multi-gyms and free weights. At the far end there was a climbing wall, and suspended high in the ceiling were parachute harnesses. This is where the lads did ‘synthetic training’ prior to parachuting. There was an abseil platform in the corner, with an array of punch bags, and speed balls underneath, suspended from sturdy brackets.

Every gym has a smell of its own – a mixture of blood, sweat, liniment and tears. Hundreds of bodies had been conditioned here, creating an ambience that leapt out and grabbed you by the throat. This was a place of work.

They started off quite sedately, stretching and jogging, warming up tired muscles, jogging around the periphery of the courts, punching out their arms from the shoulders on Jim’s command. They changed direction regularly, high-stepping and hopping on alternate legs. When Jim thought they had got in a rhythm he would order giant striding, bunny-hops and star jumps. Then he would snap, ‘On yer backs. Stand up. On yer fronts,’ and in a high, hysterical voice shout, ‘Top of the wallbars, GOo. Back in the centre, GOooo. Touch four walls and back again, GOoooo.’

The pace was unrelenting, and soon the troop was sweating freely. The sweat dripped on the floor, forming slippery areas that caused a few falls. There was no sympathy for the faller, who he was abused till he got back on his feet. ‘Get up, you idle bastard. No one told you to lie down.’

They completed short sprints, trying to pass the man in front. Teams were picked to race against each other. The race started with the first man carrying his team one at a time in a fireman’s lift to the end of the gym and back. When they had all completed this it was a wheelbarrow race, followed by a few circuits of leapfrog. They finished with a series of stretching exercises, starting with neck rolls, moving down the body and ending with hamstring stretches.

The regiment was motivated by self-discipline, and every man was responsible for his own standard of fitness. Most people give up when they are tired, which is normal, but to be special and to achieve that little bit extra the urge to let up must be overcome. That was where Jim came in. He applied the fine tuning and encouragement to increase performance. He took the men to levels that they never dreamed they could attain. He kept them going when muscles screamed and tendons and ligaments burnt. He drove them on through pain barriers, getting that little bit extra from them. He kept them going when they wanted to quit, and he made good men even better.

‘OK, lads. Nice and warm now, eh? On the line. When I say go, sprint to the first line, ten press-ups, return. Out to the next line, ten crunches, return. Out to the far line, ten star jumps, return. Stand by. GOooo.’

These shuttle runs seared the lungs. The three lines were fifteen metres apart; after six repetitions even the strongest of men were wasted, but Jim made them do twelve. Every part of the body was punished, Muscles that were seldom used protested violently at the abuse they suffered.

When they finished they just wanted to die, but Jim wouldn’t let them. He made them run on the spot to regain their breath. ‘Stand up straight, deep breath through the nose, force out through the mouth. Keep you legs shoulder width apart. Don’t stand there like a big tart! Brace up, man.’ Everyone was searching for breath, bent double trying to take the strain of scorching lungs. Excruciating pains radiated from all parts of the body; death seemed a good option.

Sweat was by now dripping freely onto the parquet flooring, and for the first time that morning Jim looked happy. ‘Come on, air is free. Take advantage of it. Where you’re going there may be none.’

Fitness is judged by the amount of effort sustainable over a given period, divided by the time it takes to recover. It’s what you do in a certain time that’s important. You could jog all day but not get a lot from it. Once you get into a rhythm it becomes monotonous. What this regiment did was rapid heart exertion, which created cat-like responses, speed and power.

Only Jim could talk by now. ‘Right, lads, jog around the courts while you get your second wind. Keep loose, breathe deeply.’

Most of the men were regretting their ill-discipline of the night before, and were grateful that they had not had their breakfast yet. Just as they started feeling human again, Jim raised the pace. ‘Up the wall bars . . .’ And so it went on relentlessly.

‘Right, lads, on the mats. It’s time for your old favourites.’ They lay on their backs with legs raised, doing a series of abdominal exercises. Jim led them, starting with repetitions of ten. The rest position was with legs extended and six inches above the mat; any one who lowered their limbs cancelled out that set of reps, which had to be done again. ‘This is where the power come from. You can’t cheat the gym.’ A continual chorus of groans, grunts, and shrieks accompanied their exertions. They stretched, twisted, curled and contorted, and just when they thought they had finished Jim introduced them to a new exercise. He kept up a non-stop barrage of obscenities in his native tongue. The lads wanted to laugh, but had forgotten how to.

‘Just one more set, lads. Keep flat, arms behind the head, keep the legs straight, point your toes.’ The gym was large enough to allow the body emissions to dissipate and the efficient air blowers replaced the stale air with fresh.

‘Good wee session, lads. Everyone OK?’ He assembled the troop in the centre of the gym, and allowed them to sit down while he briefed them. Praise from Jim was rare indeed, and hard earned. He didn’t let anyone take a drink; this was against his doctrine. It helped condition the body, and more importantly made the mind aware of what could be achieved on limited resources.

‘Now remember, speed kills. Do unto others as they will do unto you, but do it first.’ Jim surveyed the class, ensuring his message had sunk in.

‘Come here, Tony.’ Jim always selected Tony for his demonstrations. He was the punch bag, the rag doll, the guinea pig for the series of punches, strikes and kicks that were about to be delivered. He used Tony because they sparred together in their spare time. He only used someone else if he caught them slacking or not paying attention.

