to put on.
     I  stayed  where I was, watching and  listening. I could  see four main
buildings. To my left was the long, low building, of which I could see about
a third. I was assuming  that it was the DMP. To  the right of that were two
other buildings; one was definitely the kitchen and administration area. The
door opened, and out  came  an old boy of about  fifty  or sixty  wearing  a
football T-shirt, a pair of shorts, plimsolls and a fag in his mouth. He was
carrying a pile of pots and pans, which he just threw onto the ground. There
were small piles of kitchen rubbish strewn around within easy  reach of  the
door.
     There was also a generator running, the noise seeming to come  from the
other side of the  cookhouse. I could still hear odds bursts of shouting but
had only seen the old boy. I wanted to know what the protection looked like,
how many of them there were, and what weapons they had.
     After about an hour I backtracked out. Whether it  was too early in the
morning or the .  re  simply wasn't a lot going on, I didn't know.  I backed
out until I reached One-of-three-Joses. He was sitting there grinning away.
     I took the camera off and gave it the cutthroat sign. I put my belt kit
on, pointed to him, and showed him the way we were going  to  go , which was
anticlockwise.
     It  took us about twenty minutes to travel thirty meters to be near the
edge of the amp again. We stopped, I  signaled to One-of-three-Joses to stay
where he was,  and I inched  forward.  This time  I  was  facing  the living
accommodation, and  almost  immediately  I saw a  white face. He was  small,
about five feet five inches,  in his forties, and in the process of throwing
away a bowl of water. He was wearing only a pair of shorts,  boots, and dark
glasses. His hair was wet and pushed back; I guessed he'd  just had  a wash.
His arms were darkly tanned up  to the T-shirt line, and  he had a big white
ring around his neck. He hadn't shaved for about  a week and looked  in shit
state.  He put a fag in his mouth and  lit  up and then walked back into the
hut.  I  was pleased:  at least one European. I  just wised  the  camera was
working and knew I'd get a bollocking from Gar.
     I had  been  waiting  there for  another forty-five  minutes  when  two
players appeared. One  had  a long, a G3 automatic nfl, the really old  type
with the  longer muzzle and  solid stock. The  other one  wasn't armed. They
moved from the living accommodation over in the direction  of the processing
hut, which  I couldn't  see. They  were  very casual,  smoking, talking, and
laughing, obviously very confident about where they were.
     That  was  three  characters,  not counting the  old cookhouse  boy.  I
stayed. I didn't move to swat the mosquitoes that were landing on me; I just
kept my head low, looking up  and listening, trying to take in every detail.
My head was starting to fill up with lumps, but I'd given up by  then. I was
lying there with my hands in front of me, resting my chin on my hands.
     To help me listen, I opened my jaw a little to close off any swallowing
sounds.
     I was trying to get a  mental picture of exactly what this place looked
like.  I had only about 20  percent of the information at the  moment, and I
had to get as much as I could.
     I  could  see  where  the  generator  was now.  It was  between the two
buildings. I  could alsosee antennas  on the roofs.  There  was a  satellite
dish, which could have been for television or comms. There was also a normal
whip antenna.
     I  could  hear  music  playing  and  everyday  routine  noises.  Plates
clattered; men laughed. I heard two men talking in their own language, which
was possibly Dutch or Flemish-I  was  no expert. I didn't particularly care;
all I knew was that there were Europeans in the camp.
     I was starting to get really tuned in now. I could picture this side of
the  camp, where the doors were,  how they  opened  up. It  was  fairly good
construction and had been there  a long time.  The areas where  they  walked
were well trodden down.
     It started to look as if something was happening.
     From  the  direction of the processing  hut I  heard  another generator
sparking up. I decided to give it half an hour.
     The  European came out,  now  wearing  a  grubby-looking  T-shirt,  and
sauntered over toward the processing hut.
     Then another two came out.  They weren't talking, but they  were white.
One was rubbing  his hair  as he walked, obviously having  just got  up. He,
too, was in his forties, but much taller than the others. He wore A American
combat trousers and a dirty smiley-face T-shirt. His hair was  long and dark
blond and elither wet or greasy. The  other was about two paces  in front of
him and enjoying a cigarette. He was in his late twenties or early  thirties
and looked much smarter, and was carrying a leather bag.
     Something was about to start.
     I now knew there were definitely at least six people in the  camp,  but
there were still people in the accommodation, and I needed to know how many.
All I'd seen so far was one G3; I also needed to know how many weapons there
were.
     I waited for another half an hour,  but nothing happened. I could still
hear music and the sounds of the  cook throwing around his bits and  pieces,
but it seemed that everything was happening around the other side. I crawled
back out. One-of-three-Joses was really happy to see me this time; he'd been
sitting there for what  must  have  seemed  like hours, and  in his head  he
didn't know what  was happening.  I motioned for him to stay still  and then
set off.
     I mooched down a few more  meters, following the rough line of the camp
perimeter.  I moved  on my hands  and knees trying to find another point  to
move in. I couldn't see  the  camp but could hear it. I was not getting down
near the river, which was the original feature that  the blokes on the recce
patrol had gone to find. I moved between the  water and  the  camp  and came
across a wellwom track with tire marks.
     Have they got a vehicle? I decided to  go  down to the river and follow
the track. On the opposite side  of  the track were two  rubber Geminis with
outboards. They  were  beached  on the  bank and concealed in undergrowth. I
still couldn't see where the vehicle tracks came from.
     It must have been something that was carried on the boats and then used
as transport.
     I  now wanted  to get onto the other side of  the  DMP to see  what was
going on and how many people were involved. There obviously weren't going to
be  that many because  there wasn't enough accommodation. I went back, spoke
right into One-of-three-Joses's ear and said, "We're going to go back around
the other side." He nodded, turned, and off we went in really slow time.
     Every time there was a noise we stopped and listened.
     Once it subsided,  we carried on, keeping far  enough from the camp not
to be seen, but close enough so we could hear what was going on.
     When we were right on the opposite  side,  I stopped, took  my belt kit
off, and  kitten-crawled in. There was  a  definite  amount  of activity.  I
wasn't bothering to look up at the  moment;  all I was doing was  getting as
near as I  could.  As soon as I  could  hear  clearly what  was going on,  I
stopped and listened.
     It looked as if things were about to  spark up in what I presumed to be
the actual  manufacturing area. As I got closer and closer, I could see that
the  manufacturing  building,  about  two-thirds of the height  of the other
buildings,  was in  fact an open  hut with the roof  supported by posts  and
walls  that only went a third of the way. In the  shadows I could see people
moving around.
     There wasn't a massive hive of activity, but there were certainly other
generators running. I could see the heat now  coming  off the  ground in the
exposed camp.
     To the left of the processing hut was another building.
     I guessed that it was a storeroom of some kind.  Also  on  that side, I
saw a three-wheeled trike with a trolley.
     I waited another ten  minutes,  took a deep breath, and started  moving
again. By  now it  was starting to get pretty hot. The sun was up, and I was
on the edge of the  cleared canopy. I could feel  the heat on the back of my
neck and on my shirt. I  was  a bit worried at one stage because  I  thought
that if my stuff started to dry out, they might see the steam.
     I was stinking. The bottom  half of my body was soaking  wet, and I was
covered in  mud and bits of twig and brush. I kept wanting to scratch it and
rub at the  mozzie bites  that felt as if they covered every exposed inch of
flesh.
     But the only thing I wanted moving were my eyes.
     I was  breathing really heavily.  I didn't want to go further  forward,
but I knew I had to.  We needed information; otherwise  we'd just have to go
back the next day.
     The  next thing I saw  was a  weapon. It was  an  oldtype  M16  with  a
triangular stock, left leaning against the trike. It meant these people were
fairly  nonfussed;  they  were  obviously  feeling  comfortable  with  their
situation.
     I  still couldn't see how many people there were. Probably some of them
were still in the huts. All  I  could  see  from  this  perspective was  the
processing hut; I  couldn't see the'living accommodation.  I'd fucked  up; I
should have stayed on the other side for longer so I could see people coming
and going.
     I was annoyed with myself. I didn't want to  stay there any longer than
I had to,  and I didn't want to  come back another day.  I imagined what the
people at  the  final  RP  were  thinking.  They'd  be  sitting  here  doing
absolutely  nothing,  frustrated as  hell. I knew; I'd  done it myself often
enough. I hoped they felt confident enough to sit and wait.
     At last there was movement. A boy came out to the trike  and sat on it.
He lit up a cigarette and leaned back on the seat, soaking up a bit  of sun.
He had  sunglasses on and a pair  of jeans that were rolled up to halfway up
his calf muscles, and trainers but no  socks.  He had a  light-colored denim
shirt hanging out of his jeans. That was one more narco.
     He shouted at somebody, went around the back, and  disappeared. He then
came back into view and started to walk toward me. He didn't pick his weapon
up, but I was flapping.  One  thing I didn't want was eye-to-eye contact;  I
kept looking at his feet.  I  had my chin on  my hands; I kept still, taking
really slow, deep breaths. I thought: If he walks much closer, he's going to
see me.
     What then? Am I  going to drop him and  run? Or am I going to draw  the
pistol and shoot him and  run?  Or do I just take him, get him down, tie him
up, and keep him quiet?  I wasn't too sure. I decided to play it  by ear; it
certainly wasn't a good day out at all.
     I was sure he hadn't seen me, or he would have picked his gun up.
     He  didn't look  inquisitive;  he  was  just walking.  But  the  closer
somebody gets to you, the more chance  there  is of being seen.  He  got  so
close I was bracing myself for a shout.  Suddenly he veered to the left-hand
side of me. Fuck, I thought, if he's going to  start mooching in the jungle,
he'll find.One-of-three-Joses. Was he going for a shit?
     They must have some facility, probably for shitting into the river.
     What the hell was he doing?
     He  walked past, no more than  two meters away from  my  face.  At that
stage I put my head down, closed my eyes, and kept as still as possible.
     I heard  his trainers  kicking  the ground; then  he  shouted  back  at
somebody.  I was looking on the jungle  floor,  trying to  keep my breath as
slow  and controlled as  possible.  I wanted  to start  going slowly  for my
pistol.
     But  it was in a shoulder holster, and to get it, I'd have had to cross
my  hand over my chest and go down for the pistol grip, which  was  going to
create movement  and noise. If he came over, I'd just  have to spin over and
draw it. Mentally  I was  running through it.  The safety catch  was on; the
hammer  was back. All I had to do was drive it  out, flick that safety catch
off and I could shoot him.  I'd turn over and  push my foot up because if he
started lunging at  me, I could keep my foot up and keep him off my body and
then drop  him.  And then I'd just run for it-and I  hoped  not  get shot by
One-of-Three-Joses.
     He carried on moving to the left. About two minutes later he came back,
carrying a small cardboard box.
     There must  be  another  part of  the camp that I hadn't seen,  another
storeroom or  something. So  could there be  more  people up there? Could it
Just be a storeroom?
     Why would they have a storeroom that far away?
