After lunch, Cheek-Dawson rapped the bare table for attention. “All right, chaps — I’ve got an announcement. Bad news, I’m afraid. Sar’Major’s just received a radio message that the lorries aren’t at Abergavenny. Some cock-up at the regular army motor pool apparently. Always happens when you deal with outsiders. Let this be a lesson. We can only rely on ourselves.”
“You mean we have to walk all the way back to Senny Bridge, sir?” asked a sapper. “That’s fifty-odd mile.”
“Yes,” said Cheek-Dawson.
“Gawd blimey,” muttered one of the cockneys. “That’s diabolical, that is. Bloody diabolical.”
“You still plan on staying with the group?” Thelman ribbed Lewis.
“I know what SAS stands for,” said Lewis. “Special Army Sadists.”
“You told us that before,” said David.
The Australian stood up. “Sir?”
“Yes, Lewis.”
“Lot shorter back over the hill.”
“The Beacons?” a cockney voice shouted. “You’re off your Uncle Ned.”
Cheek-Dawson’s expression was fixed on Lewis. Finally he nodded, then shifted his gaze to the rest of the volunteers. “The member from down under has a point, gentlemen. Tougher going — but half the distance. That right, Sar’Major?”
“Easily, sir.”
“Very well,” announced Cheek-Dawson enthusiastically. “It’s back over the hill, then.”
“Very nice, Aussie,” said the trooper next to him. “Well done. Bucking for sergeant?”
But Cheek-Dawson noted the trooper’s mock derision of Lewis was only that, mock — nothing mean about it. And if it’s one thing the SAS, rated higher by NATO than the U.S. Seals or even the Israeli commandos, had learned during its long and distinguished commando years, it was that, contrary to the public’s Dirty Dozen view of such groups, a convivial sense of humor was essential.
As the men rose, checking their “Bergens,” as they’d already begun calling their SAS rucksacks, Lewis, tightening his straps, suddenly experienced a surge of intuition about where they were going. The rats were the clue, he told Brentwood. “The tropics!”
“You daft?” asked a Tommy. “Why ‘ave they got us in bloody Wales then?”
“Because,” retorted Lewis, “they’re bloody comedians, that’s why. Like to watch us suffer. Besides — doesn’t matter where they train us. It’s how, right? Now, the rats—”
“Rats are everywhere,” said the Tommy. “I don’t think even Cheek-Dawson knows where we’re going.”
“Yeah,” agreed Thelman. “You heard him last night. Said we’re ‘on call.’ “
“Not so fast, Thelma,” said Lewis. We haven’t qualified yet.”
“You know what I mean, Aussie.”
“You tryin’ to tell me they’ve got no idea where we’ll be going?”
“I didn’t say that,” answered Thelman.
“There you are then. I tell you it’s the tropics.”
“A quid says you’re wrong,” challenged the Tommy.
“You’re on,” said Lewis. “That’s a quid gone west, mate.” Lewis looked around. “Anyone else?”
Cheek-Dawson was standing by the door, opening the rucksack and counting out the requisite number of bricks, the sergeant collecting the first batch of those men who had failed and who would have to be taken back to Senny Bridge by the Land Rover. Buckling up the rucksack, Cheek-Dawson called David Brentwood over. “Your service record says you’re para trained.”
“Yes, sir.”
“HALO as well as regular?” By HALO he meant high-altitude, low-opening jumps — high-altitude to avoid AA and radar detection in free fall, low-altitude-opening for steering to a pinpoint landing. It was the kind of thing sky divers did, except they didn’t carry the enormous load commandos were required to. The difference was like that between one man swimming in a pair of trunks, the other in full gear and rifle.
“Only regular chute training,” replied David. “At Camp Lejeune. With Thelman. No HALO.”
“Not to worry. Shouldn’t take you too long once you’ve had the basics.” He paused, shifting the weight of his pack. “If you’re game.”
“When do we start?” said Brentwood.
“I admire your confidence,” replied Cheek-Dawson, zipping up the nylon storm suit. “But you have a few hoops to pass through yet.”
David said nothing. The truth was that, despite his bravado in front of Cheek-Dawson, he had a blister on his left heel that was about to burst. If he was to get back over the Beacons in the snowstorm, with a windchill factor of at least minus ten, it’d be a pure case of mind over matter. When Cheek-Dawson opened the door, flurries of snow flew through, stinging his face.
“If this is phase one,” said Thelman, slinging his rifle, “I’d hate to think what the next five are like.”
“So would I, mate,” said Lewis. “And it’s not five more.”
“Thank God,” said Thelman.
“It’s six!” said Lewis.
Cheek-Dawson looked back at the fifty-five men who had earned the right to more pain. “First man back gets free beer!” he announced heartily.
“That’s me!” shouted Lewis.