Tony had a martial arts background, making him a natural at close-quarter battle. He had boxed as a youth, representing his school and South-East London. He had dabbled in judo, karate and ninjitsu, but they had all left him wanting. They were non-contact sports and not very practical in a real-life situation. They did teach him timing and balance, both invaluable skills, and the mental side was very fulfilling. But CQB, as taught by Jim, satisfied his appetite. It was a distillation of all the martial arts, picking out the best from each and choreographing them in a series of lethal moves that were both practical and uncomplicated. Jim used everything that was banned in these arts. CQB was a military skill that encouraged fighting dirty. It was kill or be killed. Punching below the belt, kicks to the throat and head were all encouraged. Tony was blessed with the street-fighter’s instinct that no amount of training can instil. This was summed up by his father’s words when he coached him: ’You can put the dog in a fight, but you can’t put the fight in a dog.’

It’s a rarity to find a man who has power, speed, timing and balance, and with the street-fighter’s instinct they add up top a very special human being. Tony loved the training and tried to improve. He was never satisfied.

Jim launched a series of attacks on Tony with lightning speed. He attacked from all angles, going for the eyes, palm strike to the chin, elbow to the throat; the pace was furious. A swift kick to the groin was deflected and taken on the thigh, followed by a swinging right hand to the jaw. When a blow landed or was blocked, a shower of sweat cascaded from the victim, showering the watchful bystanders. Jim’s attacks were fast, but Tony defended himself with equal skill.

After the demonstration the class partnered off, going through a vigorous sparring session. They took it in turns to attack and defend, changing partners frequently so as not to grow used to their opponent. Jim and Tony went around giving advice and correcting techniques.

The lads loved it, especially when a blow landed. It was not so funny for the victim, but hilarious to onlookers. Frequently they were called to watch a new technique, and then they would partner up again to try it. Each move had to be instinctive, and the only way to instil this is repetitions. Unless this is carefully managed there is a danger of boredom creeping in, but this never happened with Jim. He knew when to move on, always getting the best from the class.

There was nothing fancy about the techniques. No sophisticated locks, holds or throws were taught, just straightforward attacks to the eyes, throat and groin area. Every now and then a scream would confirm the effectiveness of an attack, forcing Jim to smile. ‘Don’t kill each other. Save that for the enemy. Keep the power for the bags. I’m looking for speed and technique when sparring.’

To generate power they used focus pads and punch bags, taking it in turns to hold these for each other. Even wearing headguards and groin protectors the odd blow got through, but unlike footballers who lay on the ground writhing in fake agony the lads carried on, trying not to show that their opponent had hurt them. Minor scores were settled, and sometimes Jim had to step in and defuse the situation.

Thriving on success, and despising failure, every member of the regiment wanted to be a winner. Like every subject, success had to be taught; it had to become a way of life. The best classroom for this was the gym. Courage and determination were matured here; winners were groomed and their resolve nourished. However, the gym was no substitute for the rugged terrain of the Brecon Beacons, where stamina was forged and the elements conquered.

Tony was sparring with Peter, taking great delight in occasionally snapping his head back with a light palm strike to the forehead. Every time Peter lowered his guard or stopped moving he got slapped. This spurred him on to greater efforts to land a telling blow, but Tony dealt with these attacks with apparent ease. This further frustrated Peter, causing him to become ragged and predictable. Tony could sense this but couldn’t help grinning, moving fluidly in and out, countering with stinging blows to the head and body. Frustration turned to humiliation as accurate strikes became more frequent. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down Peter’s chin from a split lip, and a small nick over his left eye was further aggravated by the generous amount of sweat flowing from his forehead. He did his best to hide his discomfort, however, aware that the troop was watching his performance.

Even though they were comrades, the rivalry between them surfaced. All the petty hates, differences and jealousies between officer and NCO emerged, and pride distorted reason. Peter missed Tony with a massive roundhouse punch that would have taken his head off had it landed. He got a dig in the midsection for his effort, and a kick found his knee, just as he was about to try the same.

‘I’m going to kill the bastard,’ thought Peter; just seeing his opponent’s grinning face through red-misted eyes was reason enough. Bigger punches and kicks followed, but all had the same result.

Tony could sense the hostility, which disturbed him, so he back-pedalled to defuse the situation. Peter took this as a sign of weakness and renewed his attacks with added venom. A wild blow glanced off Tony’s head, triggering a short jab that flew before he could check himself. The wicked punch caught Peter on his injured eye, which split open immediately, spurting bright red blood down his face in a scarlet torrent.

Tony dropped his guard instantly, moving in to offer assistance. Peter snapped and drove his knee between Tony’s legs with the last of his energy and pent-up emotions. This dropped Tony to his knees like a shot elephant, folded in half and clutching the source of excruciating agony. His head was full of nauseous lights and his mouth thick with bile.

Jim had been watching this pair with interest, half expecting the outcome. He had let them carry on; it’s best sometimes to let things run their course. He went up to Tony, who was thrashing about on his knees like a fish out of water, grabbed his head and forced it down. The class stated to gather around the injured pair till Jim shouted, ‘What do you think this is, a peep show? Get back to work.’ In a softer voice he continued, ‘Stay on your knees, Tony. Force the air out.’ He looked over to Peter, who was pinching together the edges of his cut eye.

‘Here, boss, use this,’ he said, and threw him a clean white handkerchief that he had in his pocket. ‘Charlie, Fred, come and give a hand,’ he summoned the nearest couple. ‘Take the boss to the MI room, and you can help me with Tony.’