     He went back to the trike and dropped the box onto the floor.  It split
open, and cans fell out. He picked one of them up, stabbed it, and lifted it
to his mouth. Yet it wasn't a drinks can, it was small and flat, more like a
can of tuna. Then it dawned on me: It was milk.
     It was condensed milk.
     After about another hour I  decided to move. I wasn't seeing that much,
and it was starting to get really hot.
     People weren't moving around. I didn't know how  much activity it  took
to  manufacture drugs. All I knew was that  I'd seen people doing  things in
the processing hut.
     I had a good idea of the  layout of  the camp but  not what  lay to the
left-hand side.
     My heart was pounding severely. I was  pleased that we'd found  a plant
and revved up because now we had to do something about it.
     I eased myself back and got  back to One-of-three-Joses. We  had eye to
eye, and I gave him a thumbs-up before quietly putting my kit on. I  pointed
up to the area where the character  had been walking and further to the left
of the target. He  didn't seem too pleased,  as  he'd obviously assumed that
the recce was  over; time was pressing, and if we didn't get back  soon,  it
meant a  night in the FRP. We mooched on very slowly. We  started going up a
gentle rise, and then we hit a track.
     The  trees and vegetation  were very  sparse now, and  we had  beams of
sunlight coming down on  us. It was boiling. it was  obvious to  me  at once
that  this must be the track the character had  gone to. Up to the  left was
flat ground; we  doubled back on ourselves and went up onto the high ground.
We stopped. I took my kit off and went forward on my hands and knees, pistol
in my hand.
     It  was a clear, flat area with a wooden platform-a helipad. There were
odds and ends scattered around, including  cardboard boxes.  Some  food must
have  come in by  helicopter and been  left there. A helipad  was  excellent
news; it meant we could get helicopters in right on target.
     By now I  was  sweating good style in the heat.  Crickets were chirping
away; the noise was different outside the canopy compared with the inside. I
could feel the wind, and the light was hazy, shimmering.
     It  made me want  to  go and stretch out in the  sun before I went back
into the other world of doom and gloom.
     I got back to One-of-three-Joses and sat there for a while. Back in the
relative  safety of the undergrowth, I  allowed myself a few  deep  breaths.
jose was grinning again, and this time it was pure relief.
     He knew that we must have finished. In my mind I ran through whether we
knew everything we needed  to  know. I came  to  the conclusion  that it was
pointless coming back  in the next  day; I knew as  much as  I was going  to
know, unless I sat there all day again and tried  to count people. It wasn't
a mass of activity, which made it difficult  to count. I  knew there were at
least two weapons, and I could only guess that the  guards would use them to
defend the plant.
     There was a lot of money at stake. Some of these people  would stay and
defend the plants  at any price;  they knew  there couldn't  be an unlimited
supply  of men coming in and attacking the place, so it might be worth their
while just taking us on.
     I  was satisfied that we  had all the first-phase information  that  we
needed. I tapped One-of-three-Joses on the  boot and  nodded toward the FRP.
He was happy now as we made our way carefully back to the others.
     We met the bergen cache from exactly the same direction we  had left. I
passed on all the information so that everybody  would know exactly the same
as we did. If One-of-three-Joses  and I suddenly dropped dead, at  least the
information would have been pooled.
     "We're going to stay here for the night," I said. "I want to go forward
again tomorrow morning."
     Their faces fell, and it suddenly dawned  on me that I'd  forgotten who
these guys were and had been treating them as members of the Regiment.
     I changed my mind. "We're going to leave  from here in a  minute and go
back to the L.U.P."
     The  relief was evident; as far as they were concerned, they were being
cut from the danger area. Rodriguez flashed me a brilliant smile.
     We got back to the L.U.P-I was going  to send a sitrep out  that night,
but it was getting too dark. I decided to prepare it and encrypt it and bang
it out first thing in the morning. I'd tell them what I'd seen of the  camp,
the numbers, the grid of where we  were going to sponsor the troop RP, which
was  where we were. Once the four  recce patrols  were  assembled,  we would
become a fighting  patrol. I'd also say that  I was going to send an OP  out
the- same day to go and get more information. I decided not to use the video
the next  day as I didn't want to put them under pressure to use it and then
fuck up.
     It felt good to know that the other patrols would  be on their way, and
all we had to do now was gather as much information as possible.
     It was  going to be difficult to decide who was going to go down on the
OP the next day; it couldn't be me because the priority  was to stay put and
sponsor the troop RP and prepare for the attack.
     I decided  one of them  had to be One-of-three-Joses because  he'd been
down there anyway and knew the area; the other would be Rodriguez.
     I didn't  want  to  send  El Nino, purely because the strain would have
been too much. I didn't particularly want to send  anyone down there, but we
needed more  information-the other patrols would expect  it.  In,  any event
these guys would  have to do it themselves sooner or later, so they might as
well crack on and do it now.
     I got everybody together  just before last light and  said, "Well done,
everybody,  excellent.  Tomorrow  we're  going  to  send  this  information.
Everybody's going to come  to us, we're going to  show them where it is, and
we're going  to hit it. It's been a  really good day-well  done! Tomorrow we
need people to go down there. I  want responsible people, and  it was really
difficult  to  decide  who,  but I  want  you,  One-of-three-Joses, and you,
Rodriguez, to get down there and get as much information as possible.
     It's your job; it's your responsibility. Think  of how good  it will be
to get down there and do it."
     Their faces were a picture.
     "I want to know how many people there are and what weapons," I said  to
them. "I want to know if any  boats come in,  if they  use  the trike, if  a
helicopter  comes,  what time  everybody  goes  to  dinner. I want  to  know
everything  you can see.  But most of all,  how many narcoguerrillas and how
many  weapons. If you think you can't do it, don't  push yourselves.  Try to
listen to  what they're saying, but only do enough to get the information-is
that all right? Everybody is depending on you two to get that information."
     We had rain in  the early evening,  and everyone lay there  absorbed in
his own thoughts. In the  morning Rodriguez  and  One-of-three-Joses set off
toward the camp. I stayed  behind to sit on  the radio because I was waiting
for a  reply about  what was going on. Two  hours later Gar came back on the
net and said, "Let's go for it.
     I'm going to tell the other patrols to 'start moving in toward you, and
you sponsor the RP."
     On day  one,  he said, which  was  the following day,  the first patrol
would be  coming  in  between ten  o'clock  and midday, on a  bearing of due
south. If  they didn't  make that, the next  window would be the next day at
the same time. He then gave  timings for the other two patrols  to arrive in
the afternoon. If they missed their,windows, they, too, would wait until the
next day at the same times.
     With  Gonz  and  El  Nino I  began preparing  for the  other patrols to
arrive. We dug up an area the size of  a dining-room table to make a sandbox
model.  I  made model  buildings in  the  soil,  together with  a river  and
helipad.  When that  was done, we  sat  around  drinking  water  and  eating
biscuits.
     I spoke with El Nino. He was very quiet and insecure.
     He wasn't happy about what was going on. He didn't want to be there; it
had  probably  all sounded  like  good  fun in  the  beginning, but now  the
realities of  it were  living in the field,  wet and stinking, and going  in
against a  violent enemy. The only thing he was pleased about was being part
of the final RP.
     "Where do you come from?" I asked.
     As we chatted  on, he started to come  out with  some fasc' ating stuff
about malaria. "The strain is  very  weak in in Latin America, compared with
Southeast Asia, so  it'sea I sier for scientists  to work on. That's  what I
really want  to be.  I want to go  to university and  study medicine.  But I
can't afford to, so here I am."
     I  put my bergen next to a tree and sat against it. It was wonderful to
relax and listen to the birds in the canopy.
     The  only drawback  was that I could smell  myself, and I stank like an
old druggie.
     About two hours before last light Rodriguez and One of-three-Joses came
back. I was on stag, still sitting against the tree but watching the area of
the plant.
     "What did you see?" I asked.
     They spoke quickly, saying a  lot that I didn't understand. I went back
to basics. "Narcoguerrilla?"
     "Ocho."
     "Fusilos?"
     "Ocho.
     I asked what the narcoguerrillas had been doing.
     Rodriguez grinned, tilted  his hand, and said, "Cerveza." So there were
eight  men with  weapons and three white-eyes.  On the  model they showed me
that  the people  were  just wandering around  doing  nothing in particular.
Maybe they were waiting for a delivery or a pickup, but there didn't seem to
be much going  on.  It would be  quite worrying if they were waiting  for  a
pickup. Did that mean that boatloads of people would be turning up?
     My concerns  were  suddenly  put in  the shade.  The  sound of gunshots
echoed through the canopy, coming from  the area of the camp. Birds screamed
and lifted  from  the  trees;  the  whole  forest  was  alive. Single  shots
followed, then a quick burst,  and  another burst. Then silence, and another
couple of single shots.
     The boys looked at each other in alarm, then to me  for reassurance. We
all had our belt  kits on and weapons;  we got down by our bergens and stood
to, trying to listen.
     I couldn't work out what it was all about. There were  no other patrols
in the area; they weren't arriving until the next day, so they wouldn't have
stumbled on it. So what the hell were they firing at?
     Five  minutes later there were  another two  single shots, followed  by
another two. This went on for about twenty minutes. I thought, Do we go down
there tomorrow  and  find out? Were they  arguing  among themselves?  Was it
another gang coming in to steal their supplies? It was quite worrying.
     The only thing I could put it  down  to was that  they were  pissed and
doing target practice or firing into the river.  Whatever, it confirmed that
the weapons worked, which was a bit of a shame.
     That night we got the ponchos and hammocks up. I didn't get much sleepI
was  running through in my mind exactly what I had  seen and hoping that the
model  was right. Everybody was, I hoped, going to start coming in tomorrow.
The first patrol, Terry's, wasn't that far away. I knew he'd be cracking on,
no longer concerned about being tactical, just making distance.
     They'd be holding  up for  the night, then  motoring  on again at first
light. I felt sorry for his patrol;  I knew what it was like. I imagined the
big, sweaty  messes  sorting themselves  out after  a  hard tab through  the
jungle.
     We were up at first light. I  spent some  tim  at the model, trying  to
come up with some sort of plan so I could start talking as soon as the other
patrols arrived.
     At  half past nine we  covered  all  the  arcs  and waited  for Terry's
patrol. They arrived just over an hour later.
     Looking down at the slightly lower ground, I could see Terry looking up
with a big  bone grin on his dark,  sweaty  face. It was obvious they'd been
screaming along.
     Terry was twenty-nine, tall, blond, had sticky-out  ears, and was madly
in love with his wife and two kids.
     He  had the sort of West Country  accent that only  bad actors  put on.
He'd come from the R.A.F regiment, having  decided that he either  wanted to
be in the Regiment or become an accountant. Many a time he was told that  he
might have been better off as an accountant.
     "How's it going, mate?" I said.
     "Fucking good one."
     "You're looking a bit fatigued. A long distance for those old legs, was
it?"
     "Fucking distance-tell me about it," he said, bent  double, leaning  on
his weapon.
     The rest of the patrol tabbed in,  breathing heavily, their  faces  and
hair soaking wet. As soon  as they stopped,  I saw steam  rising  from their
heads.
