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

that was stopping people coming out of the town along the Newry road. We
checked driving licenses and number plates and asked them where they were
going and where they had just been. I was stuck in a doorway, covering the
two blokes who were running the VCP. I was "ballooning"-hunching down, then
standing up, making sure I didn't present a static target.
After a minute or two I would walk into another doorway or get between
two cars. It was important to keep moving.
I wasn't paying much attention to Nicky Smith and the search team.
All I was concerned about was that the sooner it was finished, the
sooner the can would be free, and then maybe we could get a quick cup of tea
out of the Norwegian.
The can drove up to the base of the telephone pole.
The gunner was manning the Browning to give cover because the location
was exposed, right at the edge of town; it could be a come-on.
The driver had the armor plate that protected his face down so that he
could see what was going on.
Nicky climbed on top, had a good look, and gave a tug. There was a
fearsome explosion.
As an eighteen-year-old squaddy I'd never heard the quick, sharp,
piercing bang of high explosives. There was a moment of disbelief. I
thought, Nab, can't be. I didn't know what to do and was looking around for
some direction. Reggie had been checking a car; he had the boot open and was
taking some stuff out. He stopped, looked up, and looked around. The
civilians caught in the VCP knew what was going on.
They had more experience than I did of explosions going off.
Reggie slammed the boot down, and the car shot off.
He called us to him, and we went running down the road. As we arrived
at the Saracen, we saw the body being pulled down by the platoon sergeant.
There was screaming coming from inside the can. The back doors were open,
and people were trying to sort out the crew.
What remained of Nicky's body was now lying by the rear wheel of the
Saracen. His head was cut off diagonally at the neck, and his feet were
missing. All the bit in the middle was intact-badly messed up but intact.
The mesh was clogged with bits of his flesh and shreds of his flak jacket.
Bits and pieces were hanging off every edge.
The whole can seemed to be covered in blood.
"Get a poncho!" the platoon sergeant shouted.
Up on the hill on the opposite side, there were people visiting the
graveyard. They stood still; cars were doing U-turns; nobody wanted to be
involved. They'd seen all this before; they knew that if the rounds started
flying, they might become casualties themselves.
Was it a simple booby trap? Or was it command-detonated by somebody in
the vicinity?
I All I saw was people getting on radios; all I heard were lots of
orders being shouted. I didn't know what to do. I was scared. I felt really
happy that there were loads of other people around me who had the appearance
of knowing what they were doing.
There was a fellow in the brick (patrol) at the time who was a right
pain in the arse; he would be A.W.O.L on a Monday morning, come back-Tuesday
night, go on a charge. He never wanted to do anything.