Between them they got Tony to his feet. His face was contorted with pain and he was forced to breathe through clenched lips. He had attempted to spit the bitter taste out of his mouth but only succeeded in dribbling it down his chest. A silver thread of spittle was still hanging from his lip. Jim supported him from behind, with his massive arms wrapped around his chest.

‘I’ve lost one of my nuts,’ muttered Tony. At this Jim held him tight, and with Charlie helping, dropped to a kneeling position. ‘Tell me when it drops’, he said, and he bounced Tony up and down on his buttocks. He had done this many times before, and Tony knew the routine; they called it ‘Testes Absentus’. It was their term for a testicle that goes up into the groin cavity. Some sumo wrestlers would do this deliberately before a contest, but to the uninitiated it is a very painful experience.

Eventually Tony got to his feet, supported by Jim, who was pressing his thumbs firmly into his abdomen trying to alleviate the burning, sickly pain.

‘Thanks, mate. I’d better go and see how the boss is,’ and Tony headed gingerly to the MI room.

Peter had four stitches, and Tony recovered apart from a slight headache and a loss of appetite. Most of the troop sported a bruise or welt of various sizes and colours, which they carried with pride. These were marks of the warrior; it went with the job.

After a shower and a late breakfast, the troop assembled at the armoury to draw out their personal weapons. Tony complimented his boss for the cheap shot and apologised for the cut.

They retired to the Troop Basha (billet), where they stripped and cleaned their weapons. While they were doing this they had an informal discussion on firepower. All the troop had a say on what was needed for their coming mission.

‘Weight is going to be critical,’ stated Peter, who got the ball rolling. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in a firefight.’ The mission was covert, so stealth was their best bet. If they were compromised at any stage, a rapid withdrawal was the strategy –what they called ‘shoot and scoot’.

‘What about silenced weapons?’ asked Chalky.

‘What do you think, Tony?’ Peter handed the question to Tony.

‘It’s so windy down there that I think they’ll be useless.’

Silenced weapons fire sub-sonic ammunition, which is slow, leaving them at the mercy of the wind. Range is also limited, and the stronger the wind, the less accurate they become. In a confined area they are noisy, much louder than the dull thud you hear in movies.

‘If the wind is that strong we’ll probably get away with the odd shot,’ offered Phil.

‘Maybe, but I definitely want some night sights in the patrol,’ countered Peter.

After further discussion and much deliberation Tony issued the following orders. ‘OK, lads. Every man an Armalite; Chalky, Fred, night sights. Grab some ammo and I’ll see you on the range.’

The AR15 had all the credentials needed to make it a first-class weapon. It was light, reliable, with a good rate of fire. The only modification that the lads would make was to cover the magazine release catch with a strip of tape to prevent accidental release.

Close to the camp was the 50-metre range. This had a railway line running past on one side and open fields on the other. There was a gypsy camp nearby, and sometimes they grazed their ponies on the range. Local kids, especially from the married quarters, used to glean the ranges frequently, picking up empty cases and the occasional live round. The MOD police patrolled the area regularly after strong complaints were made by the local school from teachers who had caught their pupils with some interesting souvenirs. These patrols were ineffective; they just tested the inbred skills of the kids, making it more of a challenge, raising the price of the bounty they found.

‘Let’s make it interesting and have a kitty, winner takes all. Are you all in favour?’ asked Tony. A show of hands confirmed this, and got the banter going.

‘You may as well give me the money now,’ insisted Ron. He was the youngest member of the troop.

‘If you shoot like you did last week you’ll do better with a bayonet,’ replied Fred.

To the side of the retaining wall, which was heaped with sand, there was a scoreboard reading, ’Moles 0 – Brummie 4’. Brummie was the range warden, a retired soldier, who waged a constant war on the moles that were responsible for the unsightly mounds of earth that spoilt the appearance of the well-kept grass. He nagged the lads, constantly telling them to pick up all their empties, burn the rubbish and repair the targets with paste when they finished.

Tony was talking to the warden when Peter butted in. ‘Come on, let’s get started,’ he said in a brusque voice.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Brummie. ‘Wrong time of the month? And what’s happened to his eye?’

Breathing control is the secret to accurate shooting. Inhaling strongly through the nose, taking up the first pressure on the trigger while focusing on the target, is the first stage. Holding the breath when the aim is confirmed is the second stage. Squeezing the trigger is the final phase. This eliminates any wavering of the weapon.

The only disturbance they had was the 10.30 from Cardiff. A few excited passengers were seen starring out the windows as the train sped by. This did not stop the lads shooting. Once they started they finished the practice; only a fault with a weapon would prevent this. When all the detail had stopped firing they were checked by Tony and Peter before getting the ‘guns clear’, which allowed them to dress forward and check their targets.

Corporal Phil Jones was the best shot of the day. His group of ten rounds could all be covered by a single patch. His MPI (main point of impact) was one inch above dead centre.

‘Well done, Phil. Here’s the loot.’ Peter handed over the kitty to an outstretched hand the size of a dinner plate. ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’

‘I’m slightly high, but at 100 yards I will be spot on,’ the tall corporal commented, stuffing the handful of loose change in his pocket. Phil was a country lad from Somerset, a powerful six-footer. At thirty years of age he was in prime condition, and was one of those men who seemed to have been around for ever; in fact he was in his tenth year with the regiment. He played second row with Tony, forming a solid partnership.