“Oh ja?” It was a West ranger commando. “I was the champion drinker in my Einzelkämpf unit.”
“Einzel—what?” said Lewis, winking at Brentwood and Thelman. “Sounds like a flamin’ disease!”
“You want to bet on it, Aussie?” asked the German.
“Aw, don’t waste your dough, Fritz. You’ll need it for an oxygen bottle.” There was some hearty laughter despite the impending trek.
“Never mind,” said the German in correct, if heavily accented, English. “I will bet you twenty marks.”
“All right, Fritz,” rejoined Lewis. “But let’s make it real money. Dollars. U.S.”
Gambling was strictly against Queen’s Regulations, but Cheek-Dawson and the RSM were quiet on the matter. What Major Rye had in mind for this lot — those who were left at week’s end — would require more than top physical fitness. Their morale, as the U.S. Marines were fond of saying, would have to be “outstanding,” and if a wager here and there helped, so be it. Some of them would never get to spend it.
By 2200 hours that evening. Major Rye watched them straggle in after the killing pace set by both the German ranger and Cheek-Dawson, who had led most of the way as well as checking for stragglers. Rye noted there were seven more, three U.S. Marines and four British, who decided it was too tough for them. Rye spoke gently to the seven, as he had to the “cot cases” brought in earlier by the sergeant major in the Land Rover. Rye not only thanked them all for coming but spoke individually to each man as he signed out, asking the failures what they thought had been the hardest part of the trek for them and telling every one of them that they were welcome to reapply for SAS at anytime. Confidentiality, he told them, would be assured. Apart from their respective commanding officers, as far as their regiments were concerned, they had merely been seconded for other duties for a week. Major Rye then told them he had failed in his first attempt. It softened the blow visibly.
“What did you in, sir?” asked Lewis, out of breath but with his usual bluntness intact.
“Cross-country march,” answered Rye without hesitation. “Full pack and weapons. Somewhat heavier than you’re carrying now, I should add. Forty miles — rough terrain. Timed us at twenty hours.”
“When do we do that, sir?” asked Thelman.
“Oh, early on. Phase two.”
“Stone the crows!” said Lewis, but before he could say any more, Cheek-Dawson was telling the forty-eight men remaining that in half an hour’s time, he wanted them in four-man troops, or “fire teams, as you Americans call them.” Two men were assigned to be on the “blackboards” as each of the eleven four-man troops was to submit a plan of attack against the hypothetically heavily defended chapel at Merthyr Tydfil, whence they’d just come. Apart from judging initiative and organizational abilities on short notice, the purpose of this exercise was to have each group’s plan “rubbished” by three regular SAS NCOs from the air services’ oldest regiment: the Twenty-second, based in Hereford. In the main, this consisted of picking the plans apart and ridiculing each group’s suggestion as either “daft” or “bloody stupid,” while the men were mentally and physically exhausted, many of them disoriented by the sudden shock of the total immersion of the Beacons “caper,” as it was known in SAS. If they couldn’t stand having, in the lexicon of the SAS, “the piss taken out of ‘em,” then they were dropped. In SAS’s experience, bad temper was as fatal to an operation as bad planning. A line unit could put up with misfits, but misfits in the SAS had to “fit” together.
“You owe me twenty dollars,” the tall German ranger said, approaching Lewis, Brentwood, and Thelman, the four of them forming one of the four-man troops.
“What’s your name, sport?” Lewis asked the German.
“Wilhelm Schwarzenegger.”
“Yeah, well, listen, Willie. I’m a spot short now. Fix you up on payday.”
“Ja, ja. Sure, no problem.”
“Hey — you any relation to Arnie?”
“Who?”
“You know, old Arnie Schwarzenegger. Used to be a big movie star years ago. Muscles like chickens’ insteps.”
“No. I do not think so. Maybe way back.”
“So, Aussie,” David interrupted. “How we going to take the chapel?”
“Ah,” said Lewis, putting his rifle on his bunk and then walking back to the group. “Like Willie here says. ‘No problem.’ Piece o’ cake. Bracket the bastards with a mortar, and while they’ve got their noggins down, move in. Not too wide a front, though — we’d end up shooting one another.”
“Lewis!” Everyone stopped talking, the regimental sergeant major’s voice echoing, bull-like, through the barrack.
“Yeah?” said Lewis.
“Yes, Sergeant Major!”
“Yes, Sergeant Major?”
“In this regiment you may hate your mother, you may not pay your taxes, but you are never—I repeat never to be out of reach of your weapon. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Carry on.”
Sheepishly Lewis walked over, got his rifle, and returned. For the first time since he’d met him, David Brentwood saw that the Australian was embarrassed — though he wasn’t at a loss for words. “Old fart! I’m never out of reach of my weapon.”
“You were then,” said Thelman.