     I turned to Terry. "What I want you to do, mate, is get the patrol down
where you see that big crooked tree.
     There's no big rush, so  get some  scoff  and we'll get together  later
on."
     "I'll get the boys sorted out..Then I'll come up and see you."
     His patrol were grinning at my lads and giving them the thumbs-up.
     My group looked happy to have support; the  other  patrol were happy to
have finished the tab.
     I started preparing the sitrep I was going to send out that night.
     I hoped it would say that everybody was in.
     If not, we still had the window open the next day. It was important  to
stagger the arrivals, to prevent a blue-one blue.
     The  next  two  patrols  arrived  on  time,  between  twelvethirty  and
two-thirty and three and five; they all looked knackered after the fast hike
without stops.
     I said, "I'm going to send the sitrep off  now; then I'll show you what
we've got and see what you reckon."
     An hour or so later we sat on our bergens around the sand model and did
an appreciation. I explained the layout of the camp and said, "It's  obvious
that  the  majority of the stuff comes up and down by river. They've got the
two Geminis down at the bottom there, and there's the helipad. We're looking
at eight  narcos with five  fifty-sixes and seven sixty-twos. There's  three
EuropeansGerman or  Dutch, who knows? Do you  reckon we've got enough people
here? There's twenty of us, against eight. They're extremely casual; they're
walking around leaving their weapons all  over the place, and it  looks like
they've even been on the piss."
     Terry  muttered, "Lucky  fuckers."  He  went  on.  "I  reckon twenty is
enough, no problems."
     Rod had mixed us up some cold Camp coffee. As the mug was handed around
he said, "Let's bin it now.
     We'll stand to, then crack on with it in the morning.
     Anyone want a sip?"
     Rod  was the  cleanest, tidiest, and most  organized man  I'd ever met,
with the possible exception of Eno.  He was thirty-six going on  sixteen and
seemed  to  care  about  nothing.  His  hair  was   always  very  short  and
fashionable, and he was forever moaning about his  chapped lips, carrying  a
jar of Vaseline with him everywhere. To Rod,  the operation seemed secondary
to making  sure his lips  were okay and that there would be some time off to
buy some new fashion clothes.
     As I lay in my hammock, I mulled everything over again in my mind.
     It  seemed really  straightforward,  and I wasn't  particularly worried
about it. We had four Regiment  blokes and  sixteen well-trained  policemen,
and we had the element of surprise. I  was looking forward to getting it all
over and done with  and  having a few days  off before we came  back to find
some more.
     My thoughts drifted  to Kate and domestic  things.  Our house still had
bits and  pieces to be done to it. The garage roof was starting to leak, and
we'd been talking about painting the hallway when I got back.
     I thought about wintertime in Britain. I loved walking through the town
at the dead of night, when all the shop lights were on and it was drizzling.
I  thought about taking  Kate down to the shops. We  used  to go to a  penny
sweet  place  and  pick  and  mix all  her  favorites,  which  seemed  to be
everything in the shop.
     At  first light we packed'up and sent a sitrep to Gar,  telling him all
the  patrols were  in. By now rriy patrol were used to this place; it seemed
we had been there for weeks, not just days. It was the same feeling as going
into a strange house,  which  becomes more and  more familiar as the evening
wears on.
     It was quite a boring  time for most people, but they didn't mind as it
was better than tabbing like a man possessed to get to an RP.
     They had  been given a warning ordei about an impending attack and were
now sorting their kits out and cleaning their weapons. They should have been
field-stripping the weapons, taking the working parts out and cleaning them.
But as  long as  a weapon was well maintained, there was no need to do that.
All that was  needed was  a quick squirt with something like WD40 around the
working  parts  so they knew the thing was going to go backward and forward.
The blokes were checking  their magazines, making sure they weren't damaged,
since most stoppages came from the magazine. Apart from  that  everybody was
just generally  resting, waiting  for any tasks before  the orders, such  as
patrols being sent back to confirm information.
     The  police carried pounds and  pounds of sugar with them and seemed to
eat it with everything. The one good thing they carried in their rations was
a small can of condensed milk. Years before,  we used to have condensed milk
in a tube in our rations, but that was taken out, which was a shame, because
it  was lovely. We mixed up the milk with Camp  coffee and lots of sugar and
settled down around the model to get to grips with what we were going to do.
     Rod finished putting Vaseline on his  lips and  said, "We know what the
mission is: to arrest the occupants of the DMP and  destroy their equipment.
We know we've got three Europeans, who are unarmed. Shame we haven't got any
negatives of them. Chances are they're just there to work on the processing.
They won't resist an attack."
     "What  comms have they got?" Tony asked as he passed the mug around and
opened a packet of boiled sweets.
     I said, "We saw some antennas and a satellite dish.
     We don't know if it's TV or comms. Chances are it's a TV dish; however,
that can't  be confirmed. But if  we're going to  bang them at first  light,
they're not going to have time to get on the net. Even if they do, nothing's
going to happen. Gar'll get the reaction force in very quickly."
     I looked at Terry and  had to smile. He'd been rubbing his chin and had
come across a zit. Now he was squeezing it and inspecting the yield.
     I carried on: "There's one building down the bottom that looks like the
cook and bottle washer's area.
     There's  been someone seen going in and out. He  hasn't been armed-just
an old boy in his sixties. About five meters to the south of that is another
building that looks like the administration block.
     It has its own generator.
     The one above it is certainly the living accommodation."
     "What makes  you think  that?" Terry  asked, wiping  pus  on  his shirt
sleeve.
     "That's where they all were coming out of, and I saw the boy coming out
after his wash. The other hut is definitely where they do the business. It's
low and long; it's only partially walled. There was a lot of movement in and
out during the time we were watching.
     There's one other storeroom, but I couldn't make out what was in it."
     I  took a swig of Camp  coffee and pointed at the model. "As far  as  I
could see, the perimeter isn't protected, but I didn't see jack shit.
     The area was cut out of the forest, and that's it."
     "Whereabouts did  you hit the perimeter,  mate?" Rod was looking at the
model and making more coffee.
     "Here  was definitely  okay," I sat,  pointing. "And  here's definitely
okay. We then moved around left and went up near  the  helipad, and that was
fine."
     "What's the going like in the camp? Is it well trodden or do we have to
start scrambling over shit?" Tony said.
     "I'm fucked after tabbing here yesterday."
     "Well trodden.  It's been used for ages. There are  no duckboards,  but
it's old baked mud  because it's exposed  to the sunlight. It looked like it
was cleared and burnt, like the farmers do. There's some  stumps around from
when it was cleared, but apart from that, it's okay."
     "What are the buildings made of?"
     "They're solid wood, with atap and palm-leaf coverage,  over corrugated
iron. They're obviously trying to cam it up."
     "What's the walls like and the doors?"
     I explained about the inner and outer doors.
     "We need to make sure we can get into these fuckers," Rod said.
     "We'll go for an explosive entry anyway."
     "Yeah, why not?"  Terry  took  a mouthful of cold coffee and passed the
mug around. "That'll fuck ) em up."
     Having looked at the camp, we looked at the enemy.
     "What do you reckon their intentions are?" Terry said.
     He couldn't resist it; he had to keep playing with  his zit, hoping for
more to come out. The thing was bleeding.
     "I don't know," I said.  "Basically there's  nowhere for  them to go. I
think they'll take us on. They'll protect it.
     There's  a  lot of  money involved, so  they'll look after the produce.
That's why they've got so many people armed.
     What do you reckon?"
     Rod jumped in. "I agree. All they're going to  do is blat off  loads of
rounds and try to  leg it,  but they'll retaliate, without a doubt. We might
get one or  two  runners.  I think  we need  to  get  right on top of  these
fuckers.
     "We  know they've got  five fifty-six,  and there's  a  G three running
around, so we know we've got that coming down on  us. We don't  want to take
them on, because we don't want  to  start taking casualties. We want  to hit
them as early as  possible, bang them while they're sleeping. Then let's get
the fuck out of here for a few days because  I think I have a zit coming up,
and we can't have that now." As ever, he looked completely relaxed and there
wasn't a hair out of place.
     Now we looked  at their relative strengths and capabilities, which were
basically that they  just killed every fucker. Their tactics,  if they  were
members or ex-members of any narcoguerrilla organization, would be very John
Wayne: just loads of rounds going down everywhere.
     Then we  looked at the  ground-the  terrain and  vegetation-then "vital
ground": If we got a certain bit  of  ground, would that  dominate the whole
area? "I had a look around," I  said. "There's  no vital ground. The helipad
might have been okay because  it  was  higher  than the  camp and in  theory
overlooked it, but in fact I couldn't see Jack shit."
     "So there's nowhere we can put a decent cover group in high ground. The
only way it could happen is by its coming into the camp."
     "Andy, tell us how we can get in."
     "When I went down there"-l pointed-"there weren't any obstacles.
     It was quite easy to get to. There's just  one  small river to the east
of it, but that's knee-high and slow-flowing, not a tactical problem.
     I've got an area for the FRP; I've also got an area for the start line.
I reckon that the cover roup  needs to go in with you to be right on target.
I don't think I can go anywhere to get the high ground."
     Tony said, "Okay, no drama. So do you reckon we need more'people in, or
what?"
     Rod  cut in. "I don't think we need it at all.  If we hit these fuckers
at  first light and go  for it,  we'll get them while they're still in their
little old beds."
     Terry  nodded. "If we get that  explosive entry on, we can  sort it out
there and then, in two or three minutes," he said.
     "Sounds  good  to  me,"  I  said.  "We  could  get  it  done,  get  the
reinforcements in, then withdraw and get back for tea and cakes."
     We  then had to look at time and  space: What  was the earliest time we
could get the attack in?
     "I don't particularly want to rush this." Rod had made up his mind what
he  wanted to happen.  "I don't want to go  in tomorrow  morning.  I want to
spend the day  planning; we've got to get  our  guys sorted  out.  If we  go
straight  in at  first light, it means  we've  got to move before last light
tonight. Let's go in the day after tomorrow."
     Everybody was in agreement.
     "If we move from here to the FRP tomorrow, spend the night at  the FRP,
and then go and do  the attack at  first light,  then  we've cracked it.  So
we've got tonight  and  tomorrow to sort our shit out. More nods. "I'll send
the . sitrep in  a minute. If they want us to move earlier, they'll tell us.
But by the time we  get an answer, we won't be  able to move for first light
tomorrow morning."
     "We've  got enough P.E and  all the  kit we need," Rod said. "We  don't
need anything bringing in apart from Gar and his gang."
     "Easy one," Tony said. "Just- get them straight in on
     the helipad. We'll get that cleared as soon as we take the camp."
     The last item on the checklist was the assessment of tasks.
     "We've got the two  huts people are staying in," I said. "And we've got
the river and those boats. I don't know what was down there with  the boats,
I couldn't  see far  enough. I  don't know if people  were staying there, or
what. But  the only  escape route I can  see is  from the  camp down to  the
river."