‘Tony, can you cover for me till two?’ asked Pete.

‘Sure, Pete. Give her my love. Tell her you cut your eye shaving,’ replied Tony as he carried on cleaning up the range.

Back in camp the lads cleaned their weapons sitting around Trooper Ron Evans’s bed space.

‘What’s wrong with the boss, Tony? He don’t seem too happy,’ enquired Fred.

‘I think he is in love again,’ replied Tony, ‘and he’s not too pleased with his eye.’

‘Serve him right. It might slow him down a bit,’ grumbled Phil.

‘What will, the girl or the eye?’ asked Tony. They carried on discussing the captain’s love life as they cleaned and oiled their weapons.

‘Tony, can I get away? The eldest ain’t too well. The missus was up all night with her.’ Trooper Andy Swingler was the troop signaller. He was the only member of the troop with children, and was a devoted father. He was never short of babysitters, as the troop volunteered when he wanted a night out with his wife Jane. It was a good place to take girlfriends, especially when funds were low.

Andy’s five foot eight inch frame was packed with sinewy muscles. He was a keep-fit fanatic and could run all day. He still had his raw Brummy accent after ten years in the army.

‘No problem, Andy. Hand your weapon in and be back here at two. We’ve got a briefing about tomorrow,’ said Tony.

Peter added, ‘Listen in, everyone. Tomorrow we have an early start. Parade at the guardroom 0200, arrive Lyneham 0400, fit parachutes for take-off at 0430, with P hour at 0530. Staff, will you take over? The Colonel wants to see me.’

Tony was taken aback by Peter’s formal attitude, which did not go unnoticed by the men. He tried to maintain the same expression, continuing the briefing in fine detail.

‘Chalky, you will be pleased to know the DZ is Foxtrot Charlie on Sennybridge. Try not to break your leg this time.’

Keen eyes studied the map displayed before them, following the pointer as Tony explained the run in and release points. These were determined by the wind, and the long-range forecast was favourable.

‘Draw and fit parachutes this afternoon, and pack your containers. Keep the weight down to sixty pounds. Three Troop are acting as enemy and have challenged us to a speed march afterwards. I’m trying to get the colonel to put up a case of beer for the winners. It’s like trying to get blood out of a stone, so I hope Pete reminds him.’

Rendezvous points (RVs) were given so they could all meet up and clear the drop zone as a troop as quickly as possible. Emergency RVs and grid references were also given, together with contingency plans in case the jump was cancelled.

Although the radiators were on full blast, it was still cold in the temporary briefing room. The main ops room was being revamped and they had to make do in an old wooden hut that was due to be demolished as part of the new camp rebuild. The very mention of parachuting also brought a cold chill to the room, lowering the temperature by several degrees.

‘Chalky, med pack; Andy, radio, check with sigs on frequencies. Charlie and Ron, I’d like you to take the thermal imagers. Make sure they have new batteries. Chalky and Fred have the night sights.’ Tony paused, looking back over his notes. ‘I think that’s it. Any questions?’

It was way past eight o’clock before Tony returned to the cottage. Rays of light escaping from gaps in the curtains were a welcoming sight to a very tired man. His groin protested at the uphill run, and he was sorry he had declined a lift.

During the run he had time to reflect on what they had done that day. He kept wondering if he had covered everything for tomorrow, and hoped the weather stayed settled like it was now. One vivid picture kept returning, replacing all other images: the expression on the captain’s face in the gym. Try as he might he couldn’t shake it off. Even the scattered light of the city below him and the brilliant stars above failed to erase it. ‘I’m overtired,’ he thought.

Angie greeted him warmly, hugging him closely. She could feel the tiredness and tension in his body. ‘What sort of a day has my little soldier had?’ she asked in a sultry tone.

Tony dropped on the sofa in a weary heap, before answering, ‘You know when you got hurt as a child and mummy used to kiss it better . . .’

Peter looked in the mirror, checking the neat line of stitches. It was midnight, and although he was tired sleep wouldn’t come.

‘Look at that lot. That’s all I need. What are Mo’s parents going to think of me?’ For the first time in his life he was worried about other people. ‘I look more like a bouncer than an army officer,’ he reflected, tenderly rubbing the swelling.

Mo had given him no sympathy, and her attitude when they met at lunchtime was closer to disgust than sorrow. He knew he would be away soon, and not knowing when he was coming back didn’t help matters. She was keen for him to meet her parents before he went, and had described him as a sweet, gentle man. She could imagine her mother’s face when Punchy Pete turned up, cut, bruised and swollen.

Things were happening too fast for Pete’s liking: rehearsals, training, briefings, and on top of all this an injury. He was also concerned at the way the troop had rallied around Tony rather than him. He tried lying down again, closing his eyes and hoping for the relief of sleep to blank out his anxieties. Army beds were not the most comfortable of berths, and he struggled.

Knowing that he was parachuting in the morning always affected him this way. So many things could go wrong: hard pull, malfunction and mid-air collision were all distinct possibilities. A bad spot could cause you to land in water or hit power lines; landing on the DZ with equipment was bad enough as it was. In one part of his mind he hoped that the jump would be cancelled, but he also looked forward to the challenge.

Everything was his responsibility; the colonel had made that quite clear at their last meeting. He was told he had to take charge more, and not leave everything to his Staff Sergeant. He couldn’t help thinking of Tony again, and their fight.