“I mean my cock, Thelma!”
“Jesus, you’re rude.”
“Okay,” said David. “What size?”
“My cock?” said Lewis. Wilhelm was shaking his head.
“The mortar!” said David. “Can’t be too heavy. Eighty-one-millimeter weighs a hundred pounds, shells around fifteen. Not very effective, Aussie. Most we could carry is six rounds.”
“I meant a light job,” explained Lewis. “Sixty-mill. Fifty-pound barrel. Rounds weigh in at less than ten.”
“You must be joking!” said one of the SAS NCOs wandering among the groups. “Snowing to beat the band and you’re talking about mortars! You’d get moisture in the barrel and— poof! Unless you’re a good infielder, mate, you’ll end up with your family jewels blown across five acres.”
“We’re not that stupid,” said David. “We’d make sure the barrel was—”
“No?” cut in another NCO. “You fire a mortar round and next minute you’d be on their infrared scopes. Big blobs against the snow, you’d be. You blokes might as well hang out a shingle — tell ‘em where you are.”
“Stop screwing around with mortars,” said the British NCO. “Go in fast. Don’t give ‘em time to think China!”
“We have any artillery backup?” asked Thelman.
The British NCO exchanged an incredulous glance with one of the American NCOs. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Absolutely pathetic!” He squatted down next to Thelman. “If we had artillery that close, you ning-nong, we wouldn’t need Special Air Service, right? Christ — what did you blokes have for lunch? Fairy floss, was it?”
Thelman glowered at the British NCO. David quickly cut in. “You’re assuming they’ve got infrared scopes,” he put to the NCOs.
“What we’re assuming,” said the British NCO, “is that you blokes don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. Artillery! Jesus! Self-reliance, amigos — that’s what it’s all about. No one else there but you.”
As the two NCOs moved on to the next group, Thelman was still steamed. “What the hell’s fairy floss?”
“Candy floss,” said Brentwood.
“Yeah,” said Lewis encouragingly. “Don’t let ‘em get to you, Thelma.”
David snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it!”
The NCOs turned around.
“Tell them to surrender,” David explained. “Give ‘em two minutes. Tell ‘em we’ve got the place completely surrounded. Bluff. It’s worked—”
“Oh,” said the British NCO, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, that’s brilliant i’n’it? Got your Berlitz tape with you, have you, Brentwood?”
“No,” said David steadily, “but one of us would speak the language.”
“My,” said the British NCO. “Would ‘e now?”
“Yes,” chimed in Aussie. “SAS troop of four always has one man who speaks the lingo of the opposing force.”
“And who told you guys that?” asked the American.
“No one,” replied Brentwood. “But Aussie has a point. Seems your recruiting offices placed a lot of emphasis on a second language.”
“Yeah,” said Aussie. “Dave’s right. Your bloke was very interested in knowing I spoke Malay.”
“So,” continued David, “I figure there’s one guy in every troop who—”
“Do you now?” cut in the British NCO.
“Yes.”
The American NCO couldn’t contain a smirk, and his British colleague gave in. “All right, Sherlock Holmes, you’re right. But how do you know what language you’ll be using?”
“You find out that by asking the other three in the troop whether they speak a foreign language.”
“Carry on,” the Brit said, and walked over with the American toward Cheek-Dawson, who was picking the plan of another would-be fire team apart.
“I told you,” said Lewis, looking around triumphantly at the other three in the group. “The bloody rats. We’re being trained for the tropics. My Malay!”
“How about Fritz here?” asked Thelman, indicating Schwarzenegger. He speaks German as well as English. Right, Fritz? Could be we’re going to Germany.”
“Aw, rats!” said Aussie dismissively, not noticing his pun. “Old Freeman’s lot ‘ave gone through Germany like a packet of salts. It’s Malaya. Southeast Asia, boys. Communist insurgency. I can smell it. Hell, that’s where the SAS cut their teeth. Fighting the Commies in Malaysia.”
“I say it’s Germany,” said Thelman. “Rushing out SPETS maybe?”
“No way,” retorted Lewis. “Absolutely no way.”
Brentwood was feeling the blister thawing out, hurting like hell. It told him that he wouldn’t make phase three, and he was struck once again how sometimes such small things could change your destiny. “Look,” he told the others. “Four of us came together by chance. First, only two of us are probably going to make it through the course. They’re the odds. And those two’ll end up in another group of four. So we don’t know where anyone’s going. So let’s drop it.”
Schwarzenegger nodded. “Good point, Brentwood. Ja! Good point.”
“Yeah, Dave,” conceded Lewis. “Guess you’re right. Hell — I don’t think even old Cheek knows.”
But Brentwood’s real reason for not wanting to speculate was that Schwarzenegger’s mention of SPETs reminded him of Lili.