     "I think we do need  a cutoff group," Rod said. "If there's any fuckers
coming down  that river and we're mincing around, we've got no early warning
and nothing to stop them. We could be in the shit."
     "I agree," said Tony.
     "So one patrol will become a cutoff group down the bottom there."
     Rod  pointed.  "Their job  is  stop  any runners, take control  of that
northern end of the camp, and give us early warning along the river."
     We'd made a guess about how the enemy were going to react to an attack.
They'd got the weapons, and it wouldn't be the first time  they'd used them.
The effect of that  would be that we  might have our own casualties, so we'd
got to cater accordingly. We had the patrol medic packs, which for this sort
of task mainly contained trauma management packs. We'd got a helipad, so all
we had to do was make sure  that squadron HQ had a heli stood by to casevac;
where it was going, and why it was going there, the pilot wouldn't know yet.
All he would know was that his aircraft was stood by.
     The  next stage  was to summarize  all the deductions that we'd come to
and to look at the different options open to us; it was a matter of weighing
up the advantages and disadvantages and selecting the best course.
     That then became the plan, and from that plan Rod would make orders.
     There were going to be  four groups: a  cutoff group by  the river, two
assault groups  that were  going to  take the houses, and a cover group that
was going to cover the advance up to the two buildings and dominate the area
in  case there were runners. On  top of that,  Gar was organizing  everrhing
back  at the F.O.B. He had  helis stood by to bring in a  force to burn down
the camp and the publicity machine to film it.
     It was now past midday on day five since finding  the camp. Rod  had to
put it in some form of orders that the patrols could understand.
     This  was quite difficult  because our  Spanish was only good enough to
get by. We  needed to involve them as much as we could,  because in the near
future they would be doing this themselves.
     Everybody assembled around the sand  model with  weapons and  belt kit.
Some  of  the  boys  were  interested in it;  other '  rs  looked  tired and
indifferent. Terry spoke the best Spanish, so he did the talking.
     "We have found the camp," he  said, 14 and this is what it looks  like.
Tomorrow morning we're all going to leave here, and go to the final RP. From
there my group will move to the other side of the camp and become the cutoff
for the attack. Everyone else will stay at the final RP.
     The following morning the three groups will move to the camp.
     Andy's group will be the cover group;  Rod's  group  will  attack  this
building, and Tony's group will attack this one. Each patrol commander  will
show you what  he wants you to do. In the camp  there are  about eight armed
men. We will go in there early in  the morning, when they are  asleep. There
will  be no problems.  All  you have to do  is  listen  to  what your patrol
commander is telling you.
     "In  a minute,  when we've  finished,  the patrols will get together in
their areas  and the patrol commander  will tell you what he wants done. Are
there any questions?"
     They all shook their heads and split into their groups.
     The four of us got back together to confirm what would be going on.
     Terry's cutoff team  would move to the north of the camp. They would be
in position as a cutoff if anyone legged it  from the camp to the boats, the
only known  escape route. It would be no good  their  going  to the helipad;
there  was nothing there,  and it was surrounded by jungle.  "I won't bother
trying to rig  the  boats," Terry  said, "because  of the  compromise factor
during daylight hours." If  anybody found  the boats had been tampered with,
they'd be suspicious and on the alert.
     The cutoff  team's other job was to give  an early warning  of anything
coming down the river. We could be sitting  there in the daytime in our FRP,
ready to do a first-light attack, and six boatloads of narcoguerrillas could
slip quietly into the camp for a big piss-up.
     There'd  be  twenty  of  us  screaming  in  there  big  time,  suddenly
confronted by a defending force of eighty. Not to be recommended.
     It was now starting to rain, and it was a funny sight  watching all the
normal activity going on with water dripping off people's noses.
     The cutoff team  would  take  their  bergens  and belt  kits with  them
because they would be working independently. They would split off from us as
soon  as possible  once we'd  reached the  FRP, because they  needed as much
daylight as possible  to get there, sort  their shit out, and do their recce
so they'd  know what they  had to do and where  they  had to do it.  As they
moved into  position, the  rest  of  us would be in  the FRP, acting  as the
immediate action; if they were compromised, we'd soon know because we'd hear
the shooting and commotion.
     We'd then  just  have to go for it,  straight into  the camp  and do it
there and then.
     "As soon as you're in position, give us a shout on the Motorola channel
six," I  said. "If  we don't hear anything, we'll just carry on as  planned,
because we might not get the comms."
     All the patrol commanders had  Motorola comms  that we had brought with
us  from  the  UK. They  gave us about  a  kilometer and a half in good open
countryside; sometimes we'd get comms in  the jungle with them; sometimes we
wouldn't.  If  we  didn't  get  a  report  from Terry, and hadn't heard  any
gunfire, we would have to assume that he was okay anyway and carry on.
     One-of-three-Joses  would take Tony and Rod down to the  camp  and show
them the start line and the  two buildings. Once they  came back, we'd  wait
until first light the next day, when we'd start moving off.
     "Once the  camp attack goes in," Rod carried on to  say,  with the rain
still falling and being ignored by everyone, "the cutoff will stay put until
it gets the all clear from me.  if I can't raise you on the comms, I'll send
a runner down.
     Make sure  your  patrol knows!  Once  the  buildings are secure  I want
Andy's team to clear the work hut and then go up to the helipad. If you move
in once it's secure, we'll centralize all the boys, get them  down, and I'll
call Gar in with the aircraft, so I want  you, Andy, to take the  comms with
you.  Once  Gar comes in  we'll get back  to the  bergens and sort ourselves
out."
     "That's that, then," said  Tony. "We'd better get the sitrep off to Gar
and make sure he knows when we're  going in, then sort the boys  out and get
our heads down."
     The sitrep stated what we were going to  do, what time the camp  attack
was  going in,  the  way  we were going to  do  it, and  how we  wanted  the
helicopters brought in, which was on orange smoke. We said that we'd open up
the net the following morning to get a confirmation that everything was okay
before we  went in.  We wouldn't move until  0900 hours to the final RP, and
from there we'd go ahead with our plaa.
     We went to  our own  individual  patrols and started explainiqg what we
wanted  them to do. "When  we get  to the  FRP  tomorrow morning,"  I  said,
pointing to One of-three-Joses,  "you will take Tony and Rod to the camp and
show them the  edge and where  the two  buildings are. It's a very important
job. If they want to  see anything  else, show them where  it  is, then come
back to us.
     Is that all right?"
     He grinned and nodded, proud to shoulder the responsibility.
     "When he  comes back," I said, "we're going  to  wait there  all night,
back to back, and wait for first light.
     We'll  then  move forward; it's our job to make sure everybody else  is
protected  while they're going into the position. What I want you to  do  is
follow me; I'll put  you in  the position  and  show you where the  rest are
coming in and where to be looking. If you  see anything, I don't want you to
shoot, I just want you to tell me,  and I'll decide if you shoot or  not. If
you hear me shooting, you shoot. Is that okay?"
     They nodded; they  were happy with  that because  there wasn't  much to
think about. I really wanted to labor this point because I didn't want  them
flapping and landing  up shooting one of our blokes as they were coming  in.
"When we  get  into  position, you  will see  our people  coming  from  your
right-hand side, going towards those buildings.
     Anything  else could be the enemy. But I don't want you to shoot unless
I shoot or tell you to.
     "Once the  attack has happened we'll then  have to do two other things.
We'll have to move to the long building here, check the storeroom, and go to
the helipad. But I'll tell you where to go and when. Keep nice and calm, and
if you see something, shout: 'Get down!
     Get  down!"  If  they shoot  at  you, you shoot  back. You must be very
careful. You'll hear lots of explosions and maybe other gunfire.
     Don't worry about that. You just keep looking at your job."
     I looked at each of them in turn. "Rodriguez, any problems?"
     "No."
     "Nino?"
     "No."
     "Gonz?"
     "No."
     "One-of-three-Joses?"
     'No."
     "Good. Tomorrow Gar comes in  with helicopters and more men. We put our
bergens on and fly out. Thenparty time!"
     Rodriguez whispered, "Yee-hah! " and everybody gave a low laugh.
     I liked  these guys.  I enjoyed talking to them; they had a really good
sense of humor. We were very much on the same wavelength; all they wanted to
do was get the job done and then get back and have some fun. They  were very
much into dancing  and whiskey;  me, I couldn't dance, but I did like Famous
Grouse.
     The  blokes in charge  of  the assault groups had a  harder job getting
across what they wanted their-boys to do. Looking  over from our position, I
saw Rod's  group standing in  a line, as if  there was a  door; he  had them
walking in and  practicing their moves, all in slow time and very  quiet. It
was still raining, and their drenched  uniforms were clinging to them.  Some
had  packed their  issue sombreros with  them, and  now I saw why; they were
perfect for keeping the rain off their faces.
     It was getting to last light. We stood to and then put the hammocks up.
I lay in my hammock, eating cold bangers and beans. For pudding, I'd swapped
some of my  food  for  a can  of condensed milk, which  I poured  over  some
hardtack biscuits.  It made me  think  of Tiswas, where Lenny Henry played a
reggae  bloke called Winston; he used  to eat condensed  milk sandwiches.  I
thought about other kids' shows, and  then I thought about Kate and how much
having a child had changed my life.
     In my early days I'd have  been relishing the task and  looking forward
to a lifetime in the Regiment; I used to take the piss out of people on jobs
who talked about their kids or said,  "My boy's got his piano exam tomorrow,
I hope he's okay." Now I could see their point.
     Such apparently trivial things  were in fact very important.  Kate  was
walking, talking, and being stupid, and I  was missing quite a bit  of it. I
decided that when I got back, the three of us would go off on a holiday. And
this time I meant it.
     It  had stopped raining  by first light. I  told my group  to make sure
their  weapons were  oiled up  and a  round  in the  chamber. I checked  for
rattles amid lots of thumbs up and winking.
     The Regiment blokes met up, and  we  got, the radio out. As soon as Gar
had confirmed, we could go in.
     It came up: "Yes, go ahead. The helicopter reaction time will  be about
one hour. It will come in on your orange smoke. If there's no sitrep sent by
ten  hundred hours on  the morning of the attack, we will  come in anyway to
take it."
     We were going to move off half an hour later for the final RP.
     The  order of march was my  patrol, then  the cutoff group, and finally
the two assault groups.  There  was an air of excitement and acceptance that
finally the show was on the road.
     I  told  Rodriguez that  he  was  going to  be lead scout for the whole
troop, and that sparked him up into being very official and important.
     Everybody was leaning on his weapon, bergen on, ready to go.
     Rodiguez  was at the  front, checking his compass. He already knew  the
way, but it looked good.
     We  set off,  and  Rodiguez became the  world's  best  scout.  We  were
stopping every fifteen meters for him to check for movement or sound.
     When we got to the area of  the  FRP, we  stopped  and  everybody knelt
down.  When Terry came up, I pointed, "it9s  in that direction; that'll take
you round the right hand side."
     We checked the  maps,  and he said, "I'll get  down to the line of  the
river and go left, and see where I can get  in. Once I see the Geminis, I'll
sort myself out from there."