He tossed and turned, trying to switch off his overactive mind. Just when he was on the verge of sleep an explosion of light would pierce his tired eyes, bringing him fully alert and leaving a myriad of dancing lights bouncing around his skull. There was no escape; the more descents he had done, the worse it got the night before.

All too soon the alarm clock went off. He arose from sweat-soaked sheets.

Conversation was non-existent in the minibus, and the early start was only partly to blame. Parachuting always had the same effect, and most people wanted to be quiet. They feigned sleep, reliving past descents, mentally going through a checklist: good strong exit, stable fall, smooth opening, lower equipment, feet and knees together for landing.

They never knew until the last moment whether the jump was on or not. The weather seemed good, but it could change in an instant. They were jumping in Wales near the mountains, and the weather here was unpredictable. The C-130 rarely became unserviceable, but it did happen. The ground party who manned the DZ had the last say. If they gave the thumbs up, the jump was on.

Every descent was different, and if you were unprepared you could get caught out. All these men were experienced, however, and left nothing to chance. They always went through the same rituals and mental rehearsal.

Chalky – Lance Corporal Henry White – a veteran of more than 1,000 jumps, had broken his tibia and fibia the last time he jumped on Sennybridge. This was a freak accident that happened eight months ago. A gust of wind caught him as he was about to land, causing him to fall heavily on a trip flare piquet that had been left behind by some irresponsible unit. He was now fully fit, but he sub-consciously flexed the old injury, trying to reassure himself that it wouldn’t happen again.

Chalky was of mixed race, and had endured plenty of malice and racial abuse as a child growing up in the East End of London. His father was a West Indian seaman who met his mother at the Stepney General Hospital, where he was taken sick after a voyage. She was a nurse there, and fell pregnant after a brief affair. He sailed away, promising to return, but he never did. He was never seen or heard of again. Coming from a religious family, his mother was ostracised for bringing disgrace to the family. She was cast out and had to fend for herself. She had to work, so Chalky was passed around among the few friends she had left. Sometimes she had to take him to work at the hospital, where he was hidden in the laundry or looked after by a porter.

It was a tough community to grow up in without a father. His mother suffered endless abuse from bigoted neighbours, and Chalky couldn’t wait to be big enough to defend her. Although she doted on him, he was a painful reminder of the past, and joining the army was a natural escape for him. He fitted into his new family well. At twenty-seven years old, with seven years in the Squadron, he was the troop medic, probably influenced by his mother.

Fred massaged the scar on his leg where he had been burnt hitting high-tension cables three years ago. It seemed like yesterday that the brilliant blue flash lit up his body and the surrounding area of Salisbury Plain. Cables are difficult to see from the air, even in daylight. The parachute collapses when the cables are touched, leaving the parachutist to fall to the ground. Electrocution is the lesser of the two hazards.

Tony’s main concern was the insertion phase of the coming operation. Stretched out on the seat with his hood up and arms buried between his thighs, he thought about deception plans. Any aeroplane entering another country’s air space is immediately challenged. It is acquired by radar, and unless it gives the correct response aircraft are scrambled to intercept it. In a time of conflict the plane may be shot down. The Argentinians had a good air defence system, and intelligence was trying to get up-to-date info on its performance and limitations. A modern system like theirs acquires the target, and unless it is identified as friendly it fires an anti-aircraft missile. Tony’s problem was how he could make his aircraft appear friendly.

He pushed this to the back of his mind, concentrating on the problem at hand. He was responsible for lining up the aircraft and getting it over the exit point. The RAF navigator would get the aircraft on the run-in track at the correct altitude, then it was up to Tony to eyeball it from the ramp, getting them over the release point.

The parachutes they were using were twelve-cell steerables with reserves to match, on a piggy-back system. These were state of the art and only available to the Regiment. They had a good performance, capable of holding a 20-knot wind, and if need be they could cover a lot of ground. This was fine if you could see where you were going, but at night you just wanted to land gently, and a high-performance chute could get you into trouble. These were definitely not for the novice.

On a night descent it is an advantage to have some moonlight with a little cloud cover. On all but the darkest nights the ground can be seen until the last 1,000 feet, when the earth is enveloped in shadow. Their jump was scheduled just before first light; they would catch the end of the old moon, making conditions ideal.

No visual aids were being used on this descent; if they could be seen from the air they could be seen from the ground. 3 Troop were already deployed in the area to test the effectiveness of the covert entry; they would dearly love to capture a 2 Troop birdman and pluck him of his feathers. Inter-troop rivalry verged on the sadistic.

For safety reasons a ground party was in the drop zone in radio contact with the aircraft, but neither displayed or gave signals. Their sole job was to keep an eye on the ground winds in case they exceeded the limit, and provide medical cover.

The lads came alive as the bus turned through the large ornamental gates of RAF Lyneham. Security was impressive, the area being well lit and guarded by RAF police who waved the bus through. Sandbag emplacements had been built to dominate the approaches to the base. Tony took particular interest in these security arrangements; he would soon be trying to breach similar defences.

There was some small talk on the short journey to the hangar, the sleepy atmosphere transformed into a lively scene as people stretched and chattered. Past exploits were discussed, and misfortunes recalled. ‘I remember carrying Chalky . . .’ ‘Fred put out all the lights in Salisbury . . ..’ The men were in good spirits, ready for the descent.

