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

you're excused from all the other training. Another is that you get to walk
around in a maroon tracksuit all day, looking and feeling a bit special.
I won my two bouts at welterweight, and my company won the battalion
championships. We got to the army finals, and I won the welterweight title.
As far as I was concerned, my future was sealed: I'd go to 1RGJ, the boxing
battalion, be a boxer for three years, then get out. What was even better,
1RGJ were off to Hong Kong.
A lot of the other blokes resented us sports people.
Maybe it was the color of the tracksuit, or maybe it was because we
were allowed straight to the front of the dinner queue as a privilege.
The boxing team swaggered in one lunchtime, went to the head of the
queue, and started slagging off the other blokes.
"You think you're fucking it, don't you?" said one of the Glasgow boys.
I answered with a smirk and walked on to the front and waited for the
doors to be opened.
A Glaswegian mouth came very close to my ear and said, "What's the
difference between your leg and maroon tracksuits?"
Ishrugged.
"None," he said, "they're both full of pricks," and with a massive
grunt he rammed his fork straight into my thigh.
I staggered back a pace and looked down. The fork was embedded in my
leg right up t'o the ends of the prongs. I grabbed hold of it and pulled
gently, but my leg muscle had gone into rigid spasm, and I couldn't get the
thing out. I wrenched as hard as I could and pulled it free. The prongs were
red with blood as I did an aboutturn an . d marched from the canteen. There
was no way I was going to say anything. It wasn't until I got around the
corner that I covered my mouth with my hand and screamed.
Boxing finished. I went back to the platoon, still with at least six
months to do with the same intake. I was way behind. I'd done the weapon
training, but I hadn't had time to consolidate it. I was really brought
down-to-earth; they knew a lot more than I did. But I worked hard at it and
even got a promotion. For the last three months we were given ranks, from
junior lance corporal to junior RSM. It meant jack shit really.
On Friday mornings we had the colonel's cross-country over a six-mile
course in and around the camp. The whole battalion had to race. If you came
behind the colonel, you had to do it again on Sunday, whether you were staff
or a junior soldier After that, we'd go to a training area to practice being
wet, cold, and hungry. I enjoyed it; at least we were away from the camp. I
got better and better at it, and it made me feel good.
There was a ritual. The provo sergeant would come out of the guardroom
and greet everyone back. It was the first time we had been given any
respect. We would be staggering back as a platoon, with our silly tin hats
on, kit hanging off us, stinking, our faces covered in cam cream, and he
would come out and give praise.
"Well done! Keep it going!" he'd boom.
It gave me a sense of pride that I'd never felt before, especially as
he spent the rest of his time bollocking us.
Then came the weapon cleaning, which took until the end of Saturday or
Sunday morning. Then the weekend!
We couldn't go home, and we were allowed out only until ten o'clock-and