     "Right," Rod cut in. I could see the shine on his lips; it was a wonder
they didn't stick together  with  all  that  grease on.  "We'll open  up our
Motorolas at five o'clock tonight.
     We'll keep it open until last light. If we haven't heard  anything from
you, we'll just take it that you're  there and we're not getting the  comms.
If there's been a change of plan, tomorrow morning, when the attack goes in,
just sit tight and  there'll be a runner  down to get you. The helis will be
in at  ten o'clock  anyway if we  fuck UP.  If I don't  see you then mahana,
we'll see you at some other time. I take it you'll chuck a right and go down
to the road."
     My lot and  the  two assault  groups  sat  in  a large circle,  resting
against our bergens in the FRP.
     Tony turned to me and said, "I suppose we'll be off now. We'd better go
and have a look at this place, hadn't we?"
     I  went over to One-of-three-Joses  and  said  with  a  thumbs-up, "You
ready?"
     "I'm ready."
     I had a quick check of his kit and that his safety catch was on, and he
mooched into the canopy  with Tony and Rod.  I could see him  stopping every
six paces, probably to  show off  to his mates  that he was big time now, he
was leading a recce patrol. Tony went up to him and pointed in the direction
of the camp with a motion of  "let's get on  with  it," and they disappeared
from sight.
     The aim  was  to confirm what had  been seen. If there was  any change,
we'd have to reassess and tell the  cutoff that night. If not, too  bad, the
attack would still go in.
     Tony and Rod  needed to  be  on this  recce because they needed to know
where exactly the  two  buildings were  located. They'd seen models of them,
they  had an  idea  of where  they were; however, it was a lot easier to see
them on the  ground,  for somebody to  point them out and say,  "That's your
one, and that's yours." The  rest  of  us just sat  there for the next  five
hours,  eating  biscuits,  drinking water,  swatting flies, and  rubbing  on
mozzie rep. There was no talking, no smoking, no brewing  up. The odd one or
two  were nodding off. it was  a really boring time, as  it so often was. My
mind drifted to Hereford; for the first time ever in my life I felt pangs of
homesickness. I missed family life; I missed our times together.
     There were a couple of trees that needed to be chopped down because the
roots were going to affect the foundations of our house at some stage,  so I
was going to have a look at that. I thought about the  holiday; then I had a
chuckle to  myself, thinking about Rod and Tony  on their stomachs,  puffing
and panting, kitten-crawling through the mud and gunge.
     It  looked  as  if  we were in  for  a downpour, which wasn't  the most
exciting prospect, seeing as how it was  the  equivalent  of  a night out on
belt kit. I told the boys to jet their ponchos out, really  nice and slowly,
and prepare for the rain. It came, not too hard, but insistent.
     The  recce patrol  came  back  in  at about  four-thirty,  looking like
drowned rats.
     "What do you reckon then?" I said.
     Rod  was drinking some water from a bottle,  then  pouring it  over his
head to sweep his hair back. He said, "There's no problems with  that. We'll
just bung an explosive entry on there.  But  you will get in  position first
because we go over that open ground. If we're seen, we're in the shit."
     "We saw the cook and bottle  washer running around in that first  hut,"
Tony said. "Then  we saw a boy coming out with a Car fifteen [small  version
of the M16].
     And  that's  all  we saw. The  generators  were going,  and  there  was
activity, but not much. Good here, ain't it?"
     Rod grinned  with a face full of mud and said, "We should be down there
on the piss with those boys, not sitting here waiting to jump on them. We're
on the wrong bloody side here; look at the state of my kit."
     We  had a little giggle at the thought of Terry; his boys wouldn't even
have their  ponchos out, they'd be sitting  on their bergens, ready  to  go,
probably shivering their cocks off.
     We got our Motorolas out and put our earpieces in.
     At five o'clock we switched on to see if Terry was going to come on the
net. We got jack shit.
     There were no big problems with that. Maybe it was  the distance or the
weather, or maybe they were all hanging upside down from a tree having their
bollocks tickled. There  was nothing  we could do about  it now.  If  he was
there in the morning, he was there. Nevertheless, we kept the net open.
     Just before last light Tony tried again. "Terry, Ton check?" Y5
     Nothin . Everybody hunched up in his poncho as the rain fell harder.
     Back at the squad . ron HQ there would have been maximum activity going
on. Gar would have been getting everybody geared up, and everybody would now
be  stood  to.  Gar had said it  would take them about sixty minutes' flying
time  to  get  to  us.  He  wouldn't  have enjoyed having  to involve  other
agencies, but there was  no option; we needed the aircraft-especially if the
shit hit the fan and we needed some casevac aircraft in.
     We  settled in for  the  night. We  had our belt kits  on,  we  had our
weapons, and everybody was just resting against his bergen, getting his head
down as best he could, waiting. First light would be as soon as we could see
well enough to walk without knocking into one another or the vegetation.
     I listened to  the  buzzing of insects and swatted the occasional thing
that  crawled on  my  skin.  Nobody was really  asleep; I could sense  their
anticipation about the next day. There  was the occasional light snore until
a pal gave  a quick little shake or pinch of the nose, being careful that he
didn't wake up with a startled cry.
     The temperature dropped a bit, and it was pretty wet and uncomfortable.
I looked at my watch; it was one  o'clock. Half an hour  I looked again, and
it was ten past. I nodded off, woke up, nodded off.
     About an hour before first light I nudged Rodriguez
     and motioned for  him  to pass it on. He leaned across  to the next and
gave him a little shake, and so on around.
     I hated  peeling off my  poncho and  getting  that first  whiff of  the
coldness, but at least it had stopped raining.
     We started sorting ourselves out in our area, plastering the cam  cream
on top of our  own dirt and grime. After so many days in the jungle, we were
in shit state. I couldn't see the DPM on my trousers because they were caked
up with mud. My hair was greasy and flat on my head; I had days of growth on
my face and it was thick with cam cream.
     No doubt I'd be dezitting with Tony in a few days' time.
     As soon as we could see three meters in front  of  us, we began to move
out. The  order  of march  was  first the lead  scout, One-of-three-Joses; I
followed, and behind me were Rodiguez, El  Nino, and  Gonz. Behind them came
Rod's and Tony's assault groups.
     There was no need to  communicate with the cutoff group. If  there  had
been a drama during the night,  we would have known about it. And regardless
of them, this was going to go ahead.
     We all knew what  to do; there  was no  need to talk, and there was  no
banter. It was pretty serious stuff now.
     One-of-three-Joses led us to  the start line. There  Rod and Tony would
get hold of their  assault groups and move  them  forward to the edge of the
forest.  They  wouldn't move toward  the huts until my cover  group  were in
position.
     I looked at them, pointed, and they nodded. They knew  where they were;
they knew what they were doing. Then I led my group away.
     From now on I was  in front because  I knew where I wanted to go. I was
covert in my movements, but at  the same time forceful. I wasn't too worried
about disturbing the  brush;  the attack  was going to happen now come  what
may. The priority was to  get to  the cover position.  My weapon  was in  my
right hand; I was moving the vegetation with my left, looking around all the
time. I wasn't even checking that the others were behind me.
     I knew that all the  commanders had their Motorolas on,  waiting for me
to get in position. I knew that as  soon as  I was sorted  out, I would push
four  clicks  on  my  radio. Rod, Assault Group 1, would come back  with one
click. Tony, Assault Group 2, would come back with two.
     Then  I would  know  everybody  was  ready  and would give another four
clicks in two sets of two.
     Click, click-click, click: "Stand by! Stand by!"
     The  groups would then  start  to move  forward from the rolling  start
line; ideally they would be covert right up to the doors. However  ' if they
were compromised  on the way, it would just be shit or bust and  they'd have
to go for it, and it would be time for the cover group to earn their wages.
     In my mind's eye I pictured Rod and Tony, each  with his patrol behind.
They weren't wearing  belt kit;  all each had  was their  rifle, pistol, and
ammunition. On their rifles some had  mounted a  Maglite  torch with masking
tape around the stock and, between the Maglite and the stock, a little wedge
of wood to keep it  at the  right angle. The  Maglite  would provide a crude
form  of  zeroing as they went through the door. It  was first light; it was
going to be dark inside the buildingsAnd with the explosive charge going off
there would be clouds of dust and  debris; the Maglites might be  needed  to
penetrate it.
     The second man in each group would be carrying  an explosive  charge. I
imagined  the  commander pointing where  he  wanted the  charges to  be put.
Everybody  else would be covering the  windows and the general area, pressed
right up flat against the door itself. All it  would take was a small dab of
P.E with det  cord running through it onto a clacker-the same as used on the
claymore. At the end of the wire of the clacker there was a detonator, which
was clipped on  to the  det cord.  Once the  explosive was in position,  the
figures would move back a couple of feet and turn their backs. The commander
held the clacker.
     Whoever was  doing  the firing  would have  to hold the wire, keep  the
connector in to the clacker, and squeeze it-or put the wire in and give it a
good dose of masking tape.  Whatever, but he had to  make  sure  he got that
good connection, because it had to go first time.
     I  imagined  the  two  loud  thuds,  doors  caving  in,  and  the  boys
disappearing inside.
     We got to our area, on the side nearest the processing hut. As I looked
forward, I could see no change, except that  the ground was wet with a  thin
film of mud. The trike was missing, but the cardboard box that had contained
the tins of condensed milk was still there. The cans had gone.
     It was more  or less full light now.  Within the hole  in the canopy  I
could see it was a beautifully clear day, a  deep blue sky without  a cloud.
It was going to be really hot. Soon the mud would start steaming.
     It was quiet;  none of the  generators  was running.  As I panned  from
right  to left, I could see  the  cook's hut and  beyond it the roof  of the
other one. I  knew the assault groups  would be lining up on the edge of the
canopy,  ready  to come forward to place the charges. I  knew everything was
all right; I knew we could cover.
     I said quietly, "Here we are going to cover. El Nino, keep your eyes on
that building going left towards that track. Understand?"
     Everybody nodded. El Nino knelt down, his weapon in the aim.
     To the others  I  said,  "I want  you,  Rodriiguez, to watch  from that
building to there. If there's shooting, shoot back.
     One-of-three-Joses and Gonz,  I want you to look for anybody running up
towards the heli-" BANG!
     What  the fuck  was that? When you hear  a gunshot  totally out  of the
blue,  the  whole body jerks. As I turned around, I saw  Nino looking like a
puppy that knows it shouldn't  have pissed  on the kitchen floor. He started
gabbing off: "It fired! It fired!" As  he took the safety catch off, he must
have had his finger on the trigger and had an ND (negligent discharge).
     My mind screamed: Fuck! as I went straight on the net and shouted: "Go!
Go! Go! Go! Go!"
     To El Nino, I motioned with my thumb to put his safety catch on.
     It  had  been  initiated now. It was. pointless staying there."I  waved
them  on, and we moved toward our target. "Go!  Go! Come on!" I knew we were
heading for a total and utter gang.fuck.