The navigator gave the lads the flight briefing. His ruffled hair and bulbous eyes reminded Tony of a rabbit caught in a snare. His tired, monotonous voice confirmed his dislike of early starts, and he made an exciting event seem dull. He yawned continuously as he pointed to an enlarged aerial photograph of Foxtrot Charlie, and traced the run-in track using a black china graph pencil.

‘The wind at 18,000 feet is at 230 degrees steady at 35 knots. This changes to 200 degrees at 8,000 feet, slowing to 20 knots. Opening height for this sortie is at 3,500 feet with the same wind but at 190 degrees. Ground wind,’ he paused for an infectiously long yawn, ‘is 8–10 knots.’ Tony couldn’t wait to take over the briefing and inject a bit of spark.

‘We calculate the release point here and the opening point here.’ The navigator circled two red points on the photo. ‘I will get you to this point here, and Staff, you will take over when the red light comes on. You should see this lake clearly, and all this forestry will stand out.’

Charlie was picking his teeth with a broken matchstick, removing the traces of a kebab he had the night before. All this talk of knots and degrees went over his head; he just wanted to jump and follow the others.

Eyeballing a C-130 at night is not easy. Tony’s job when the red light came on was to get the aircraft exactly over the release point. Staring into the slipstream from the ramp is the most accurate way of lining up an aircraft. Peter and Tony confirmed the navigator’s calculations to verify the checkpoints. They added the final details to the air briefing Peter was going to give.

The cavernous interior of the aircraft looked even bigger with only eight men sitting in the middle. They sat either side of an oxygen console, fully dressed, strapped into webbing seats, with bergans (rucksacks) held between their legs. It was only a short flight so they wouldn’t have time to strip off or stretch out.

Aircraft have a smell of their own, a heady mixture of cold alloy, warm nylon, hydraulic fluid and paraffin. Soon the tantalising smell of RAF coffee would add to this rich bouquet.

Conversation was made difficult as the high-pitched whine of the four turbines increased. As the noise level rose, so did the vibrations. Tony watched, fascinated, as the safety ring of a fire extinguisher revolved slowly, and a discarded polystyrene cup did a dance of its own until Fred crushed it under a size 10.

With engines running evenly, the aircraft lurched forward as it began to taxi out to the main runway. The big Herc rolled and swayed like a ship in heavy weather. They were wasting no time this morning and rumbled forward, turning sharply onto the threshold. It dipped down on its undercarriage as the brakes were applied, and the passengers braced themselves for take-off.

A whirr of hydraulic pumps set the flaps as the engines ran up to full power. Raring to go but held back on the brakes, the whole structure shuddered. When the brakes were released the huge camouflaged aircraft leapt forward like a spirited stallion, building up speed rapidly before soaring up into the early morning sky.

Once it was clear of the ground the pilot eased the throttles back as they climbed steadily to 18,000 feet. Seat belts were undone and the loadmaster came round with the traditional RAF coffee in polystyrene cups. To the old and bold this was the worst part of the jump.

As they sipped their strong, sweet brew they were given an altimeter check. Each man had two altimeters, and they carefully calibrated then both. Through nervousness rather than necessity, they tapped them to ensure the needle wasn’t sticking.

A dull red light was the only illumination in the aircraft, set above the oxygen console. It didn’t affect night vision, but it cast an eerie light over the eight men huddled in the centre of the cargo hold, like witches around a cauldron.

Twenty minutes before P hour they plugged into the console and the aircraft depressurised. All too soon the rear ramp was lowered and the stale air was immediately purged by an invading blast of cold air. Loose webbing at the rear of the aircraft flapped around in torment. Everyone’s ears were affected by the change in pressure; the men cleared them by holding their noses and blowing. They got ready, ensuring their weapons were secured down the left-hand side. Next they secured their bergans, attaching the lowering device to the harness.

Five minutes before P hour they unplugged from the console and plugged into the small oxygen bottle they carried on their harness, before waddling to the ramp for an equipment check. They kept their goggles up to save them misting, and checked each other’s chutes. Only hand signals could be given as their oxygen masks covered the lower face. Their bergans were carried behind the thighs, connected to the harness with quick-release hooks. When everything had been checked they followed Pete, who was Mother Goose – where he went his chicks would follow. He led them to the ramp where Tony had his head stuck out in the slipstream.

Holding on with one hand and giving corrections with the other, Tony was bringing the aircraft on track. Each motion with the open hand was a five-degree correction to one side or the other; the loadmaster, who was secured to the ramp by a monkey belt, relayed Tony’s signals to the pilot.

Five degrees left, steady. Five degrees left, steady. Tony could make out the lake and the distinctive forest shape that he recognised as the release point. When he was satisfied he stood up and pointed to the green light. The red light went out and the green one came on.

Bunched on the tailgate, eager to go, the lads kept a finger under their goggles to keep them clear. They were now bathed in green light, looking like aliens from outer space. Tony gave the thumbs up, and was gone.

He felt free; there was no more weight hanging from his shoulders, and his aching back was now supported on a cushion of air. Engine noise was replaced by a rush of cold air which lightly buffeted his body. He looked around, and above him he could see seven more bodies in formation like bulky frogs hurtling earthwards at 120 miles per hour. ‘What a way to make a living,’ he thought.

He could make out several lights below him from scattered farms, and could picture the cosy scenes within. Directly below him was a large pine forest which he recalled from the air photograph. Standing out was the silver thread of a river that ran alongside the wood, and a duller line of a road that ran across it.