     It  wasn't  slippery underfoot,  but  I found  it  difficult  to get my
footing  in the slime. I was  expecting to hear the explosions  or  gunfire.
just as we  approached the  hut, there  was some automatic  fire and  single
shots coming  from the  area  of the huts.  I wasn't bothered,  I kept going
forward. My eyes were focused on the building and who might be coming out of
it.
     I got there first, followed by Rodriguez. "in, in, in!" I said.
     He hesitated, not understanding what I wanted.
     I pointed at him, then at me, and I went in.
     There were long tables with trays stretching to the far end.
     Butts in the shoulders, we moved down either side.
     I was shouting at Rodriguez. He  was shouting in Spanish: "Stand still!
Police! Police!"
     To the far right I heard Rod shout: "Move up! Move up!"
     The firing had stopped now; there was just yelling and shouting and the
sound of metal falling and furniture being overturned.
     There was something  coming  on,  the radio,  but I couldn't understand
what it was.
     In  the semilight inside  I  saw  large, oil  drum-type barrels,  empty
packets of cigarettes, beer cans lying on their side.
     I was hoping the other three were outside and covering our arses.
     All I wanted to do was get to the other end of the hut and get out.
     I  heard more  shouting,  then  gunfire. Fuck! As I looked  around in a
semistoop, I saw a figure running down the path toward the Generators.
     Then there was more gunfire.
     I knew it was Nino, Gonz,  and One-of-three-Joses firing,  but  the boy
kept running. I knew the cutoffs would take him down.
     I shouted at Gonz and the others to go to the storeroom. They ran up to
it, but  there was no  way they were going  straight in.  They  shouted  and
kicked against the wood. They worked their way to the door, gingerly  opened
it, and took a tentative peep.
     "Get in there!" I shouted. "In, in, in!"
     They  crept  inside  and  reappeared two seconds later.  It was full of
barrels; there were no people.
     To the right there was shouting, but I ignored it. "Helipad!
     Helipad!" I shouted, chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath.
     I had a pain  in my throat from all the shouting and  running around. I
told Nino and Gonz to stay where they were; Rodriguez and One-of-three-Joses
were to come with me.
     We ran across and started- going up the track. There wasn't time to get
them to  cover each  other;  we just  ran  as  fast as we could  toward  the
helipad.
     I was flapping and breathing hard, my face drenched with sweat.
     This time I was checking behind me as I ran, to make sure the other two
were  with me. As  we hit the rise, we could see the  opening of the helipad
itself. I could now feel the heat on my back.
     I was  going to  run  around the edge of it to make sure everything was
clear.  There was  no time to  tell them; I  just hoped that  they  would be
there.
     We started to move around the line of the pad, just waiting for someone
to  run or fire. I couldn't care less either  way, I just wanted to get this
over with and recover something from the shambles. The area was - clear.
     The  sun  was burning the mud; the floor  was  covered with mist,  like
ankle-deep theatrical smoke on a stage.
     Standing on the edge of the helipad,  I heard screaming from  somewhere
down near the living accommodation.
     I got on the net and said, "Rod, check? Rod, check?"
     Nothing. Then, "Send! Send!"
     "We're up on the helipad-that's clear. I'm now coming down."
     "Roger that. We've got a man down. Get down here, we need help.
     Out."
     That explained the  screaming. Having a man down  made me  seethe  even
more about Nino having an ND.
     He'd  fucked everything up; blokes  were  getting  hit, and the chances
were people were getting away.
     We got down to find total chaos. Rod  was controlling and looking after
the casualty. The boy was on his back, screamin his head off.
     A  7.62 round had hit him in  the wrist  and traveled  up his  forearm,
exiting  just below  the  elbow. He'd lost all the  muscle mass on the lower
arm.
     He  was screaming like  a pig.  He was going to live,  but he must have
been in agony. All the other boys were clustered around, looking very sick.
     It was a matter of controlling the people who were in the huts and also
controlling  our own people, who  looked as if they wanted to bolt back into
the jungle and run and run.
     "Get back!" I shouted. "Cover that hut!" My ranting and  pointing meant
more to them than what I was saying.
     Rod had the medic  pack with  him. He looked up  at me and  said, "It's
just  a matter  of plugging  up  the holes to  stop the blood. If he stopped
screaming, he'd  see he's okay." Then he looked at the boy on the ground and
screamed: "Shut up!"
     He unwrapped more field dressings and pressed them hard onto the wound.
He grabbed a pack of hemocell and tried to get an IV line  into him. The boy
had  lost a lot  of blood  and  needed more  fluids fast. He was going  into
shock. Still,  some people just stood around;  perhaps they  were  in shock,
too.
     Tony  was  in  the huts,  controlling the  people inside  with  lots of
shouting and kicking. I  heard a shout of  "Shut the fuck up now!" His group
had  plasticuffed them, picked them up, grabbed  them by  the  hair or their
clothes, and got them  on  the ground, hollering  and  shouting to keep them
scared and under control. Now they were manhandling them out of the door and
making them lie down on their stomachs in the mud.
     While  some  of the  police  covered the prisoners with  their weapons,
others searched them.  Some of the boys started to kick and rifle-butt them.
There was no time to  stop it-and why should we?  We  were not interested in
names, who they were, what they  were; that was someone else's job.  All  we
wanted to do was control them  and make  sure they hadn't got  any concealed
weapons or run.
     "We are now going to search  you," one of the police said, slapping the
back of a narcos head. "If you resist, you will be shot. Do you understand?"
     I called over to Tony. "I'll just get the people out of the other hut."
     As I  went In, I saw wooden beds with tables, a couple of old chests of
drawers, ashtrays full up, cans of beer.
     The room stank of sweat and farts. A group of people lay on their beds,
faces down, hands on the  back  of their heads.  There  must  have  been two
weapons pointing at every prisoner.
     I went  back  outside,  got hold of Nino,  and  said, "Help me put  the
antennas out for the radio."
     I  started to get the sitrep ready.  Originally  it was going to  be  a
proper sitrep, saying: Done, we  need the helis in now, how many people we'd
caught, how many casualties. But instead I just  banged it out: "We've got a
man down. I want the aircraft in on the orange smoke."
     Rod was still with the casualty. He called out,  "Everything all right?
We got the aircraft coming in?"
     "Yep, just waiting for the auto acknowledgment."
     I got  it.  The helis  were on their way in. I left the radio where  it
was; we might be needing it in a minute.
     On the Motorola I heard Tony talking to Terry-.
     "Terry, check?"
     "Yep."
     "Come on in now, mate, Move down the path."
     ."Roger that. We've got a dead runner. Do you want him brought in?"
     "Yeah, bring him in."
     Tony was shouting  to make sure everybody knew the patrol was going  to
be coming  up the path. Everybody was  so hyper at the moment, chances  were
they'd just turn around and shoot them.
     A  couple of minutes  later I heard them shouting that they were coming
in;  then I saw them. Two of the policemen were dragging the dead man; Terry
had his weapon, a G3.
     Terry's patrol were really happy with themselves.
     They had the air of hunters  home with the kill. They left the  body to
one side, giving him a quick macho kick and a prod. Then they found out that
somebody  on their side  had been  dropped, and their expressions changed to
one of concern.
     By now he'd been stabilized. He'd gone into shock, but Rod had got some
hemocell into him. He  wasn't going to lose any more blood, but he was down;
he was severely down.
     By  now  everybody  had  been sorted out,  trussed  up with plasticuffs
between the two buildings. I went over  and  had a  look.  There  were three
narcos, the bottle washer, and one white-eye.
     "Fucking hell,"  I said to Tony. "We saw  eight. We've got some runners
here."
     Tony  kicked one  of the narcos  and shouted: "Gringos? Where  are  the
gringos?"
     He shouted to the European, holding his head up by the hair: "Where are
they? Where are they?"
     The white-eye said nothing.
     "Look, if they're running, they're going to get shot.
     Tell us where they are. We might be able to save them."
     Nothing. It was the  boy I'd seen on my first CTR, still in  the shitty
T-shirt. He was severely scared.
     Tony started on the old man: "Where's the gringos)"
     He started  gabbing off, indicating  with  his  head  that  they'd gone
toward the river.
     "Fuck!" I said. I couldn't  believe they'd got  past the  cutoff group.
Straightaway I blamed it on Nino. The stupid wanker.
     The wounded boy had  been sorted out, and another  couple  of lads were
looking after him now. Rod came over, looked at me hard, and said, "What the
fuck happened?" with a look that blamed me.
     "That cunt had an ND."
     Nino sat on the steps of the hut, severely pissed off.
     "Get him out of the way," Rod said. "Tell him to sit by the radio."
     He stormed off and checked the casualty.
     Terry came  over. "Right. I'll get  my lads down to the river  and tell
them to keep  their eyes open. They will knife  up the boats, so  if we have
got  runners, they aren't going to take  them. We're  not going to get  jack
shit out of this lot. The white-eye's a pain in the arse.
     He knows the score, he knows he's going  to get away  with it.  This is
fucking annoying."
     Rod agreed. "Yeah, do that, and we will get a brew on.
     I  went  over  and  cut the plasticuffs off the cook. He went up on his
knees, doing all the signs  of the cross and putting his hands up to heaven.
I didn't know if he thought he was going to get shot, or what.
     I picked him up and dragged him into the kitchen. "Cafe " I said.
     "Can con leche." He looked at me in total surprise.
     Rodriguez stood over him while he sparked up the generator  and got the
brews on.
     Tony was  running around placing  people  in case  we -T had  any  fire
coming  back at us.  "You go there, look  that way' You stay here, look this
way!
     We  passed the  brews around. The  sun  was  beating down,  and  it was
boiling hot. Everybody  was  trying to  get  into  the  shade. My  eyes were
stinging;  my  mouth  I tasted  foul;  my  teeth  had  sheepskin  coats.  My
shoulders,  arms, and  legs were drying  off,  but  the crotch area and bits
under the webbing stayed wet. It was starting  to itch where the wetness had
dried.
     I  was feeling a bit  pissed off  with myself, purely  because it was a
member of  my patrol that had had the ND. It wasn't anything to do with  me,
but I felt responsible all the same.
     The other patrols didn't know  yet what  had caused the problem,  but I
kept Nino away from the others for his own safety.
     Tony  and I  stood near  the  casualty,  who  by  now was  pumped up on
morphine.
     "He's looking better," I said.
     "Won't be wanking for a few days, though," Tony said, and I had to turn
away so the boy didn't see-me laugh.
     Rod  was trying  to  get information  from  the  white-eye, but he said
nothing. They searched him, but he had nothing on him; he was sterile.
     .

     We went back into the hut and had a look around.
     Porn mags lay on the floor by the sides of some beds; old copies of USA
Today and Herald  Tribune were  piled up  on a chest  of drawers; one or two
shortwave radios were on tables or by beds. We still couldn't work  out what
the satellite dish was for, because there wasn't  a TV set  or  any  sort of
satellite comms, just a shortwave set. We weren't worried about  finding out
what  radio  frequencies  they  were  on  or  whatever;  that  would all  be
discovered later on.
     Some of the  police had helped  themselves  to  cans of food  from  the
cookhouse and  were  passing  them around.  They  were  munching and smoking
themselves stupid with the packs of 200 Marlboro they found in the huts. Now
and again there was a volley of excited, relieved laughing.
     If any of the narcos had been wounded, we would have treated them.
     It would  have been pointless letting  the characters die; quite  apart
from  humanitarian considerations, the police were scared  enough as it  was
about reprisals. Police students were being killed by the cartels as soon as
they  started their training. Four out of a .  group of thirty had been shot
with their families in the time we'd been there. It was good for  the police
that the narcos were seen to be getting medical treatment; it meant that the
police were looking after their prisoners humanely, and obviously this would
be reported.
     We started  to hear the helis coming  in. I  ran up to  the helipad and
threw  out an  orange  identification smoke;  besides giving them  a precise
location, it told them the wind direction.
     We had line of  sight so I got on my  Motorola to talk  them in for the
final approach, in  case they hadn't seen the smoke. "Gar, Andy, check? Gar,
Andy, check?"
     There was no reply.  I tried twice more, but by then the helis had seen
us because they started to turn toward the smoke.
     Rod and a cou 'le of his patrol were lifting the casup alty and walking
toward the helipad. The first Huey landed, and Gar jumped off with the first
replacement  patrol,  his  clothes  smelling  all  rather nicely of  washing
powder.
     Gar came up to me, really serious. Behind him were the two colonels  in
charge of  the unit.  "What have  you  got?" he said.  Then he  spotted  the
casualty: "Okay, let's get him in the aircraft and gone."
     Tony told Terry to take the new patrol down to the cutoff position near
the  river to  give us early warning and  bring  back the  two  lads who had
stayed there on stag.
     The two officers went over to the narcos. Pointing at the European, one
of them turned to Gar and said, "He'll be out very soon.
     He won't go  to  jail.  There's so much corruption, he will be out. The
important thing is that we've stopped all this."  He walked  off and started
to look around.
     The officer was quite tall, about six feet,  and in his early thirties.
He wore glasses with square, gold wire rims. He had an American twang to his
accent and had probably been educated in the States. All  the times I'd seen
him,  he'd sounded  very conscientious  and straight to the point, as if  he
really did  want  to stop the drug  trade.  The  other one was in  his  late
forties, early fifties, and  was more of a realist."He  knew  what was going
on, and he knew the business was never going to be stopped.
     He got his cigarettes out, lit one up, and walked around talking to the
boys.
     Five heliloads came in, about forty blokes in total.
     The aircraft took off again and headed for the nearest refueling point.
     The  younger  of the  two officers was sorting  them all out.  They had
their own command  structure. I watched the  changeover; I didn't understand
exactly  what was being said by the boys who'd done the attack, but by their
body language I could see it was very much along  the lines  of  how fucking
good they were.
     The new boys went over to look at the  body, and some of them gave it a
little poke.
     I went over to  Nino and the radio. He was still pissed off. I gave him
the  day'sack and  told him to  pack the  radio up  and put it on  his  back
because  we'd be going  in a minute. He looked as if I'd just told him  he'd
won the state lottery; he had a second chance now, an opportunity to show me
that he could do something right-even if it was just to put a radio in a day
sack.
     "On me," Gar called to all the patrol commanders.
     "Right, this  is what's happening.  It's  being handed over  now to the
police. I want you to get  hold of the patrols, bring  them all in together,
make sure that you've got everybody, and go back to your FRP.
     Pick up the kit, and wait over in the corner  there." He pointed at the
edge of the compound.
     "Get under the canopy, get  some scoff on, and once the helicopters are
refueled they'll come back and pick you up."
     Terry sparked up. "Well, chuffed to fuck-we've already  got our kit, so
we'll go over there and wait."
     We went back to the FRP, and then we trogged back and joined him.
     They were brewing up, everybody very jovial and having a laugh.
     Gar was still outside doing his liaison  with  the two police officers.
After a while he came over and sat down with us, helping, himself to some of
my brew.
     "What happened then?" he asked. I told him about El Nino and the ND.
     Rod  jumped in and said, "As  soon as we  get back, we need to fuck him
off. Once everybody knows, especially  since this  boy's been  shot, he's in
severe shit."
     "I'll sor that out now," Gar said, going over to talk to  the older  of
the two officers.
     I spun the shit with  One-of-three-Joses and the others  and  told them
they mustn't say anything  to  anybody about what happened. I  said it would
get everybody  into trouble. They thought it  was  great; they  had a secret
now.
     I could hear  the helis returning.  Gar came back.  "The first  heli is
going to lift the prisoners off," he said. "The next ones are for you."
     We walked up to the helipad and  watched  the narcos getting loaded on,
everybody wanting to hit them  on  the way. All the boys then had  to unload
their weapons  and  put all their live ammunition in  the  top flap of their
bergens. The last thing we wanted now was another ND.
     Aboard the helicopters  all the euphoria  had died down by now. We were
all realizing how tired we were, and  probably thinking about what  we  were
going to do when we got  home. I dozed  off, waking with a jerk each time my
head fell forward.
     The first thing  we had to do when we got back was sort out our weapons
and equipment and ourselves.
     That only took a few hours, and then the boys got stuck into a barbecue
of fresh and a massive piss-up on beer and whiskey.
     Everybody was best mates. "Come to my village; it is really beautiful,"
said One-of-three-Joses.
     "Not as beautiful as the women from mine.1) Rodriguez laughed.
     Everybody  got  completely  pissed  and  had  a  good  old night. Nino,
however, wasn't there. He had been told he was out on his arse;  by the time
we were on  our third can of beer he was  probably  already back on  traffic
duty.
     At midday the next day the Regiment blokes started our debrief We  went
through  it all again: what we did right, what we  did wrong, how we could '
improve.
     "The only improvement I can suggest is to get our finger out and  learn
better Spanish," Terry said.
     "And to  make  sure the safety  catches  on the Gauls are harder to get
off," I said.
     Gar told us that under interrogation the narcos had revealed that after
a big farewell piss-up the day before the attack, some  of their  number had
left the camp to escort the other two Europeans down river.
     The European we had captured had already been released on bail.
     The  next day  our  patrols were  all  off home as  war heroes,  and we
screamed downtown for three days of eating  ourselves half to death,  trying
to put  back  on the  weight  that  we'd  lost  in the jungle, buying  cheap
emeralds and leather jackets, and going down to the embassy  area, where all
the nice bars were and  saying hello to exmembers of G Squadron. And at last
Rod was happy because he'd got out  of the jungle without a zit and now  his
hair wasn't flat and greasy.
     ithin hours  of Iraqi  troops  and armor rolling across the border with
Kuwait at 0200 local time on 2 August 1990 the Regiment was preparing itself
for desert operations.
     I  was  still  3 i/c  of the  team, and my  gang were unfortunately not
involved.  I  watched  jealously as  G Squadron  drew  their desert kit  and
departed "on exercise."
     Our nine-month  tour was coming to an end, and  we were looking forward
to a handover, but as the weeks went by, rumors began to circulate of either
a postponement  or cancellation altogether.  We got all the bullshit: "If it
starts, there's still the antiterrorist threat in the UK.
     You'll still be  needed here." I just kept  my fingers crossed that the
squadron  changeover would happen  as  planned and  G Squadron  would be the
pissed-off ones for a change.
     My marriage to Fiona had broken down, and I'd made the decision that it
was  better to go while Katie was young rather than  have her grow  up in an
atmosphere of rowing and honking. Although her mother  and father would have
split up, at least she wouldn't be experiencing bad feeling in the house and
maybe going through the trauma of us parting when she was eight or nine.
     There was no way I wanted to go back to living in the block. One of the
scaleys was getting out to  be a mature student but couldn't afford to  keep
up his mortgage on his student allowance; I said I'd rent the house off him,
and if eventually he did want to sell it, to give me first refusal. So there
I was, back in a two-up, two-down on a Westbury estate near the camp.
     I threw  myself into my job on the  team. Everybody was mightily pissed
off that we were probably going to miss out  on  the Gulf.  We were  sitting
drinking  tea  in the hangar one  morning,  honking severely about  what was
going on.
     Harry said, "I remember talking to A Squadron after the Falklands.
     They  were severely  pissed  off because  they were on  the team at the
time. And now it's going to happen to us."
     At that moment Gar walked in with two strangers.
     "These blokes have just come from Selection," he said.
     "This is Bob,  and this is Stan. Bob's going! to go to the sniper team,
and Stan, I want you to latch on to Andy.
     He'll show you the ropes-get all the kit; I bet you don't even know how
to put it on, do you?"
     This  fellow  turned around and said,  in a thick Kiwi  accent, "No,  I
don't actually."
     Bob Consiglio and  Stan were to have a good effect  on us all: Straight
out of Selection,  they were raring to go; they loved being on the team, and
their enthusiasm was infectious.
     It was  round about this time.that I spotted  a  gorgeous girl  at  the
local gym. We  were both sweating buckets, attending a new session  that was
particularly difficult.
     She was working out in front  of me, and I couldn't  help  appreciating
the styling of her leotard.
     After I'd seen her five or six times at the gym, I came across  her one
Saturday  evening in a wine  bar down  town. She  was with a girlfriend, and
they were being chatted up by a bloke in D Squadron.
     It was the first  time I  had seen  her  fully dressed, and again,  she
looked great.
     A tinker came in selling  roses. I bought  one and asked her to take it
over to the girl in the corner.
     She came over afterward, gave  me a  radiant smile,  and  said,  "Thank
you."
     "It's  nothing,"  I said.  "I only  did  it  to annoy  the bloke you're
talking to."
     "So charming," she said. "Your name must be James Bond?"
     "No-Andy, actually.  Look, your friend is getting  on  really well with
that bloke. Seems a shame for you to go back and break it up.
     Can I get you a drihk, Miss Moneypenny ?"
     "Jilly, actually-and yes, a bottle of Piis."
     That  was how it started. We talked to each  other  now  at the fitness
center, we saw  each  other in the town  a  couple  more times, no dates  or
anything or phone calls.
     But  about three  or four weeks  after  that things just snowballed and
toward the end of October I asked her to move in.
     On Remembrance  Sunday  the Regiment gym becomes a church. Every member
of Stirling  Lines-Regiment and attached personnel,  serving and retired-who
can  be there is there. So, too, are their  wives, girlfriends, and families
and the families of people who have died.
     Serving  members of the Regiment wear full-dress uniform, the only time
it  is worn. This year  I was  in civvies as I  was part  of the  protection
outside the camp during the service.
     After the service everyone moved outside to the Clock Tower.
     Wreaths were laid by all the different squadrons, and all the different
departments  and  organizations  that were  in  and  around  supporting  the
Regiment. There was  a two-minute silence, and then it was into the club for
drinks and food. Many saw it as a chance to talk to ribtired members-the old
and  bold-because a lot of them only appeared for  this one occasion a year.
The party would go on for the rest of the day and well into the evening.
     Instead of doing all that, I went with jilly down to the graveyard.