They were a little deep, if anything, so he swept his arms back and straightened his legs, tracking towards the opening point. He was the low man and the others would follow him. His head-down position increased his speed, causing his cheeks, which were compressed by the oxygen mask, to flutter. He flared out again, checking his altimeter, which was unwinding fast, the luminous dials giving him a clear picture.

At 4,000 feet he brought in his right hand to grasp the handle of his ripcord, waving his left arm out in front of his head to warn the others of his intention. At 3,500 feet he pulled the ripcord, instantly feeling the retarding effect as the drogue came clear of his body and started extracting the main canopy. The rigging lines deployed first, allowing the sleeve which sheathed the canopy to peel off; this eliminated a lot of the opening shock. As the canopy caught air it inflated with a dull ‘crump’, breathing one or two times before remaining fully inflated and stabilised.

Tony looked up and checked his canopy before carrying out all-round observation. He had lots of time to do this today, as normally they open their chutes much lower, but at anything lower than 3,000 feet the opening noise of the canopy could be heard from the ground.

Pulling down on his left toggle, Tony turned to watch the others deploying. One after another, the chutes popped open, slowing rapidly, but the seventh shape was distorted, hurtling past the others. Instead of a symmetrical shape an untidy bundle of material streamed behind the tumbling figure, disappearing rapidly as it merged with the earth’s shadow.

Tony landed softly and ran round his chute to collapse it quickly. He ripped off his gloves before removing his helmet, goggles and mask, all in one rough movement. After a quick look around he exaggerated a yawn to help clear his ears so he could listen out for the others. He removed the sling from his weapon and laid it down while he took off his rig. After stripping the carrying straps from his bergan, he stowed the chutes and parachuting equipment inside a large para bag which they carried for this purpose as it helped speed up deployment from the drop zone.

With practised efficiency he was ready to move in under ninety seconds, loaded up with the para bag balanced on top of his bergan, heading off to the RV.

‘I wonder who was tumbling,’ he thought as he opened and closed his mouth, trying to get rid of the waxy film that blocked his ears. Finding the gap in the hedgerow he had been heading for, Tony waited impatiently for the others to arrive. ‘Hurry up, lads. I can’t go and look until someone comes.’

Chalky was the first to arrive, followed closely by Fred. Tony told him to hold the lads at the RV while he and Fred went to find the low man. He knew roughly where to look, recalling the tragic sight of the figure flailing directly over the opening point. He was dreading what he would find. The troop had suffered two fatalities and he had witnessed both of them.

Ron was a former Green Jacket. He had been shocked to find that he had passed selection to be posted to a free-fall troop. His first love was water, and a boat troop would have been his ideal choice. Being new, he couldn’t argue, and knuckled down to learn what he called this terrifying skill. He couldn’t understand the casual approach of the old sweats. It wasn’t bravado: they actually looked forward to the next drop. He fought hard to control his fears, thinking things would get better, but each descent was worse. Being young and enthusiastic he hid his fear well, covering it with a sense of humour that convinced other troop members that his apprehension was faked.

He was last man in the stick, which was where they placed the least experienced member. What little confidence he had was sucked out of him when the ramp was lowered. Looking at Tony hanging precariously around the side of the plane with the slipstream tearing at his face made him physically sick. Being bathed in the red light while he huddled on the ramp was his vision of hell. He couldn’t take his eyes from his altimeters; he didn’t want to see anything else. He was aware of the light turning to green, feeling the change in air pressure as the team dived into space. Then he was alone. His training took over, forcing him to stagger forward and tumble over the edge.

Hammered by the slipstream, his asymmetrical form was immediately sent spinning, toppling him end over end. Calling on his limited experience of thirty-nine descents, he corrected the tumbling once he relaxed and stopped flailing his limbs. But the tumble had shifted his load, making stability difficult and forcing him into a left turn that quickly built up speed. His equipment was hanging to the left, causing him to overcompensate, and before he realised it he span violently in the other direction. He reached terminal velocity in ten seconds, and the gyrations increased to blood-surging speeds. His eyes were riveted to his altimeters, forcing his head down, which added to his plight. Trying to terminate the descent he came in early for his handle, which flipped him onto his back, tearing off his goggles. Even with his eyes stinging and swimming in fluid he refused to close them, staring at the altimeter needles’ relentless progress towards the zero mark. The discarded goggles battered his helmet, threatening to crack it open. His head pounded as he hurtled earthwards out of control, with a mask full of saliva which bubbled and frothed as he screamed.

He should have spent more time sorting out the spin to ensure a clean deployment, but panic had taken over. Maintaining an arched back with head up would have restored stability. He ripped the handle from its housing and pulled. Instead of the familiar opening shock, a vicious pain shot across his chest and arms, but the pressure on his eyes eased immediately. The chute had deployed, slowing him down, but rigging lines had been thrown around his body and over the canopy, preventing full development. Falling feet first with a bundle of washing above him, Ron fought for air. The pressure across his chest was immense, and with his arms securely locked to his body breathing was difficult. For the first time he stopped looking at his instruments and focused on the red handle of his reserve, which seemed a million miles away.

Different thoughts flashed through his mind and everything now seemed to be in slow motion. ‘Nobody really cares for me. No one is going to miss me. Not many people know what I’m doing or where I am. Now I’ve let my mates down. I am a failure.’