     The regimental  cemetery isn't in the Lines, it's in the local  church;
the Regiment has its own plot, and it was almost full.
     "They'll either have to buy  a  bigger  plot  or  stop all the wars," I
said.
     jilly gave a smile that was more of a wince.
     One  or  two  other  people  were there  to  pay their respects  to old
friends. One of them  was an  ex-B Squadron warrant officer who'd got out  a
couple of years before.  It was the first time that  I'd seen him in a suit.
He had nothing with him-no flowers or anything like that.
     He wasn't going to any grave in particular; he  was just walking up and
down,  alone with his thoughts.  His shoes and the  bottoms  of his trousers
were wet from the grass, and his suit collar was turned up against the cold.
     Jilly and I fell in step beside him.
     "You going up the camp?" I said.
     "Fuck that. There's too many people up  there as it is, desperate to be
part of the show. This is where people should be."
     He  was  right.  The  Remembrance  Day service  was  packed  with  camp
followers and hangers-on who  seemed far  less interested in what was  being
commemorated than in being able to. say afterward that they'd been there.
     Blokes who really are in the Regiment either  feel  sorry for or loathe
those  who've had some sort of contact  and make themselves  out  to be more
than they are or were.
     They must have very low self-esteem if they feel the need to bluff, but
what they perhaps don't realize is that they are normally found out. It is a
very  small  world, and  everyone knows  one  another or  can  connect. Such
characters  would  not  be worthy  of  licking the mud  off the boots of the
people in the "plot."
     I thought about the  blokes I worked with. They were as much of a cross
section personality-wise as would be found in any organization.
     They  ranged from  the  slightly  introverted  who  kept themselves  to
themselvesto the point  of training in the gym at 1:00 A.m.-right the way up
to the total and utter extroverts who moondanced all over the place. There's
a hill  outside Hereford called  the Callow;  as you hit  the brow of it  at
night, you see below you the lights of  the town. On their  way back  from a
trip a  lot of the singley  party animals call it Hard-on Hill; they've been
away for six  months, and all they  want  to  do is  get  into camp, have  a
shower, and scream downtown. At  the other extreme  was a single bloke I was
flying back  with  from  a  trip  who turned to me  and said, in  his  thick
Birmingham accent, "I can't wait to get back to clean my windows."
     Then there were  all  the people in between. Everybody  from  a  Hell's
Angel  to  an  exotic  butterfly  collector,  and  men  of  all  colors  and
creeds-Australians, Kiwis, Fijians, Indians from the Seychelles.
     Blokes were doing Open University degree  courses; one wanted to become
a physics  teacher when he left.  People who'd really  got into  the medical
side had gone on to become doctors.
     There  were other blokes who really got in  to  a  country where they'd
been operating-in particular, the Arab countries. A  lot of them became very
proficient in  the language and got interested  in the culture, the  people,
and the country itself and ended up going and living there.
     In B Squadron there was a former taxidermist who was also an ex-convict
and boxer.  He had a deep freezer in  one of  the spare rooms  in  the block
where he lived.
     Inside, instead of frozen pies and fish fingers, there were dead foxes,
owls, and salmon and cartons of chemicals.
     Some  blokes would bring him back dead animals from trips; others would
use his services to get their pet dogs stuffed.
     A lot of people got into anything to do with the  air; once they joined
a free fall troop, they got  this  fixation  with anything to do with flying
and free fall. Nosh had bought himself an old Cessna in the States and flown
it over to  the UK-an outrageous journey on a single engine. The fuel ladder
in  the back was leaking, it looked like the thing was going  to fall apart,
so he put his parachute rig on, took out all but two screws in the door, and
flew high enough  so if the bladder went, he could just jump out. The radios
were not  the  sort for transatlantic  flights, so  he put  out the antenna,
which  was a  wire tied to a brick,  and  then measured  it  out to get  the
frequencies to hit the stations.
     There were people who were severely into the old jap-slapping; they got
to international level sometimes.
     Others got into  weird, obscure sports,  especially the Mountain  Troop
blokes.  They  nearly always  got into  sheer-face climbing and developed an
obsession with climbing Everest.
     There was also Mr. Normal, Mr. Family Man with the house and 2.4
     kids; he'd get back from a job, do all the debriefing, and then it  was
a total cut. He went home, mowed the grass, found the lost cat, and replaced
the tile on the roof.
     A major  part  of what  made  the  Regiment more professional than  the
normal military unit was that  it was staffed by people who could.-tell  the
difference between work time  and  play time.  When  you're  working, you're
working; when you're not, then it's time to be the idiot.
     You can do whatever you want: You can go and get drunk out of your head
or you can go home and mow the grass, it really doesn't matter.
     But everybody has to be able  to  cut between when  they're working and
when they're not.
     There was one particular crowd that came from all squadrons, called the
Grouse-beaters-all  the  Highland  jocks who used  to  get together  and  go
downtown and drink. At New Year the  Grouse-beater would  hit  the town with
their skirts and  fluffy  shirts. Such occasions apart,  the ordinary man in
the street would find it very difficult to pick out Regiment blokes. Anybody
seeing a squadron away would probably think it was a school outing.
     With such  a cross section, there were bound  to be personality clashes
now  and  again; it's just a normal human reaction, and it  clears  the air.
Fortunately the Selection  process cancels a lot of that out because they're
looking for blokes that can mingle with one another in closed  environments,
but it's bound to happen.
     We'd  just  come back from over the water one Christmas and were in one
of the  bars  downtown. Eno,  the  midget, was drunk; he  was getting behind
Regiment  blokes  that  he knew,  jumping  up and slapping their heads, then
disappearing  giggling into the corner. It pissed  off one of the blokes  so
much that he  turned around and dropped him. In the morning Eno phoned me up
and  said,  I don't know who it was, but  I was  obviously out of  order." A
couple of days later he found out it was one of his really good mates out of
the same troop that had decked him.
     "Ah, well," he said, "that's all right, as long as I know."
     The culture is downbeat. Elitism is counterproductive, it alienates you
from other people, and we depend  on a working  relationship with many other
groups like Special Branch or the security services. After all, the Regiment
is  there as  strategic troops,  to  do  tasks  that  enhance  other groups'
capabilities.  It was always hard,  however,  to break down the  barriers. I
remembered going on courses or being seconded to other units. I'd be sitting
there  on my  own for  a  couple  of days before  anybody  would talk to me.
Everybody would stand off because of the  mystique that was  created  in the
army about the Regiment. We had to make an  effort to go and talk to people,
to show them  that we  were normal,  approachable,  and just  like everybody
else: We had grass that was overgrowing; we had a cat that was missing.
     That wasn't to say  that we didn't  know  we were very professional and
very  confident  in what  we  were doing, but that had  nothing  to  do with
elitism. Blokes just looked at it as a job, as a profession.
     Soldiering was something that they found they had the aptitude for, and
they wanted to take the profession to another level.
     It was sadly  ironic  that because they were so  good at what they did,
they  were more likely  to be at the  sharp end;  because they were so good,
they were more likely to end up getting killed.  What it all  boiled down to
was  that if we were there shooting at somebody, chances were  that he'd  be
shooting back at us-which meant that we were in the shit, and we could die.
     A lot of the time  to be shooting at somebody  means  that  the task is
being  compromised.  The  Regiment is not a  big,  aggressive,  overt  force
looking for trouble; it's about  small numbers of strategic troops, a covert
force that spends as much time intelligence gathering as anything else.
     The Regiment's  roots  were in the  Second  World  War and  the  Malaya
conflict, both of which  involved a lot of information  gathering  and quick
strikes.  It  wasn't  about inflicting  massive casualities;  it  was  about
destroying equipment and communications, and lowering morale.
     As  a  small  force during the  Second World War, killing forty Germans
meant little in the scale of things. Destroying forty aircraft, however, was
a different matter: It embuggered the enemy, and it saved Allied lives.
     My own ideas about killing had changed  a  lot since  I  was  young.  I
killed my first man when I was nineteen.
     There was a big celebration purely because I'd done what I'd joined the
army to do. But now I got a kick from stopping death, not causing it.
     It certainly didn't worry me when enemy were killed in contacts.
     I didn't  celebrate  the fact, but there  again I didn't lose any sleep
about  it. I  understood  that they  had  sons and  daughters,  mothers  and
fathers, but they  were  big boys,  like  all  of us, and they knew what was
going on. They knew that they stood a chance of being killed, the same as we
did.
     I'd  never met anybody  who kept a  running total  or said, "Yeah, good
stuff, I've killed so-and-so."  If  it had to be done, I didn't know anybody
who wouldn't try  to make it  as quick as possible-not so much to make  it a
nice clean way of  dying  for them,  as to  make it  safer  for himself. The
quicker  they  were  dead,  the less  of a threat  they were; it's no picnic
getting  shot. In the  films it's all rather nice: The guy takes  a round in
the shoulder and is  still running  around shouting good one-liners. Load of
shit: You get hit by a 7.62 round, and it's going to take half your shoulder
off.
     During  the  Second  World  War  David  Stirling," the  founder of  the
Regiment, threw  a grenade into a room and killed several Germans. He didn't
need to do it to achieve his aim, and he bitterly regretted it.
     He said it was a waste of life and it pissed him off.
     We walked home through the park, taking the cold November wind  full in
the  face.  Leaves swirled in small  typhoons, and it started to  pour  with
rain.
     "I love this  weather," I said. "Best part is knowing I'll be home in a
minute with a brew in my hand."
     Jilly turned to look at me. She looked strained.
     "It's going to be a bit hotter where you're going, isn't it?"
     "You what?"
     "Kuwait. You can't kid me you won't be going if it blows into a war."
     In the short time  that I'd known her, she was always all right  if she
wasn't aware of the dramas. She knew very little of what I did and had never
asked  questions because, she  told me,  she didn't  want the  answers. "Oh,
you're off, when are you coming back?" was the most  she would ever ask. But
this time it was different. For once she knew where I might be going.
     I didn't want to mess things up between us. I wanted this to  be it. My
marriages  had failed  mainly  because of my commitment  to  the army. Now I
realized I could have both-a career and a strong, lasting relationship.
     Our future was together.
     "Don't  worry,  mate," I  said. "There's more  chance of Maggie getting
kicked  out of Downing Street than there is of  me being sent downtown for a
new pair of dessies and some Factor twenty."
     As I  put  my arm around her,  I only hoped she  didn't notice that  my
fingers were firmly crossed.
     Glossopy
     203  M16   rifle   with   40MM   grenade  launcher   attached   2   i/c
second-in-command  66  lightweight, throwaway antitank rocket 109 or  Agusta
type of helicopter 109
     A.R.F  airborne  reaction  force A.P.C  armored  personnel carrier Atap
foliagf-covered  A.T.O ammunition technical  officer  basha shelter beasting
army slang for  a beating or very hard run with kit  bergen pack  carried by
British forces on active service BG Bodyguard  biwi bag Gortex sleeping  bag
cover blue-on-blue friendly fire bone narr brick four-man infantry Patrol in
Northern Ireland C130 Hercules transport ai