Light years of falling took in reality only seconds. One part of him was saying ‘ relax’ and promised comfort, while the other screamed for him to make the effort to reach the reserve handle. Survival instincts are strong, and the screaming won. With a determined effort, aided by adrenalin, he went for the handle. But every time he moved, more pressure was put on his chest, threatening to asphyxiate him and increasing the pain in his arms. He desperately wanted to get back on terra firma, but not this fast.

He was still gyrating, but at a slower rate, the bundle above him retarding his fall. The danger now was that, even if he reached the handle and deployed the reserve, it might become wrapped around him. The normal drill was to cut anything above you away, but he was effectively a prisoner in his own harness.

Sheer determination, engrained in him by his army training, paid off. A Houdini-type effort allowed his right arm to slip around and hook a finger into the reserve handle. As the reserve deployed it took a lot of pressure off his body, enabling him to move his arms and rip off the mask that threatened to suffocate him, allowing him to suck in great breaths of air. The reserve lazily tried to inflate but was hampered by the tangle of lift webs and rigging lines that entwined him. It certainly helped retard his rate of descent, but he was still falling too fast for comfort. The relief of pressure on his chest was a godsend, enabling him to start trying to free the rigging lines. Just as he was about to congratulate himself he saw the dark, menacing shape of pine trees coming up fast to meet him.

He crashed through the wooden canopy. The springy boughs slowed his fall, depositing him on mother earth with surprising gentleness, as if seeking forgiveness for the terror she had put him through. Lying there with the red handle welded to his sweaty palm, Ron looked skyward and offered his thanks.

Tony, with Fred a few yards behind, followed the edge of the wood, stopping often to listen, while Fred scanned the landscape with his night sight. At the apex of the wood where it joined a young plantation, Fred grabbed Tony’s arm and offered him the night sight, pointing ahead. Adjusting the scope slightly, Tony could make out the billowing canopy entangled high among the branches of a tall pine. Following the rigging lines down, he spotted a figure sprawled at the base of the tree.

Covering the short distance in record time, Tony prepared himself for the worst. He gently lifted the man’s head and recognised Ron in the slim beam of his wildly shaking pencil torch. Tony whispered his name. A large grin appeared on the face of the trooper, followed by a wink. Confused for a second, and still gently cradling the head, Tony was amazed when the corpse said, ‘Am I late, boss?’

At this, Tony lost control. ‘You f—ing great dozy bastard. What the f—ing hell do you think you’re doing?’ He ranted and raged, threatening to tear Ron a new rectum. Fred tried calming him down, but Tony had to run out of expletives first and get rid of all his pent-up emotion. The gentle cradling had turned into a neck choke as Tony tried to erase the stupid grin from Ron’s face.

Ron was happy with all the attention he was getting, offering no resistance to Tony’s onslaught. Nothing could be worse than what he had just experienced; he was simply glad to be alive. Finally Tony calmed down and released him.

‘Can I say something, Tony?’ Ron asked nervously. Tony nodded, breathing deeply to bring himself under control. ‘Can I have a troop transfer?’

Fred stepped in to avert another outburst but was surprised when Tony put a reassuring hand on Ron’s shoulder and said, ‘We’ll talk about it back in camp.’

In a clump of stunted mountain ash, Tony reported in to Flight Lt Mace, the DZ safety officer. He told him of the location of Trooper Ron Chandler and left him and the doctor to help recover his kit.

Tony and Fred rejoined the patrol at the RV, where they sat in all-round defence, eager for news. With all pretence of a tactical insertion gone, Tony brought the patrol up to date, telling them of Ron’s escapade.

He had chosen a long route over the Beacons as a test of stamina. Initially the route was due south to the Cray reservoir over fairly flat ground, before turning east to climb over two valleys to the Storey Arms road. From here there was a hard climb over Pen y Fan, the highest point in the Beacons, along the ridge past Cribyn, then over Fan y Big before dropping steeply to the Neuadd reservoir, where hopefully the transport would be waiting. Altogether the march was 35 kilometres long, over rugged hills.

‘Right lads, saddle up. It will be first light soon and I want to be on the high ground,’ ordered Tony.

Putting down his night goggles, Captain Kennedy, 3 Troop Commander, turned to his sergeant and said, ‘They must be on the ground now. Remind the boys it’s a case of beer for every birdman captured.’ He had taken up position in the night but had to stay outside a 5 km circle from the DZ for safety reasons. They had heard the aircraft but had seen nothing. His troop was eager to go; it was no fun lying on damp ground. He deployed most of his men to the north, thinking that was the route 2 Troop would take as a deception plan, before heading south. Once it was light it was a foot race to the Neuadd reservoir, so he got his men up and started the sweep southwards, hoping to intercept his rivals.

The lingering smell of peat gave way to the fragrance of pine as the patrol entered a forest block where the going was firmer underfoot. Conditions changed from ankle-twisting tufted grass surrounded by water-soaked peat that sucked the boots down, reluctant to release them. Walking on the carpet of pine needles was like walking across a Persian rug, allowing Tony to set a cracking pace. Light started filtering through the trees, so they stayed in the shadows and used the fire breaks that ran in their direction.

Features could be seen as the light improved, and objects took on more definition. As Tony’s troop emerged from the forestry block, they saw movement to their left.

‘Look over there,’ pointed Phil. ‘It’s 3 Troop.’

The race was on. Tony put Andy as lead scout, telling him to open his legs and go for it.